#thirteen is trying to mute them all and failing

[polaritydisturbed]

Episode idea: The adventure itself? Totally standard. Alien invasion. Space politics. Running down corridors. Whatever. But the entire thing is framed from the perspective of the Doctor’s past selves watching it unfold like it’s an episode of Mystery Science Theater 3000.

You’ve got Fifteen roasting fashion choices, Twelve arguing with Four about ethics, Eight just sighing dramatically in bisexual despair, ect...

Meanwhile current Doctor is trying to stop an apocalypse and in the mental background it’s just: “Oh brilliant, you’re doing that again.” “This is why we don’t get invited to dinner parties.” “Did you seriously just flirt with the villain??” “Shut up, I’m watching the character development.”

[mayblossomss]

Whumptober Day 27: Voiceless

Being the middle child was almost like being invisible. You weren't the oldest, who got to pick out their clothes without only being handed hand-me-downs, and were allowed to be held to no special standards. You weren't the youngest, who was the family's pride and joy, being excused from any punishment no matter the crime.

No, as the middle child, you were given the hand-me-downs and you couldn't buy new clothes unless you absolutely had nothing else to wear. You were treated as though you had no opinions of your own and were mere reflections of what your older and younger siblings wanted.

You didn't stand out from your athletic superstar brother, and you were an academic failure compared to your genius brother who skipped a grade while you were on the verge of failing yours.

You were always "Darrel Curtis' younger brother" and never "Sodapop Curtis, his own person, with a personality and hobbies and an entirely different story!" It was like he was defined by his brothers and nobody gave him a chance to introduce the real him. And it hurt, it really did.

Since Darry was so athletically talented, everybody assumed that Sodapop would be too. His parents enrolled him into sports like soccer, baseball, and cross country, all of which sports that Darry had done and excelled in. Soda was decent at them, no better than any other kid on the teams, but preferred to spend his practices chatting near the back with the other lazy kids. His parents stopped making him go after realizing it was a waste of money, and that focusing on their more gifted son would be a better use of that money.

Nobody asked him if there were any other sports he was interested in, because if they had, they would've found out that Soda loved badminton, and every time he went over to Two-Bit's, the boys would spend forever hitting the birdie back and forth.

If Ponyboy wanted to go watch a movie, or needed to head to the library to pick up a new book, Soda was the designated person to accompany him. Sodapop adored his brother, and would happily escort him to wherever he wanted to go, especially when he was younger, but sometimes it was annoying. Soda would have plans with Steve or Two-Bit, but without even asking him first, his parents would sign him up for babysitting duty. If he spoke against it, he was being a brat.

He was voiceless at the end of the day. Nobody listened to him,he may as well have been muted. Soda knew his family loved him, and he loved them too, but they didn't understand that he was his own person most of the time. They treated him like a shadow, one that followed exactly what they expected him to, and mimicked whatever they did.

Sodapop felt especially voiceless whenever an argument between his brothers would break out. It had always been like that, since Soda was thirteen, and Ponyboy discovered how easily he could get on Darry's nerves. They didn't fight too badly then, only an occasional squabble that always ended on a positive note, but ever since their parents died, their fighting became constant. Every week, Soda would sit on the couch, staring absently at the cartoons playing on the TV as Pony and Darry hollered at each other from the room across from him.

It was exhausting, and it took a lot of willpower to keep from blowing up. He was expected to see both of their sides and completely empathize with them, while disagreeing with the other.

Soda could see why they fought so much: Darry was stressed from having to go from a boy to a man within hours. He spent all day working, whether it be at work or at home doing chores, the last thing he needed was to constantly fret over Ponyboy. With Ponyboy, he was only fourteen-years-old and still trying to handle his grief. He was a teenager, of course he's both hormonal and ready to pick fights over every little thing. Neither of them were wrong to be prone to fighting.

Neither of them could stop and think about the other person's point of view, though, as they were very stubborn. If Darry paused and thought about the fact that Pony was trying his best to accommodate to Darry's authority shift, and if Pony stopped to think about all of Darry's stresses, maybe the two of them could tone down the bickering.

Soda tried explaining it to them, but it went right through one ear and out the other one, as always. His words were passionate, but they were weak to his brothers' hard heads.

On one particular morning, Soda wasn't woken up by birds singing outside his window, but by screaming coming from the kitchen. A part of him wanted to roll over and shove his pillow over his head, but ultimately, he pushed himself out of bed, threw on a shirt, and walked to the kitchen. There, Ponyboy was screaming away, rolling his eyes and crossing his arms like a kid. Darry was a few feet away from him, eyes narrowed and jaw tense as he yelled back, their voices overlapping and coming out unintelligible.

"What's going on?" Soda asked, his voice drowned out by their fighting, so he repeated himself with more force. "What's happening?"

Ponyboy noticed him, shoulders slumping and a hint of relief flashing through his eyes. "Soda! Tell Darry he's being unreasonable!"

"What's this about?" Sodapop questioned tiredly, looking from Darry to Ponyboy.

Darry turned to him, pinching the bridge of his nose and sighing. "Ponyboy got a B- on his history test even though I told him to study. What did he do instead? Went to the damn movies with Dally and Johnny!"

"It's one B-, Darry! What's the big deal?"

"What's the big deal?" Darry scoffed. "Soda, tell him what the big deal is, since it doesn't seem to get through his skull any other way!"

Soda's body tensed as their fighting continued. They asked him to pick sides, assuming he'd pick their own, but it wasn't fair to him. They were both right and they were both wrong. How can they make him pick when there wasn't a correct answer? If he picked Darry, Ponyboy would be upset with him all day, but if he picked Ponyboy, Darry would be mad.

"Why don't you both stop yelling?" Soda suggested, taking a slow step toward them. "Can't we talk about this rationally?"

They ignored him, their voices only increasing in volume. It got to the point where they were practically chest-to-chest, screaming in each other's face. One of these days, one of them were going to take their fighting too far, and Soda dreaded it, knowing he'd have to stand witness to it, but ultimately be helpless. Tears of frustration began to brew behind his eyes, but he pushed them down and kept trying to speak.

It was pointless. Soda's pleas for them to quiet down fell deaf ears. After a few more minutes of it, he couldn't take it anymore. He crept away from them, heading for the front door. Neither of them noticed, after all, he may as well have been invisible, his voice silenced by their refusal to acknowledge him.

As always.

[mint-yooxgi]

{23} - Hotel California - Yandere!Demonic Entities!Ateez X Reader

Yandere AU & Demon AU - Based off of This ask and Hotel California by Eagles

Genre: Mature, Horror, Angst, Fluff, Slight Humor

Pairing: Ateez X Reader 

Words: 8,448

Warnings: Intense/Extreme Violence: mental and physical torture, Verbal Abuse, Physical Abuse, Mental Illness: depression, anxiety, failed suicide mention and pointed verbal assault regarding failed suicide attempt, Blood and Gore, Slut Shaming, Past Smut mentioned, OC really goes through the wringer this chapter, but nothing is done or said by any of the guys. I think that’s everything. This is a Yandere story, it will contain themes such as stalking, violence, obsession, possessive natures, and just general overall creepiness and swearing. You have been warned.

A/n: I have been planning this chapter since the very beginning of this story, so I really hope that if you read it, you enjoy it. OC really goes through it, but I think OC stays pretty strong. Reminder, if any of the topics of this chapter make you uncomfortable, please do not read it. I am more than happy to do a jot point list with the key plot points you may have missed by skipping this part of the series. Just let me know! The next chapter will have some serious action in it, and the boys will return. As always, feedback is greatly appreciated! Enjoy~

Main Story - Part Two - Part Three - Part Four - Part Five - Part Six - Part Seven - Part Eight - Part Nine - Part Ten - Part Eleven - Part Twelve - Part Thirteen - Part Fourteen - Part Fifteen - Part Sixteen - Part Seventeen - Part Eighteen - Part Nineteen - Part Twenty - Part Twenty-One - Part Twenty-Two - Mini Masterlist

“Miyeon,” the low gasp of her name falling from your lips is synonymous with the way Kuroo lets out a threatening hiss beside you.

Three things happen then, simultaneously. 

In the instant you go to reach out to all eight of them within your mind, it feels as if a glass case is slamming down over your void. No matter how hard you try to break through, the invisible wall prevents you from being able to contact any of them. The black water of your void ripples against this barrier, splashing against the sides as panic begins to seize your entire body.

Your only way to contact them has now been cut off.

All while this was occurring, Kuroo had lunged at Miyeon. 

Too easily, she deflects his attack. An invisible force knocks Kuroo back, slamming him into the wall quite harshly and causing a loud cry to escape him. As soon as he hits the floor, he attempts to stand back to his feet, only for that invisible force to begin crushing his sides. 

“No!” Without thinking, you attempt to reach for Kuroo in the next second, seeing him struggling to breathe as more whimpers escape his little body.

The next moment, you feel yourself being slammed against the wall, a hand digging into your throat and cutting off any and all air to your lungs. Miyeon’s nails dig so harshly into your skin, that you can feel the trickles of blood beginning to drip down the side of your neck where her nails puncture your skin.

“Ah-ah, none of that,” she tuts, shaking her head as she meets your gaze. “Don’t go ruining our fun before it’s even started, Love.”

The way she mockingly drawls out the nickname has disgust flooding your veins. The glare you send her way is deadly, but it seems to only amuse her for the time being.

A moment of silence passes as she eases her hold on your throat just the slightest.

“I can’t have you dying on me just yet,” she grins, nails still harshly digging into your skin. “I have much planned for you.”

You blink, yet nothing happens. Still, you hear the muted whines of Kuroo in the background, becoming less and less frequent the more time passes. 

Your heart absolutely aches for him right now. All he wanted to do was defend you, and he ended up getting hurt. If only you could reach out and contact at least one of the guys to inform them of your situation, but that damn glass wall keeps blocking your every attempt.

Faintly, you hear Miyeon curse, looking to the side.

“Damn warlock,” she hisses, releasing her hand from your throat. “I knew he would end up being good for nothing. Can’t even get us out like he promised.”

Immediately, you start coughing, gasping for air. You attempt to move away, but the glint of a dagger suddenly held to your throat has you freezing in your tracks.

“Well, since that good for nothing warlock’s magic doesn’t seem to be working, looks like I’ll have to improvise.” She sighs. “So much for the manhunt I had planned.”

“I’m not playing any of your stupid games,” you go to shove her off of you, but she barely moves an inch.

“You think you have any power here?” She laughs, pressing the blade that much further into your skin, and drawing a faint trickle of blood as the edge slices your throat. “You’re dumber than I thought.”

“Choking me? Pressing a blade to my throat?” You quirk a brow, gritting your teeth for the moment. “If I didn’t know any better, Miyeon, I’d say you’re obsessed with me. At least buy me a drink first.”

“Shut up, you stupid whore,” the back of her hand sends you tumbling to the floor. Her eyes flash black as she stands over you, looking down at you from her nose. “Well, since we can’t leave now, why don’t you give me a tour of my new home. I’ll be living here after I kill you, anyways.”

You realize what she must mean now. The wards are too strong. She may have been able to get in, but now she can’t get out. Not even with the aid of Dimitri, apparently.

You just hope you can survive long enough until the guys get back. Though, from the looks of things, you bet everything that that’s what she’s hoping will happen, too.

What better way than to break them by killing you right in front of their very own eyes?

Swallowing thickly, your gaze scans over her figure. A second dagger is strapped to her one thigh, and you finally register the one that she holds in her hand. The jewelled handle is all too familiar to you, and you realize with a crushing sense of dread that she was the one who bought the ceremonial dagger from David’s shop all those weeks ago.

“Your new home?” You slowly begin to crawl backwards and away from her. Only, Miyeon doesn’t seem to like that, stepping on your ankle quite harshly in the next second. 

The sound of crunching bones reaches your ears and pain erupts beneath your skin. You can barely move your toes, but you do everything in your power to prevent yourself from crying out in pain. After all, it’s exactly what Miyeon wants.

“You don’t get to ask questions here.” She spits, eyes narrowed as she glares down at your form still on the ground. “Get up, and show me around my new home.”

Gritting your teeth once more, you slowly raise yourself to your feet. However, you cannot prevent the wince of pain from showing on your features as you put any sort of pressure on your now broken ankle. Wordlessly, you begin to limp down the hallway. 

Your hands clench into fists at your sides in an attempt to control your anger for the moment. The way you can hear her ominous footfalls following mere inches behind you has you praying to whatever gods out there that at least one of the guys returns soon to help you. 

Still, you attempt to reach out to any one of them in your mind. One second, you focus your energy in on that vibrant red string you know is attached to Hongjoong’s own mind to no avail. Then, you’re rushing across your void to try and pluck the soft pink string you know belongs to San, only for what feels like a harsh burning sensation to erupt in your mind.

Now, at each point of contact, that burning becomes more present, pushing you further back into the recesses of your own mindscape. So, you still your void, doing whatever you can to rest mentally before you wear yourself out. If Miyeon is blacking your communication with the boys, then she clearly doesn’t want them interrupting whatever she has planned for you. Not only that, but she obviously wants to break through to shatter whatever she can of your mental state, if that throbbing pain returning is anything to go by. You would bet anything now that she had been the cause of your various headaches over the past few months this whole time.

Approaching the first door, you don’t even say anything as she steps inside your own bedroom.

“Disgusting,” her nose crinkles. “I’m going to have to seriously air out this room to get rid of your scent before I even attempt to sleep in here. Then again, maybe I’ll just have to fuck all of them one by one in the bed to mask the stench of you.”

Something in your eyes flash. “Like hell they’d ever touch you.”

“They did, once,” she grins, shoving you quite harshly down the hallway as she steps out of the room. “I doubt you’ve been able to truly satisfy them. You’ve probably fucked them all over this house, you slut, letting them use you like the toy you are. I’m simply trying to save you the heartache. They don’t love you. They never have, and they never will.”

You bite your tongue as your eyes flash once more. You can hear your heart pounding in your ears, but you know it would be in your best interest to keep your mouth shut for the moment. The last thing you want is to set her off and really have her kill you. The guys can’t help you if you’re dead.

“Keep moving,” she shoves you again, causing you to brace yourself on that broken ankle of yours. The way you flinch as you apply sudden pressure to the crushed bones has a maniacal smile stretching across her features. “Believe me, when I’m done with you, that foot will feel like child’s play.”

Keeping silent, you press your lips into a thin line. You manage to make it through the game room, Mingi’s bar area, the kitchen, the dance studio, and the cinema room all without another incident. Of course, Miyeon makes little comments here and there, hoping to rile you up, mainly about fucking them ‘where you have before’. You can just tell she’s attempting to assert her dominance over you, but you’re not having it for one second.

Finally, you make it to the music room, watching as she steps inside. The way she continuously looks around the rooms with such disinterest has your blood boiling.

“They really did all of this for you?” She scoffs, shaking her head. “Pathetic.”

Then, her eyes are catching on one instrument in particular. An instrument that has you hobbling across the room in an instant as you see her reach for it.

The sound of a smack echoes quite harshly through the room, and you watch as Miyeon’s nostrils flare. Her eyes flash as you hit her hand away from touching Yeosang’s violin for a second time.

“Don’t you dare touch his violin.” You’re voice is low, deadly.

For a moment, you can tell that she’s caught off guard. The glare you send her way is the darkest she’s ever seen you look, and she actual blinks in shock. That is, until a harsh scowl is pulling at her features.

In an instant, she’s grabbed the wrist of the hand you used to smack her own with, crushing it beneath her grip. Your lips part in a silent gasp, arm twisting in the direction she’s forcing you to go before flinging you across the room without another thought.

A pain filled cry escapes your lips as your back makes contact with the grand piano, landing on top of the wood and managing to smash the lid inwards. Before you can even attempt to move, you feel a crushing weight surrounding you, hearing the strings begin to snap beneath your body as they whip across your exposed flesh. Blood begins swelling along the small cuts, and you feel the legs of the piano crumble as you crash to the floor.

Nothing but crushed wood and snapped strings surround you, tiny slivers sticking into your skin as you attempt to catch your breath. Tears line your vision, but you do everything in your power to prevent them from falling for the moment. There is no way in hell you are going to allow Miyeon the pleasure to see you cry, or hear you scream. You will not succumb to her so easily. You are not going to give her what she wants.

Vaguely, you can register footsteps walking towards you, and again, you attempt to reach out to Yunho in your mind. That bright yellow string glares at you from behind the invisible wall, and you nearly cry out in frustration.

So close, yet so far.

“Oh, come on, don’t tell me that that was enough to kill you,” Miyeon rolls her eyes, kicking your foot quite harshly on the side of your broken ankle.

You hiss in response, watching as she leans down to physical pull you out of the remains of the smashed piano. You can feel wooden splinters digging into your back, and probably drawing even more blood in their wake.

“Stand up, you stupid human,” she hisses, kicking you once more as she rights herself. “I don’t have all day.”

Putting any sort of pressure onto your now crushed wrist has a searing pain travelling up your arm. You can feel your whole body throb as you move, your ankle groaning in protest. The worst twinge comes from the middle of your back, sure you’ve probably herniated a disc in your spine as you feel a pinch every time you go to move.

Yet still, you remain alive. Like hell you’ll let her kill you.

Keeping your head held high, and your tears at bay, you begin to exit the room. Of course, you do whatever you can to prevent your limp from slowing you down right now, cradling your wrist to your chest as you make your way back down the hallway. You will not let on just how hurt you are, even if your head begins to throb worse with each passing moment.

The dining room is the next to appear as you lead her down the side corridor. A room of which you surprisingly haven’t been to since that evening all those months ago.

But Miyeon doesn’t know that.

“Ugh, how many times have they indulged themselves in you on this table?” Her face contorts in disgust. “Guess that will have to be replaced. I don’t need reminders of whores in my house.”

Let her think what she wants, it won’t make her hate you any less than she already does. Not to mention the fact that she probably wouldn’t believe you even if you tried.

Oddly enough, when you pass by each of their bedrooms, Miyeon doesn’t even bother to look. Granted, none of their doors remain open, a habit you’ve noticed they all have since you started living with them.

Finally, you make it to Seonghwa’s tailor shop, and Miyeon doesn’t even hesitate to invite herself in.

“I wonder if he’s working on something actually good,” she hums, almost thoughtfully, to herself.

Your nostrils flare, that familiar heat of anger rushing through your veins.

“Oh, what’s this?” She turns to look at you with a quirked brow, slinging her arm around a bust which holds one of the most extravagant dresses you’ve ever seen in your life. 

The skirt flares out at the waist, knowing without a doubt that the soft colour is meant to match well with you. You can tell that a lot of thought and effort has gone into this literal definition of a ballgown fit for a Queen, and you just know that Seonghwa has been making this dress for you. It was probably what he was working on before Stella came to get them.

“Oh, this will never do,” she tuts, shaking her head.

You can see what she’s about to do before she even starts. The way her hand raises to the sweetheart neckline has you moving in an instant. Guess you’ll never learn.

“No!”

This time, she’s ready for you to pounce, batting you away like she would a pesky little fly.

You stumble to the floor, landing harshly on your wrist and hearing it crack again in protest. Looking up just in time, you watch her pull out that damned jewelled dagger and begin slashing at the material. Miyeon even goes so far as to tear the fabric with her hands, shredding the delicate detailing, and tossing the scraps around the room.

“Stop it!” Your voice comes out much more firm that you expect, and you can tell she’s just as caught off guard by it as well.

“You dare to give me orders?” Her voice booms, the lights in the room seemingly dimming as her form towers over you. The dagger she has clutched in her hand glints dangerously. “One more protest out of you, and I’ll make you regret the day you were ever born.”

Your blood runs cold as you know her words are true. There is no telling just what Miyeon will do to you, so prolonging this little ‘tour’ for as long as you can is really your best bet. 

The eight of them will be back soon. At least, that’s what you keep telling yourself. You don’t know if you could survive without that small shred of hope you desperately cling onto as your attempt to once again reach out to Jongho is thwarted in your own mind.

Two minutes later, and after Miyeon completely leaves Seonghwa’s tailor shop in tatters, you’re in the library. Your heart begins to pound in uncertainty as to what Miyeon will do next, worry furrowing your brow. Though, from the way you see Miyeon smirk, you’re convinced she believes it’s in pain.

“What makes you so fucking special that they would do all of this for you? A library? Really?” She shakes her head, clear disbelief on her features. “Pathetic.”

“It’s more than they’d ever do for you.” You spit, venom on your tongue.

Looks like you really cannot control yourself today.

Instantly, her hand is back around your throat, lifting you in the air so that your feet dangle helplessly beneath you. You go to kick her, only for that invisible force to be back, squeezing tightly around your legs.

“When I’m through with them, they’ll do everything I want them to.” She snarls, voice low as anger pulls at her features. “Without question.”

“They will never love you.” You choke out, clawing desperately at her hand as her nails manage to reopen the punctures on your neck.

“No, maybe not,” she hums, tilting her head threateningly. “At least not willingly, but I have my ways.”

With that, she throws you harshly against the closest bookshelf, a few books toppling off and crashing into your body as they fall to the floor. You wince as a particularly thick hardcover hits the top of your head, leaving you in a slight daze.

With nothing but hatred in your eyes, you watch as she walks over to the double doors at the far end of the library. Ungracefully, she flings them open, her whole body shaking in fury as she sees the garden presented before her very eyes.

“They made you a garden?” Her voice is low, ominous as she turns her gaze sharply to you. At the way you remain silent, she snaps. “Speak, you useless mortal!”

“You have eyes, don’t you?” You retort, narrowing your own gaze back at her. 

You know your worth. You’re not just going to let her walk all over you anymore. She doesn’t deserve to believe she has that type of power over you.

That same unknown force pulls you towards her, and you notice her still shaking in fury.

“Watch your tone, mortal,” she hisses, grabbing the material of your shirt as she spits harshly in your face. “I’m this close to changing my plans and skinning you alive right where you stand.”

“At least tease me if you’re going to fuck me over like that,” you smirk, hoping to rile her up even more.

At the way she shrieks in response, shoving you back in an instant, you know it’s worked.

Unfortunately for you, it causes you to land badly once more on your fractured ankle, and this time, you cannot hide your grimace. A fact which has a smirk of her own tugging at her lips.

“Weak,” she spits, rolling her eyes. “Looks like I’ll have to burn this place to the ground to sanitize it before building it anew with my Kings.”

“If they don’t burn you first.” You spit back, just as harshly, a sneer tugging at your lips.

“Have you ever smelt the way fire melts human flesh?” Miyeon’s eyes are crazed, hand coming up to grip your jaw harshly as she forces you to turn your head to the garden spread out before you. “It’s quite disgusting: the way your frail skin bubbles beneath the heat, the smoke choking every last breath from your scorched lungs.” Slowly, you begin to see the plants begin to wither as she drags you towards the fountain still trickling peacefully in the centre of the space. “I can’t wait to watch you burn.”

Before another word of protest can leave your lips, she’s shoving your head beneath the water. No matter how hard you struggle, or attempt to resist her hold, you cannot break free. 

Your lungs scream desperately for air. Water invades your senses, flooding your nose and slipping past your parted lips as you do whatever you can to fight against Miyeon’s hold for the moment. Not even the way your own nails claw at her skin causes her to flinch.

A maniacal grin stretches across her features once more as she sees you struggling to breathe. Of course, just as she feels your body weakening, she pulls you back, holding your gaze to her crazed one as you wheeze, coughing water from your lungs all the while.

“It would be so easy to kill you in whatever way I see fit,” she says, voice mocking sympathy. “You should remember that the next time you want to run your mouth. In fact, you should be thanking me for keeping you alive this long after you stole My King from me.”

You do not fail to notice how she uses the singular form of that word this time, and your whole body shudders in disgust. Only, Miyeon believes it’s in fear. A fact which makes her grin widen.

“Once I free that mind of yours, you’ll be grovelling at my feet, practically begging me to kill you,” she leans in, whispering lowly in your ear. A violent shiver wracks your spine as you heave for air. “I have no use for filth in my New World.”

Again, your head throbs, and you nearly fall to the ground in pain. With everything that you are, you focus on strengthening that void in your mind. It seems as if she hasn’t quite been able to break through completely yet, and you will do whatever you can to make sure that she cannot.

The worst part is, the stronger you reinforce your void, the more your head throbs. It’s like she’s practically coaxing you to lower your defences to make that pain go away.

Her face scrunches in annoyance.

“Ugh, why do you insist on fighting me?” She begins to drag you out of the now dead garden and up the stairs to the second story of the library. “This stupid void of yours won’t protect you for much longer. I’ve already cut off all contact with them from you, and it will only get worse from here. You should just give in. I promise I’ll make all the pain go away then.”

“There is no promise you can make that will make me ever surrender to you.” You spit, tone harsh as she drags you out of the library for the moment.

“You really are dumber than I thought,” she sighs, shoving you in front of her. “Continue the tour of my new home.”

You say nothing as you stumble down the hall. You can feel the material of your shirt clinging to your chest as water drips down your torso. Once more, you cradle your wrist to your body, the bones pulsing as the struggle at the fountain aggravated the break. Even your back twinges worse than before, given the angle Miyeon had you pinned down in. Your ankle is fairing no better, either.

At least the small cuts all over your body have seemed to have stopped bleeding. For now.

For the second time that day, Miyeon completely ignores the bedrooms on this side of the house. Which leaves only one room left.

A room which you will guard with your life.

“Move.” She commands, just as you fling yourself in front of the closed door.

“I would rather burn alive than let you into this room.” Your voice trembles in anger, keeping your tone low and somewhat threatening.

“What’s so fucking special about this room, anyways?” Her face contorts in a sneer, inhaling sharply. “It reeks of Yunho.”

Your nostrils flare, eyes flashing as pure hatred courses through your veins at the tone she uses. “You don’t deserve to speak his name.”

“This must be his stupid art room.” She huffs out a breath. “I don’t know why he even bothers. He’s not even that good of an artist-“

You lunge.

The sound of smashing wood greets your ears, and the breath gets knocked right out of your lungs as Miyeon lands on top of you. The shattered remains of the door lay around you, splinters once again digging harshly into your back as she begins to choke the life out of you.

“How dare you!” She screeches. “You dare try and lay your hands on me? Me?”

Desperately, you claw at her hands, scratching her harshly and drawing blood only for her cuts to instantly heal in the next second. In the blink of an eye, that jewelled dagger is back at your throat.

“I was willing to skip this room, but because of how passionate you seem to be in protecting it, I think I’ll leave a little gift for him to find.” Purposely, she slashes a faint line on your neck as she pulls away, standing off of you in the next second.

Your entire body throbs, vision blurring at the edges as you turn yourself onto your stomach. Your mind screams at you to move as she slowly stalks around the room, twirling the dagger in her hands as she begins to hum to herself.

Quirking her brow, she shifts past the couch and walks right up to the dried out flower crown hanging proudly on the wall beside the windows. Slowly, she begins reaching for it.

“Don’t touch that.” You manage to just push yourself up onto your hands and knees, blood rushing through your ears.

Her smug grin says it all.

Instantly, she’s tearing the object from the wall, pulling the brittle flowers apart and laughing as they crumble to the floor.

Your heart squeezes painfully in your chest. Pushing yourself up even further, you can only collapse back to the floor in pain, your arms giving out beneath you as your whole body trembles.

A moment later, and she’s walked over to his shelves, pulling a sketchbook into her hands. As soon as she opens the cover, a scowl is pulling at her lips, taking the time to tear each page out one by one. Slowly.

“Stop it!” You yell, eyes shining with unshed tears as you watch each sketch flutter to the floor, displaying every piece of artwork he has drawn of you. For you.

Miyeon’s maniacal laughter fills your ears. “Do you actually think any of these are good?”

Her breath catches in her throat as her eyes flash black as seeing the next drawing presented to her on the page.

“What is the meaning of this?” Instantly, the sketchbook is shoved in your face.

Of all the pictures you would have thought she would put on display - the one of your hands intertwined with Yunho’s, you with Brego in that open field, the portrait he drew of you that day where you fully claimed each other with one another’s blood - you never expected it to be one you haven’t seen before.

There, on the page before you, rests your image. Swirls like wisps of smoke cover your naked torso, a design unlike any other painted over your heart as you toss your head back in pleasure. From the angle, and the way your one arm is positioned, you can tell that this is his own memory being drawn onto paper once more. For there, staring back at you is the exact visage of your body, orgasming as you sat on his face.

Your wide eyes meet Miyeon’s wild ones, a fury unlike anything you’ve seen before shining within her gaze.

The page is torn to shreds.

“You vile creature,” you hiss, hands clenching into fists on the ground as you glance at all of the scattered pages torn from Yunho’s sketchbook littering the floor.

“Takes one to know one,” she grins, turning the book around only to scowl in the next second. “You really are a whore.”

Another page is torn to shreds. Then another, and another. Until a snarl is slipping passed her lips once more.

“You slut! You let him watch?” Again, she turns the sketchbook around to display the drawing on the page. 

This time, you see your image being held in Jongho’s lap, his face pressed into the side of your neck as Wooyoung kneels before you. With the way his hands are pressing into your thighs, it’s clear that he’s happy to be eating you out, your fingers tangled desperately in his hair. Even with your head tilted back, your blissed out expression is obvious, lips parted in what you’re sure is a moan.

“Just how many times have you let the others watch as one of them fucks you? You really let them use you like this?” She laughs in disbelief, shaking her head in the next second as she tears this page out of the book. “Fucking whore. I bet you’re so fucking cockdrunk on them you don’t even care about who they actually are.”

White hot fury courses through your veins as your head throbs, and you feel your void slip the tiniest bit. You can tell she jumps at this opportunity, watching as the water ripples out, your mind feeling as if the whole area is rumbling within your skull.

“Says the bitch who only cares about herself.” You retort, teeth clenching as your jaw twitches.

“I simply learned from those Kings of yours,” her voice is low as she slams the sketchbook closed, tossing it across the room.

It is then that her eyes land on the lone canvass resting upon an easel at the side of the room.

“Oh? What’s this?” She hums, as if she hadn’t glanced the painting the second she crashed into the room.

Your eyes go wide, panic seizing your throat and causing it to tighten as you watch her twirl the dagger in her hand once more. Slowly, she stalks towards that stunning portrait of you wearing that flower crown. 

Yunho’s prized possession, other than you, of course.

Miyeon raises her one hand, jewelled dagger glinting in the light of the setting sun.

Your legs move before you even register you’ve stood to your feet.

In one fluid motion, Miyeon brings the dagger down with every intention to slash the canvass in two. Only, instead of tearing apart the portrait, your figure shoving into her side sends the dagger tumbling from her hand. The two of you go crashing to the floor, and it takes no time at all for Miyeon to be on top of your struggling figure, pinning you beneath her frenzied form.

A gasp escapes your lips as she grabs you jaw harshly in her grip, raising your head up only to slam it back to the ground. 

Spots dance in your vision, and again, your void ripples from the sudden attack. Your entire body aches, heart stuttering in your chest as your lungs burn with each breath you take.

While you remain momentarily stunned, Miyeon is quick to stand back to her feet, grabbing her fallen dagger and turning back to the painting. Again, she raises the knife.

This time, you manage to swing your legs, catching her off guard as she tumbles to the floor. You manage to scramble to your feet just as she does the same, jumping in front of her as she slashes her arm upwards to finally cut the canvass.

The feeling of the tip of the blade dragging across the front of your body has a grunt escaping you, Your shirt now rests in tatters, barely clinging together by a thread as red begins to soak into the material.

“Fine!” She shouts. “Since you want to die that badly, I am more than happy to begin the process!”

In the blink of an eye, she’s wrapped her hand back around your neck, cutting off your air flow as she drags you from the room. The way she can see your blood dripping onto the ground as she pulls you down the stairs, legs kicking uselessly behind you, has a smirk pulling at her features.

She knows just the place to do it, too.

The moment she reaches the opposite side of the house, she’s shoving the door to the dance studio open. Your struggling form is dragged carelessly into the room, Miyeon throwing your body against the wall of mirrors and watching on with glee as one of the panels shatters from the impact.

You can feel blades of glass sticking into your back, more blood escaping your broken and beaten body. As soon as you go to move, your head spins, nausea building in our chest as you attempt to catch yourself on your broken wrist.

The moment your wrist touches the floor, bile rises in your throat. You can barely catch your breath as you empty the contents of your stomach onto the ground, blood dripping from your mouth as tears gather in your eyes. Your head is absolutely pounding right now, becoming as worse as it had been last night. Your skull feels as if it will split open at any moment. Any attempts to swallow the bitterness that lingers in your mouth burns your throat, breaths coming in ragged pants as Miyeon stalks towards you like a predator would its prey.

“You’re going to watch as I carve you up so badly, they won’t even be able to recognize you when they get back,” she growls, dragging a chair over from the side of the room to place it directly in front of one of the intact mirrors. “And then, you’re going to have the pleasure of watching their hearts be crushed as I destroy you as soon as they return.”

Miyeon grabs you by the back of the neck, right where your skull meets your spine. Squeezing enough to have your vision swirling once more, she pulls you to your feet, slamming you down in the chair in the next second. You barely register her tying your wrists to the arms of the seat you’re in, wondering where she got the material to do such a thing. In the back of your mind, you figure she probably stole something from Seonghwa’s tailor shop.

Blinking, you focus back in on your surroundings. Again, you work on keeping your void intact as you feel that pounding ice pick like sensation return, eyes squeeing shut as your breathing deepens. Whatever you do, you will not give in. Besides, the guys should be home any minute now. Right?

Glancing down at your figure, you notice your shirt has been torn off, blood dripping freely down your torso from the cut she gave you back in the art room.

“I’ve been waiting to use this,” she grins, pulling the other dagger from it’s holster on her thigh.

The dagger she admires is clean, an intricate design gracing the handle from what you can see. It’s certainly longer than the other one, a slight jagged edge sitting right above where the blade meets the pommel. From the glint alone, you can tell that it’s pure silver, polished and sharpened meticulously: with the utmost care.

“A shame I don’t have the matching one,” she pouts mockingly. “Though, after today, I don’t think I’ll have to worry about the set being separated for much longer.”

Your brow furrows in confusion, hands gripping the arms of the chair tightly as she paces slowly around your shaking form. The way your heart continues to pound in your chest has a nervous sweat breaking out onto your forehead. Your body feels way too hot for the time being, throat raw with the dryness of anxiety. The bitter taste of bile resides on your tongue, and you can only do your best to watch Miyeon’s every move carefully, following her figure in the reflection of the mirror when you cannot see her in front of you.

Stopping just behind your back, Miyeon meets your gaze in the mirror.

“You know,” she begins, shoving the dagger deep into your back as you body lurches forward in response. “I almost missed out on this entire opportunity.”

The way she slowly removes the dagger has you feeling every inch of the blade as she pulls it from your body. You begin to pant, gritting your teeth together to keep the whimper from falling your lips that so desperately wants to escape.

“It must have been so difficult for you,” you manage to spit out, voice strained as she stabs you once more in your back, only in a different spot.

“You have no idea,” she breathes, repeating the action once more. “That idiot almost ruined everything.”

It is then that you realize what she’s doing. Each new stab she gives you is in exactly the same places as those arrows were that pierced your back all those weeks ago.

Your eyes flash in recognition. “The warlock.”

“Looks like I made him too devoted to me,” she hums, nonchalantly. “Damn bastard thought I would be so ecstatic to know he killed you himself when I explicitly told him the honour would be mine. Guess that’s what happens when you alter somebody’s mind so intensely.”

“He wanted to kill me for you.” You state, just as she walks around to face you, leaning over your body as her one hand rests on the back of the chair.

“Thought it would prove his love for me,” she rolls her eyes. “I already know how devoted he is. After all-“ she catches herself, a smug grin pulling at her lips, “no, I shouldn’t boast.”

“Oh, please, Your Majesty,” you drawl out, suppressing the roll of your eyes as you attempt to stroke her ego for the moment. If you can pull as much information out of her as you can, you will. It will help you tremendously. “Boast away.”

“Well, if you insist,” she giggles, that same maniacal grin stretching across her features. “It took me a while to perfect it, but I finally learned how to weave myself so fully into someone’s mind that they becomes completely devoted to me. Of course, there were a few kinks I had to work out, but Dimitri was just the test run. Once I got rid of that pesky family of his, things became that much easier to invade the recesses of his mind, and make him mine.”

“You killed his family?” Your breath catches in your throat as she teasingly trails the blade of the dagger down the side of your cheek before lightly cutting the skin of your jaw.

“He didn’t need them, anyways,” she hums. “One less attachment that could break the spell.”

Your breath catches in your throat. You briefly recall how Mingi told you about Dimitri and his supposed wife and two kids. Looks like they were right in thinking the warlock had settled down, only for Miyeon to completely destroy everything he had.

Your eyes flash. “And I suppose Malik is just collateral, then?”

She laughs, boisterous and full of hidden malice.

“How do you think I got the chemical imbalances right with Dimitri?” A wicked grin pulls at her face.

“Dimitri wasn’t your first.” You state, disgust pulling at your features.

“Oh, no, Malik truly does love me. He loved me twenty years ago when I convinced him to stage a coup to dethrone those unbelievably gullible Kings.” She giggles. “He still loves me now, and he would do anything and everything I ask of him.”

“I’m sure he loves knowing that you’re in love with another.” You observe, keeping your expression blank for the moment.

“Oh, please,” she rolls her eyes, mocking playfulness. “What he doesn’t know won’t kill him. As long as he bends to my every will, and creates my New World, that’s all that matters.”

“Do you truly care for no one but yourself?” You recoil, appalled by her very being even more so than you were before.

She leans in further to you. “I care about My King, and only My King. Everyone else can burn in hell.”

“You’re a monster,” you spit, slamming your head forward as hard as you can, and managing to catch her off guard.

“You bitch!” She shrieks, hand coming up to clutch at her now bleeding nose.

Though, with the way your head spins, especially after she slaps you hard enough to send your entire body tumbling to the floor, chair and all, you’re not quite sure it was a good idea.

An annoyed breath escapes her, yanking you back upright by your broken wrist and causing you to let out a pain filled cry as she tightens her hold on you.

“Do you want to die before the time is up?” She snarls, eyes crazed as she meets your gaze. At the way you remain quiet, she smirks. “I thought so.”

“Oh, so you do think.” You scoff, feigning being impressed.

A resounding smack echoes around the room as she backhands you across your other cheek.

“Is that all you’ve got?” You huff, spitting out some blood onto the floor. “Pathetic.”

Miyeon tuts, shaking her head. “All I try to do is save you from a life of heartache at the hands of these demons, and I get called pathetic? How sad.”

“Save me?” You quirk a brow, tilting your head forward in disbelief.

“You really think they’re in love with you?” Her voice drawls out, a dark laugh escaping her in the next second. “I thought I told you that they only see you as a sex toy. They’re only using you for their own selfish desires. As soon as you fuck all of them, they’ll kill you right where you stand. I’m only protecting you before that happens.”

“You think I would believe a word you say?” You scoff, rolling your eyes.

The mental ice pick slams into your skull, and your vision blurs.

“I’m only telling you exactly what they did to me.” Miyeon replies, dragging the blade down your arm and drawing more blood. “They pretended to love me, once. I’m simply saving you the heartache.”

You remain silent, worried that if you open your mouth for the moment you might let out another pain filled whimper.

“You’re far too ugly for them, anyways,” she continues. “What the fuck would they want with you? You’re nothing but dirt compared to them. Do you really think they see you as their equal?” She scoffs. “Don’t make me laugh. A human on the same level as Gods?”

“Yet you still seek their validation at every opportunity you get,” your voice is low, glaring up at Miyeon as your hands tighten around the arms of the chair you’re in. “Tell me again who the desperate one is? They will never want you. Not after today. Not after this.”

“Shut up!” She screams, slashing the blade across the upper portion of your chest in anger and barely missing your throat. “I won’t need to worry about whether or not they’ll want me. After I’m through with them, I’ll be the only damn thing they’ll ever desire in their entire lives! I’m their true Queen. Not you.”

“Oh, Miyeon,” you tut, shaking your head. “Miyeon, Miyeon, Miyeon.” You blink, grinning widely all the while as blood drips down your face. “You’re nothing.”

A violent scream tears from her throat as she stabs the dagger in her hand through your right thigh.

You cannot help it. The wound inflicted on you makes you cry out, your head being tossed back as you squeeze your eyes shut. Tears cling to your lashes but you refuse to let them fall. At this point, maybe it would be better if you just riled her up enough to kill you. It would save you the pain of going through any more of her torture.

Opening your eyes, you see Miyeon’s chest heaving in front of you. If you thought she looked wild before, she looks absolutely insane now. Her hair is ruffled, teeth bared in a snarl as her gaze bleeds black.

The corners of your vision begin to fade, and you can feel your void beginning to slip more and more with each passing second.

“You are nothing to them.” You pant, nails beginning to crack from how tightly you dig them into the wood of the armrests.

You feel a crack appear in your mind, and no matter how hard you try, you cannot cover it up. The way your lake begins to drain has panic seizing your entire being. The worst part is, you can see the way Miyeon smirks, a victorious gleam shining in her eyes as she searches your own, seemingly staring into your soul.

“You really are burdensome, aren’t you?” She drawls, twirling that jewelled dagger in her hands once more.

You huff, “is that the worst you’ve got?”

“Nobody likes you,” she continues. “All you are is a good for nothing, waste of space. You should never have been born.”

No matter how hard you try, that crack keeps getting wider and wider, the water dissipating faster and faster. Your head feels as if it’s splitting open, that familiar feeling of nausea creeping up inside of your chest again.

“Ugly. Vile. Pathetic.” She spits, circling you slowly as she berates you with every breath.

“I’ve passed kidney stones bigger than you.” You counter, a frown to your brow.

“Do you think they actually desire you?” She huffs out a dry laugh. “How could anyone desire you? Why would anyone love you? What can you offer them?”

Once more, Miyeon comes to stand in front of you. The dagger stills in her hands as her eyes flash.

“Your sister hated you so much for what happened to her child, she tried to kill herself.” She sneers. “It was all your fault.”

“No,” you shake your head, eyes squeezing shut as you attempt to maintain some form of control of your thoughts.

That crack begins to get wider and wider, the water almost completely drained at this point.

“I bet she wishes she never found you that day,” Miyeon adds, her eyes glinting beneath the artificial light of the dance studio. “After all, how could you fail to do something as basic as that?”

“No.” The grip you have on the arms of the chair is deadly, blood sleeping from your fingertips as you hold on for dear life.

“You should have never been born.” She repeats, nothing but a hiss to her lips. “Fucking useless, pathetic, unlovable whore. I bet they’ve all gotten tired of waiting for you to fuck them all, that they’re just waiting for an opportunity to get rid of you. They’ll probably thank me as soon as they get back, revelling me as their saviour from your unwanted presence.”

Your whole body begins to shake, and your mind begins to slip from your grasp.

A victorious smirk tugs onto Miyeon’s features. “You should have died the first time.”

Your mind goes completely blank.

A silence so still settles over the room as your head falls forward. The throws of unconsciousness threaten to pull you under at any moment, feeling your mind being shredded through at a rapid pace. Memories upon memories are unveiled, more being added to your mind that you don’t recognize, but you believe to be true.

Brief flashes of all eight of them appear in your mind, nothing but disgust on their features as they look on at you in anger.

“I never cared for you in the first place.” Hongjoong snarls, eyes as black as night.

A brief glimpse of a conversation in the garden flits through your mind.

“You mean nothing to us.” Mingi states, looking down upon you with a blank gaze.

A figure holding you in bed, whispering his undying love for you over and over again as you sleep.

“You are nothing.” San’s entire body begins to shake in rage, eyes flashing black as he looks upon you with complete abhorrence on his features.

A figure bows to you on the ground, surrounded by three other males in the same position, all with their heads pressed to the floor.

Then, the scene is shifting, and you faintly register something being carved into the skin of your chest. The sting of each incision almost pulls you from your mind, but something drags you back beneath the surface instantly, drowning you in your thoughts once more.

You see Yeosang standing before you with a look of complete and utter contempt on his face.

“I have never wanted you,” he sneers, arms crossed in front of his chest. “Nor will I ever want you.”

It is those words that finally break you.

Your lips part in a silent scream, mind battling within itself as images of that one intimate morning shared with Yeosang flood your every sense. Almost as if your memories are fighting against once another. As if to say that, no, those aren’t real. Remember what’s real.

Miyeon’s eyes go wide with an unbridled fury unlike anything before. Her chest heaves as these memories of yours wash over her, hands beginning to shake as she sees Yeosang touching you so intimately while staring at you so fondly, embracing you so lovingly.

That should be her. That will be her, even if it’s the last thing that she ever does.

“You fucking whore,” she spits lowly, voice nothing but a feral snarl as it rumbles out from her chest. “I’ll kill you for touching him.”

The dagger she’s holding onto slams into your left hand. The same exact hand that had touched Yeosang so tenderly - so intimately - with. She has half the mind to carve out your tongue right this very moment, but she doesn’t want you to choke on your blood just yet.

No. She has much more planned for you, especially now that she has free access to your mind. Perhaps she’ll start with slicing off your fingers one by one.

Faintly, you register someone screaming in the distance, their voice shrill, desperate, and raw.

Oh, wait. That’s you.

[ase-trollplays]

It Happened So Suddenly (Part one)

Part two

Part three

It’s one sweep ago, back when you were thirteen sweeps, and you’re live streaming an indie horror game based on the backrooms. You’re pretty sure your neighbors hate you a little bit more every time you scream. It’s not quite as scary as you’re acting, but your stream persona demands you to be Extra. Well, that and the game is legitimately scary. It’s surprisingly well-made!

Suddenly chat starts going ballistic.

JC: dUUde, behind yoUU!

DS: wtf is happening

LK: *h sh!t *h sh!t *h sh!t

SO: SOM3ON3 JUST CAM3 IN YOUR WINDOW!! LOOK B3HIND YOU!

UH: ur fukkin dead lol

FB: BEHIND YOU BEHIND YOU BEHIND YOU

You raise an eyebrow at the chat and laugh. This isn’t the first time they’ve spammed bullshit to scare you before.

“Haha, reeeal funny, troopers! ‘Let’s all freak Jupiter out because he’s playing a horror game!’ You need to stop playing with my heart like this! You wanna see me have a cardiac on stream!?” you joke just before you wind up screeching from a jumpscare and promptly die ingame. 

You expect everyone to laugh at you for failing again, but they’re still panicking about something behind you. They’re really committing to the bit tonight. You shrug and reload your save.

“Alright, now you’re just spammi--”

You hear a noise behind you and freeze as your blood turns to ice in your veins. Your heart, which was already racing, is now pounding in your ears as you turn around and see a large cloaked figure standing in front of the window. The two of you are locked in eye contact for an uncomfortably long time. Well, you assume there’s eye contact; you can’t see their face with the hood on their cloak over their head.

You stand up from your chair trembling with one hand out in preparation to summon your pistol from your strife deck.

“I-I’m recording right now. You try to pull any shit, and over a million people will report your ass. So if you’re smart, you’ll go back out the window and stay out,” you tell them while trying to sound like you’re in control of the situation. You do feel like you have an upper hand here, and you step slightly to the side so more of them gets caught on camera.

“Turn off the camera. I won’t explain myself until it’s off,” the other troll, a woman judging by the sound of her voice, states with complete calmness. You actually find yourself much more worried by that.

"The camera stays on; if you try anything, I need witnesses that can report you. I'll mute my mic, but that's it." You’re trying to stay calm, but you’re seriously debating whether you should fight or run. You briefly turn your back to them to mute your microphone despite everyone in chat frantically begging you not to and calling you an idiot for doing it.

To your surprise, she pulls down her hood. She’s a few castes below you at olive, so if it does come down to a fight you can probably overpower her with highblood strength alone. .

“I got separated from my clan and need a place to hide from the drones. Your hive was the closest thing I could get into. I have no intention of doing anything else besides hiding here until my clan comes back,” she explains. You glance back at the chat. Most people are telling you to cull her, unsurprisingly. Anyone else in your shoes probably would have attacked by now.

You can hear your Great Dane Dad pawing at the door and whining to be let inside despite you generally not allowing him into your recording room. You can let your lusus in to attack her, but you don’t know what kind of weapons she might have. You turn back to her and relax slightly and release a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. 

“Uh huh, yeah, and why should I believe you instead of opening the door and having my lusus chase you out?” you ask her and take a couple of steps toward the door. She simply stares at you still completely calm and sighs.

“I really have no home. I’m a nomad and would basically be homeless w/o my clan, which is absent at the moment, having been scattered by the drones.”

You pause when she mentions her clan being scattered by drones. You’re pretty sure it’s not drone season right now. God, you hope it’s not drone season. You don’t have any emergency quad hookups planned.

This is probably going to be the stupidest thing you’ve ever done. Even stupider than allocating a weapon you’ve never used to your primary strife specibus when you were a kid.

“Okay, you can stay, but only for a couple of night, and my lusus is going to be watching your every move.”

[artnigth]

Migraines Part 3 (Final)

Took longer that I expected to finish this but I made it! This is the final part of this four day project of mine! Enjoy!! 

MIGRAINES PART 3:

It was a lovely spring day, the flower were blooming, bees buzzing, and the fair had just moved into a lovely small-ish town in the middle of Oregon. The fair brought hundreds of shows and games with it, among those hundreds of shows were The Aquatos, a family of acrobats with a taste for danger. Their booth was up and running, the show was about to start. A thirteen-year-old Dion was waiting in the backstage area of the Aquatodome. His legs shaking, his stomach turning and the world was starting to spin. He wasn’t nervous though, he had performed for way bigger audiences in other cities. It was the whispers, voices echoing on his mind, scaring him of the gibberish they were saying. This happened every once in a while but never this strong or whenever his family was about to perform. This made him panic. Frazie and Raz, who were nine and seven years old, were stretching with Donatella. Agustus was checking the nets and safety measures to make sure nothing went wrong. While Nonna was looking after the two youngest kids in the family, Mirtala who was almost three, and Queepie who was just six months old. “Okay Aquatos! Everyone go to your positions were starting this show!”- Donatella sounded determined and excited, like always. Dread filled his system as he walked into the stage alongside two of his siblings, the whispers becoming louder with each step, so much his ears started to ring. Donatella’s voice becoming muted, the world spinning and his skin becoming pale. Nevertheless, the show started.

The show was going well enough, the Aquatos pirouetted and performed like they had all done ever since Dion had memory. Then the final trick of the show rolled around “The Aquato Tower” the voices claimed all of Dion’s attention, he tried his best but the sounds around him became muted, he was standing on his father's shoulders who was standing on his mother's feet who was upsidedown. Dion was balancing Raz on his head, and Raz was supporting Frazie with his arms as she stood upsidedown. Sweat dripped down Dion’s forehead, his head ached enough with the voices, but with his two younger siblings on top of him, the pain became almost unbearable. Now came the final part of the trick that would close the show. Frazie jumped and landed all the way to the right, Raz flipped on his head and proceeded to jump off, landing right next to Frazie. Dion’s turn, his stomach was up on his throat, his mind was breaking and his world was becoming a hurricane of colors and shapes. But he still pulled through, Dion climbed into his father’s head and he jumped. Spinning on the air Dion lost focus for a couple of seconds the feeling of gravity pulling him to the ground snapping him back to reality, Dion landed on his feet right next to Raz. But the world didn’t stop spinning, the voices didn’t stop and his throat threatened to spill all his lunch on the stage. “THANK YOU FOR COMING!!”- his mother’s voice broke his daze, and along with his family, he bowed down and walked back into the backstage. Dion fell on his knees, his breathing unbalanced and too fast for someone his age. His father carried him all the way to the family's caravan and placed the boy on his wore down bed and helped him breathe as Dion passed out. 

Hours passed and in the middle of the night Dion woke up. He saw four of his five siblings sleeping peacefully around him. His youngest sibling was obviously in his cradle that was placed in the living room of the caravan. Dion snuck out of the room to go to the bathroom, stopping in front of his parent's room. The muffled voices of his parents leaking through the door. Dion got closer curious about what they could be arguing about at this hour. 

 “Don’t be ridiculous, he can’t be!” said his father with indignation on his tone.

 “It could be! Augustus, my love. Neither of us knows how the curse could evolve with time. Your mother isn’t explaining anything and Dion was completely fine this morning. He described voices in his head, he could be suffering from a worst version of your family’s curse.” His mother was scared, even though she wasn’t an Aquato by blood the curse could still work on her, though no one except Nonna knew for sure. “Think about it, it’s exactly the type of trick those dammed fortune tellers would pull. Cursing a bloodline to die in water and then turning all generations that follow into people like them. Making the presence of the curse unforgettable, and cursing said children with nightmarish torments, like what’s happening to-

Dion ran down the stair, he wouldn’t let the end of that sentence haunt the rest of his life. He grabbed a bag and began to pack food, water, and some medicine. He finally knew what he was, part of a curse to his family. Well, he wasn’t about to help that fucking curse kill his whole family. Even if it meant never seeing Nonna, his parents, or his siblings ever again, he wouldn’t allow it. Tears were building up in his eyes, he brushed them away with his sleeve. He couldn’t afford to make any noise or to break down at that moment. 

In a hurry Dion let a bottle of water fall on the floor of the living room. He froze, waiting for someone to catch him, for someone to show up and do something to stop him. 

Nothing…

With a sigh, Dion picked up the bottle from the ground and continued his way to the door. “Waaah?” a high-pitched voice sounded behind Dion, Queepie was awake. His small hands rising to try and grab Dion not realizing how far away he really was. Dion turned to look at his youngest brother. His innocent eyes reflecting Dion’s miserable expression. Turning away was hard but Dion barely managed. Queepie saw his oldest brother turning away and started to cry. Queepie was a baby, he was awake and Dion was the only person around. So at the sight of him leaving the baby started to cry. With a hand on the door Dion dropped his bag and pushes it under the small sofa they had. He made his way to the cradle and picked up his brother, trying to calm him down. Eventually, Dion started to softly cry alongside his brother hugging him tight and letting the night pass. Quietly promising to do whatever he could to fix himself, to keep his family together no matter what. 

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Four years had passed since that secret incident, it was a summer morning. Dion and the rest of his siblings were woken up by Mirtala’s sobbing. The little six-year-old held a piece of paper to dear life, and Frazie noticed Razputin was nowhere in sight. “Tala what´s wrong?” Dion stood up to check on Mirtala, half asleep but still very much concerned. Mirtala showed him the note, still bawling her eyes out. He took the note and started to read. Every word from that letter felt like a punch in the gut mixed with a stab in the heart. When he finished he felt numb. In such shock that the concept of his little brother running away to who knows where hadn’t been fully processed. 

“What does it say?!” Frazie said while shaking him out of his daze. Rage was the only feeling he could suddenly feel, he handed Frazie the letter and made his way outside before he took it out on his other siblings. Going down the stair he listened as Frazie screamed from their room out of, rage? sadness? He didn’t know and he couldn’t help anyway so why should he care? When Dion was finally in the living room he proceeded to ignore his parent’s questions and just ran outside. 

 Dion grabbed a stone and threw it into oblivion, doing the same thing with every other rock he found in the valley they had temporarily settled to rest. 

 Tears ran down his face the more rocks he threw, sadness and grief mixed with his rage, the voices coming back as a result. It had been months since he had heard those whispers, he thought he had finally fixed himself. But now they were back and he felt hopeless. He fell to his knees and just sobbed. He failed on the one thing he wanted to make sure he didn’t. One piece of his family was gone and they didn’t even get to know why. Razputin never mentioned where he was going, just that he was done and couldn’t take it anymore. His mother slowly walked out of their caravan and went to check on him. Her eyes red made it obvious she had been crying as well. She knelt next to him and hugged him as he continued to cry in her arms.

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Now he was walking with Gisu in the Forgetful Forest at night, her scarf was placed on his shoulders and they were still holding hands. Gisu’s hair was a pulled-back mess, the only thing keeping it from tangling was her now loose ponytail. His hair wasn’t much better, his ponytail was holding it together but his bangs were a curly mess hanging in front of his face. His eyes were red, he had finally stopped crying, but the tear marks were still fresh on his face. Gisu’s skateboard was following them not far behind, cracks showing in its surface. The whispers were still there, they weren’t leaving this time and Dion knew that. They walked all the way in silence and Dion already suspected that Gisu would probably not want to see him ever again after this mess. The idea almost brought him to tears once again. They were reaching the limit of the forest to the campgrounds where his family was located. Dread built up in him as he saw the people who were there. His mother sitting on the floor being comforted by his father, Frazie was comforting Queepie and Mirtala was checking on Nonna as she sat on a bench looking concerned. Guilt crept into his mind since he just killed his grandmother’s boyfriend. And that was a really weird thought.

 At the sight of his family, Dion stopped walking, stoping Gisu with him. “What’s wrong?” she said in a soft tone. “I can’t… Not after what I did.” He sounded altered, the events of that afternoon coming back to his mind in a painful flash. “C’mon I’m sure your family will be glad that you’re okay. And if something happens I’ll cover your back!” The same soft smirk that she met him with in the clear was placed on her face. That cursed smirk always managed to comfort Dion, he had no idea how. “okay…” They moved forward towards the light from outside the forest. And for the first time in four years, Dion wishes he had actually left on that spring night.

Never has Dion been tackled into a hug by Frazie. His sisters arms crushing his ribcage. “YOU IDIOT, WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN!! QUEEPIE THOUGHT YOU WERE DEAD” Her tone made it obvious that it wasn’t just Queepie who thought that. “I’m sorry Frazie” he hugged her back softly, too tired to come up with a snarky response. Dion looked past Frazie and met Queepies tearful stare. “I’m sorry Queepie.” His youngest brother tackling them both in another hug. “DION AQUATO!!” Augustus’ voice rumbled through the campgrounds, his tome mixed enough that his emotions were impossible to tell. Both of the Aquato parents run and tackle three of their children, by this moment Mirtala quietly joins the hug. 

 “DION!!!” Raz came out of nowhere and kicks his brother in the knee, hard enough to make his presence clear but soft enough to not actually hurt him. Joining his family in the group hug even if for only a second. 

 Nonna stayed close but didn’t join the hug. Ford was nowhere to be seen. Gisu stood at the boundary of the forest glad that this situation didn’t backfire. “Son, why didn’t you tell us?”Augustus’ voice had calmed down and was very concerned. “I… what do you mean?” Dion was confused but he got what his father meant. “Ford ended up landing here and told us everything” Donatella was clearly tired since they had been looking Dion for hours. “… I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…” Dion started to cry again, Gisu wondered if he needed a glass of water since he had been crying so much in the last couple of hours. “I didn’t mean to, I didn’t… Nonna I’m so sorry…”

 This took everyone by surprise, why Nonna specifically. He scared all of them half to death after all. “Dion explain yourself.” Frazie was paniking a little. Because, well, Dion disappeared for an entire afternoon. Then Ford finds him and gets thrown all the way to the campgrounds. And finally, Gisu, who looks like she just survived a tornado, finds him broken and desperate. “I… I… I killed Ford cruller…”

Silence 

“What?” everyone said in unison. What did he just say? Killed Ford cruller… “Oh, Dion… You didn’t kill Ford cruller. As I said Ford landed here and told us everything. I don’t think he could have told us you were lost if he was dead.” 

 “What?” Dion was dumbfounded. He should have asked Gisu… He should have definitely asked Gisu. All this time… Literal hours of unending misery, and he didn’t even kill the guy. “Are you sure? A hundred percent sure?” 

 “Unless I’m a ghost their pretty sure, boy.” Ford cruller appeared from the forest and stood next to Gisu. “By the way Razputin, I might be back at my prime as a psychic but I’m still sixty-two years old. I can’t suddenly start sprinting out of nowhere.”

 “I didn’t kill anybody… Good god, I’m the worst.” The Aquatos finally separated the massive group hug and let Dion make his way to Ford. “Agent cruller I’m so sorry for… throwing you all the way here from the forest. And for screaming at you.” Dion meant this, he felt guilty not just for what he did to Ford but for what he did to everyone. “It’s okay boy, I understand. Things are obviously still tense and it’s fine, you’re a teenager I know how hard it can be. Especially as a psychic. Which speaking of...” Ford reached into his pocket and pulled out a small cloth bag. Opening the bag, there were five small purple rocks. Psitanium. Cruller took one out of the bag and placed it on Dion’s hand. “Now focus your mind on this little piece of psitanium. Think of nothing but this little piece.”

 Dion did as he was told, focusing all of his attention on that little piece. The constant whispers fading into the back of his mind, and for the first time in the whole day, Dion felt relief. But now, he needed to face the music. He was truly a psychic and this was his life now. “Did the voices stop?” Asked Ford. “Yes… They’re gone…” 

“Well, here you go.” Ford handed Dion that little bag. “If you or any of your siblings have an issue with their abilities. You can use one of those bad boys to help and dull them down a little.” Dion was speechless, he felt no words would be able to convey how many mixed feelings he had at that moment. “thank you…”

“Mom, can we have dinner now?” Queepie broke the silence. Leave it to a toddler to break the awkward silence. “Yes Queepie, we can have dinner now…”

 Everyone sighed and began to move towards the caravan, with Ford, Dion, and Gisu staying behind. “Gisu, Ford would you like to stay for dinner?” Augustus’ voice was kind of tense but it was mostly kind. “Actually dad… I think Gisu needs to leave. We’ve been taking too much of her time.” Dion’s voice was soft, not rude at all. Gisu knew that. “Yeah… Thank you for the offer but I need to get back home before Sam locks me out.” Gisu understood and started to walk out of the campgrounds. Dion following behind. “I’ll go with her to the bus stop, I’ll be back soon. I promise.” 

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 The campgrounds were left behind them as they walked back to the Motherlobe. They once again walk in silence, an awkward silence this time. Gisu’s scarf was still over Dion’s shoulders. A couple of steps more and she’ll be gone, on a bus to the nearest town over for the night. Dion had so much to say and so little time. 

 “I’m sorry” 

 “For what?”

 “For today, for everything.”

 “Everything?”

 Dion fell silent. This is what he needed to do. After all she did for him, apologizing was the least he could do. “Calling you in the morning to hang out just to dip last minute, almost throwing you into oblivion in the forest, annoying you about my stupid psychic theories… and everything else…” Dion was calm, trying to mentally prepare himself for Gisu’s response. “It’s okay. You don’t need to apologize” “Yes I do! I wasted your time with my stupid crisis. You don’t deserve to be bothered with my issues…” Dion was determined to make his point clear. This was one part of his life he never wanted to regret. “… If I’m here is because I want to be, no one forced me to stay and wait for you. No one forced me to look for you, I wanted to because I care about you, Dion.” Her tone was warm and sad. Gisu’s mind was more at peace about what happened than Dion’s, she knew what her objective was in this whole situation. She just wanted Dion to be okay and she trusted his family to make sure he gets the treatment he needs. 

 They were now on the Motherlobe’s bus stop. The bus would arrive shortly. Dion took Gisu’s scarf and placed it on her shoulders in silence. He grabbed her hair and fixed it into her typical ponytail. He made his way to her bangs and fixed their shape pulling them out of her face. Both of their cheeks tuning a litte red from embarrassment during the process. In the end, Gisu looked like she did at the beginning of the day. “Thank you. For everything.” “What do you mean by everything now?” Gisu said in between giggles. “Just… everything.” 

The bus came to a stop in front of them, the doors opening and the conductor not minding the two teenagers who were having a moment. “I guess you need to go now…” Yeah…” Gisu made her way to the bus and stepped on the entrance. Stopping for a moment and turning around. She pushed Dion's hair out of his face and leaned in, placing a soft kiss on his forehead. Dion was starstruck as he watched Gisu back away and the bus leave the stop heading back to the road. His face slowly turned red and he realizing that he needed to go back to his family. A tough night of conversations was ahead of them. But he knew that maybe tomorrow would be a better day. Tomorrow, he would work his best to be better. 

[whitecrowapothecary]

Like A Dream

Jaskier has had dreams for as long as he could remember- of monsters and magic and all the things that go bump in the night. He dreams of golden eyes and silver swords and honeyed ballads. 

AKA the modern immortal/reincarnation AU no one asked for but I’m writing

Read it on AO3 here!

There’s music around him. Coming from him, his throat warm and honeyed with the lyrics he sings. Not him- the bard, the unknown man who captures his mind at night when he closes his eyes. He- they- are playing for an audience. Jaskier is used to this, the wayward looks, captured attention, but it’s… new. There’s an instrument in his hand he’s never learned to play and lyrics on his lips he’s never written, clothes resplendent of another time, another world, and he drinks it in with abandon. Full, flowing skirts, jackets made of the richest silk brocade in all colors, though all are muted compared to the bright, rich amethyst ensemble he seems to have donned for the performance.

He’s deep into his set, if he should call it that, singing about a fishmongers daughter just to get a laugh out of the crowd when his eyes catch on a small, insignificant detail. Jaskier sings and sways among the royalty around him, but all he can see is gold with flecks of amber, curious cat eyes watching him from the shadows. He takes a step closer, then two, then three until he’s propelling through the crowd, and just as a jaw covered in a neat snow white beard is unearthed from the shadows, a blare sounds, and the image shatters.

He gasps awake, clutching at his chest and trying to quell the shaking of his hands. Sweat sticks his hair to the back of his neck and his forehead in small curls which Jaskier rakes a hand through. On the nightstand, next to the bed, his phone vibrates, clanking softly against the wood until Jaskier scoops it up and hits answer. There are only a handful of people who will actually ring through.

“What, Pris?”

“Ah, woke you up huh? Touchy touchy. You haven’t forgotten about our brunch date, have you?” The voice on the other end is perky, far too awake for Jaskier’s liking right now.

“No, no of course not. You aren’t here yet, are you?” He slips from bed, grimacing and rummaging through his closet for something to wear, phone pinched between his ear and his shoulder.

“Almost, a block away.”

“Shit, okay, let yourself in?” The woman on the other end hums, amused, and Jaskier hangs up. Leave it to him to fail to set an alarm for something like this. He drags his sorry carcass into the bathroom, intent on getting a shower. He feels cold and sticky for all the wrong reasons, and when he looks at himself in the mirror the blue in his eyes is offset by the purple bags underneath. It’s… not an attractive look for himself. The hot water pounds against his back when he hops under the spray and he groans, letting it wash over him. Praying it’ll wash away the dream that seems to cling to him, digging at his bones and refusing to leave.

He’d had the dreams for as long as he could remember- at first they were nothing more than terrors, dreams of hideous, foul smelling creatures with sharp claws. Claws that regularly tore into the soft flesh of his belly, or the tender meat of his thigh, leaving him to wake up screaming and thrashing in bed. His parents, bless them, had tried everything to help, from heavy medication to therapy to a stint in a mental facility, but nothing took the monsters away. Medication only trapped him within his dreams, unable to wake up until he was well and thoroughly taken apart, and therapists only insisted the monsters were representations of some trauma he’d sustained as a child. The stay at the mental facility, well, that was more a break for his parents than thirteen year old Jaskier.

He’d learned to hide them, since then, to hold people at arms length and keep them from seeing what he truly was. The monsters rarely followed him into real life, but on the occasion he saw mention of a kikimore on the news, or a striga cropped up in Germany somewhere, well, it was all too easy to flip the channel and pretend. Now though… it was becoming harder and harder to leave his dreams behind when the sun came up. The dreams had shifted when he was almost eighteen, from monsters hunting and maiming him to something else- instruments and performances and gaudy, awful clothing he had no name for. Days spent walking and walking and walking, sweating under the sun but grinning like it didn’t bother whoever was in his dreams. It was harder still, to pretend that the performer in his dreams didn’t have his hands, his wonderful, skillful fingers, or the voice he’d spent years fine tuning.

He’s knocked from his reverie by the sound of his front door opening and clicking shut and the smell of food drifting in. His stomach growls loudly, protesting it’s current situation, and Jaskier hurries to finish his shower and get dressed. He’s got a towel in hand, scrubbing at his hair when he pads out barefoot and spots the blonde currently tinkering with his tv remote. Her blue eyes are bright, friendly, and she motions to the spread of food currently piled on his coffee table.

“Got you coffee.”

“Thank Melitele.” He makes a beeline for it, not caring the way it burns his tongue as he gulps it down. That draws a laugh from his companion, and he throws himself onto the couch, settling his legs across her lap and tossing his towel onto the chair nearby. He’ll get it later. “You’re a godsend, you know that Priscilla?”

A small smile plays on the woman’s lips, colored by rouge lipstick, and she raises a brow. “I do, but it’s nice to hear. Did you not sleep at all last night, Jaskier?”

“Ah, I’m afraid my muse kept me up, as usual.” He grins at her, reaching out to snag a strawberry from her plate before bending to get at the french toast on the coffee table. It smells absolutely divine, and maybe some food will make him feel more like himself and less like a shell of someone else.

“You really need to learn how to prioritize sleep.” Priscilla says, shaking her head fondly and digging into her eggs. He hums, half paying attention to the news on the screen. It’s nothing new, stocks going up and down, the latest in sports, and something about him, actually. Talking about his newest single that’s put him up in the top ten- Her Sweet Kiss. Jaskier clicks away before they can play the music, drawing a laugh from Priscilla. “You know, you never told me where the song came from.”

“Didn’t I? A whirlwind affair in Europe, during my last tour. She was… incredible, shall I say? Truly someone never forgotten.” He’s bullshitting and Priscilla knows it. The song had come to him, as most do now, in his dreams. Ringing through his ears in a voice so close to his he can feel his throat burning when he wakes up. She doesn’t press though- she knows better than to push Jaskier too far. The glassy, far away look he got when thinking about whatever it was that inspired his songs was sad, old, and lingered on Jaskier’s face the rest of the day. Jaskier focuses on eating now, barely tasting bite after bite and only stopping when his stomach is full. Priscilla does much the same, but she chatters through the melancholy.

Jaskier stops himself on a random show, listening to Priscilla but staring at the screen. It’s something nonsense, talking about old instruments, but his hand stops mid bite, the french toast falling back onto his plate with a wet smack. He stares, wide eyed, at the wide, oval bowl of the instrument and the short, sturdy neck. The strings, there are more than a guitar but not nearly enough- no, his had more. Six pairs, one singular. His?

“-ier? Jaskier, what is it?”

“What is that?” His voice sounds strange, words twisted faintly by an accent he’s never had before, and he sets his plate down as Priscilla looks between him and the tv.

“An instrument? You put on the show.”

“But what kind?” At this Priscilla frowns. She doesn’t seem to know either, and she shrugs reluctantly.

“We could ask Essi, I’m sure she knows more. Why, do you recognize it?”

“No.” He says softly, switching the tv off. He ignores Priscilla’s worried look and goes instead to put on socks and shoes, grabbing his jacket and pulling it on. It’s big, engulfs his frame, but there’s something about it he couldn’t get out of his head when he’d seen it in a thrift shop off of 28th. It’s also entirely too hot outside to need it, but he feels naked without it, and the hood will give him a better chance at remaining hidden. Not that that happens much anymore. Priscilla has the food cleaned up when he steps out of his room, and she swings her keys around her finger, lingering near the door.

“Where are we going today, my famous friend?” Jaskier rolls his eyes, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“Anywhere but here. I think I’ll go mad if I hide in bed anymore.”

“That’s the spirit! There’s this new music store on Madison we could check out, and then that little bistro for a late lunch-” Her words fade from his ears as they merge into the crowd outside of his apartment building. He slips on sunglasses, nondescript ones he’d gotten from a random gas station, and prays that today he looks like anyone else. With Priscilla at his side, arm looped through his, no one pays much attention to the couple wandering down the street, chattering away. Jaskier feels a rush of gratitude for his friend, for the unwavering presence she is in his life. He’s not sure how he would have managed his budding fame without her, or handled being recognized everywhere once his face and name and music became more common knowledge.

“You’re the one who wrote the songs.” A rough voice reminds him, teasing.

“Yes, well, I didn’t expect them to break into my HOUSE for an autograph!”

“Get better doors. And a guard.” He drowns in those eyes, an endless pool of gold, and he reaches up to brush a stray lock of hair away, a smile stretching his lips wide.

“Why would I need anyone other than you?”

Jaskier stumbles over a crack in the sidewalk, pitching forward, and it’s only Priscilla next to him that keeps him standing. He rights himself, cheeks pink, and laughs despite his heart pounding in his chest.

“Ah, rather clumsy today. I probably should have had more coffee.”

“Or more sleep.” She counters, Jaskier laughing again and nodding in agreement. More sleep is definitely what he needs. A nice, dreamless sleep. Maybe if he gets that, he’ll be able to function like a human being again, instead of walking through the world with half a mind stuck firmly in fiction. The music shop is a quaint, cute little building tucked in a strip of other quaint buildings, and Jaskier ducks into the dim light of the shop. There are rows and rows of cds, vinyls, movies and more, and his eyes track along them all, taking in the sights and colors. There are plenty of instruments on the wall, guitars, basses, a couple of keyboards and a few sets of bongos even. There seems to be little rhyme or reason besides the alphabetical arrangement of the displays, and Jaskier spends his time wandering while Priscilla goes straight for the vinyls.

He’s near the back of the shop, by the counter when he spots an instrument on display behind the glass display. The sight is enough to make him freeze, and he stares at the smooth wood, the graceful curve of the instrument, finding that his fingers have begun to twitch. This can’t be a coincidence.

“Do you play?” A voice breaks through to him, and he has to blink a few times before he can focus on the man standing before him. His dark hair curls rather attractively, falling around his face and framing rather striking hazel eyes. Jaskier’s countenance sours immediately, and he squints suspiciously. It takes the man a moment, but he grins wide when he recognizes Jaskier. “Dandelion! A pleasure to have you here.”

“Valdo. This is your shop?”

“It is indeed, opened it up after my last album.” He’s proud, almost annoyingly so, but Jaskier begrudgingly has to admit the shop is rather nice. His eyes wander back to the instrument behind Valdo, and Valdo raises his brows. “You never said if you played. Would you like to hold it?”

“You’d let me?”

“I’ve seen how you care for your guitar. I’d warn you it’s expensive, but I know you’re good for any damages.” Jaskier snorts as the other man goes to grab the instrument, and his fingers drum against his thighs. “Do you even know what this is?”

“Not a clue.” Jaskier’s hands are reaching for it as soon as Valdo holds it out, and he tucks the strap around his body. The neck settles into his hands, fingers resting on the strings, and a line of tension holding his body razor tight snaps.

“It’s a-” The soft sound of Jaskier plucking out a melody stops Valdo short, and Jaskier closes his eyes to ward off the dizziness.

A fire crackles merrily in front of him as he plays, tinkering away at a tune with his notebook close by. He isn’t sure about the harmony of the piece, the way the notes blend together. There’s something missing, and he can’t figure out what it is. He stops with a heavy sigh, scrubbing at his face and wracking his brain.

“You’re missing the lowest note in the harmony.”

“Pardon?” He looks up, sees the sensual curve of a small smirk on a very ruggedly handsome face, and those eyes, always those eyes staring back. The man comes over, reeking of pine and metal and home, and reaches to softly pluck at one of the strings. The note rings out and Jaskier latches on.

“Try.” The man whispers, and Jaskier does, drawing the note into his harmony and grinning at the fully bodied life it brings.

Jaskier’s head is spinning when he finally opens his eyes again, Valdo staring at him with unabashed surprise. Priscilla is at his side, hand on his elbow to hold him steady, and he glances down at the familiar way in which his hands hold the lute. Because that’s what it is- his favorite instrument, the thing that made him coin and granted him fame and found him a-

Jaskier’s heart cracks in his chest, and his breath punches out of him in one big whoosh. He lifts the lute over his head, pressing it back into Valdo’s hands before turning to bolt out the front door of the shop. He doesn’t know where he’s going, merely that he has to get away, to find somewhere safe. He feels a thousand eyes on him, whispers following his frantic fleeing, and he ducks into an alleyway, hiding behind a trash can and pressing his back to the brick wall. There’s a stitch in his side from his frantic running and his hands won’t stop shaking as he rakes his fingers through his hair. The song rings through him, as fresh as the day it was written, and the lyrics come to him unbidden.

He’s crazy. He’s well and truly crazy, because there’s no way what he’s seeing can be real, but it’s so vividly him, buried so deep in his heart that there’s no way it could be fake either. His breath comes from him faster and faster, and tears blur his vision as he folds his knees up to his chest and rocks. Priscilla finds him that way, huddled in a ball amongst the trash, sobbing and muttering to himself, and she uses the large hood of his jacket to hide his face as she gets him home. Jaskier has calmed enough to get himself up the stairs when they manage to stumble their way back, and his chest aches from the pounding of his heart.

The tremor in his hands hasn’t abated yet, but the mug that’s pressed into his hands doesn’t shake, so he just enjoys the warmth that it brings him. Priscilla seems at a loss for words, but Jaskier knows what she wants to ask. “Just say it, Pris.”

“What happened? You haven’t been yourself all morning- first with the tv, and then the lute in the shop? Jaskier, I’ve never seen you like this.”

“I have dreams.” He says, voice so soft it’s almost lost in the sound of his heartbeat. “And lately, I can’t tell what’s real and what’s not.”

Priscilla reaches out, touching his shoulder lightly, and her face is soft, sad. “They’re just dreams. What you do here, the music you make, that’s what’s real.”

Jaskier nods, but his heart is plummeting in his chest and he doesn’t know why. Priscilla’s words should be a comfort, someone rooted in his reality telling him that his dreams are just that- dreams. The result of an overactive imagination. That’s all they are, all they’ve ever been. Jaskier tries not to let the thought suck him down somewhere he doesn’t want to go, but it’s near impossible to fight the tide rising in him. “They’re just dreams.”

He takes a sip of his lukewarm drink to find that it’s tea- the stuff he usually drinks as a last resort before bed time. It’s never worked before, but Jaskier downs the rest of it and hopes that this time, it will. Priscilla waits until he’s finished to take the cup, and when she comes back she’s holding a very large, very lute shaped object in her hands. Jaskier frowns, confused, but takes it from her anyway, tracing fingers over the lacquered wood. It’s smooth and warm under his touch, and he finds himself picking at the strings just to hear the sound. “Valdo said that it was yours.”

“I didn’t pay him.”

“He knew you’d say that. He said, and I quote ‘I’ve only been holding it for him.’ Whatever that might mean.” Jaskier schools his features into careful indifference, trying not to let his discomfort show. What in the hell does he mean by that? He’s going to have to go back to the shop and talk to him to find out, but he’s not inclined to leave his apartment for the foreseeable future. Priscilla, sensing the mood has gone down, ruffles Jaskier’s hair and gives his shoulders a squeeze. “Take some time, Dandy, get some sleep, then come back.”

Jaskier makes a soft noise in his throat at the silly nickname, but it’s sweet and Jaskier has never told her to stop. He watches her duck out of the apartment with one last look his way, and once the door clicks shut, locking behind her, he grips the lute tighter. He hasn’t ever played formally- has never been trained, and while a guitar is similar, there’s more strings than ever and he expects to fumble.

He doesn’t.

His fingers know what to do even without his brain, and he hums along to the melody from before. Here, in the safety of his apartment, he plays and plays until the song is firmly committed to memory and he’s written down the lyrics to go along with it. A song about the monster of the wood, a cruel, hungry creature with the head of a deer, stalking him in the night.

“You need to listen to me-”

“I’m your barker, for better or worse. How can I bark if I never see anything?”

“You stay alive for a day longer.” His hands shake with anger, chest burning with it, and the man in front of him, golden eyes fierce and animal, glares back just as hotly. They’re nose to nose practically, and his head pounds in time with his heartbeat as his hands come up, shoving the man away and watching in shock as he goes.

“Go then. I’ll be here, tending your fire and watching your horse, as that is all I am good for.” He turns then, but a hand grabs at his arm, turning him around on his heel. He pulls against it, fights to be released, but Geralt’s hand bunches in his shirt above his heart and holds him. “Geralt-”

“For better or worse, Jaskier.” His eyes meet gold, molten and scalding, and he’s speechless at the sincere intensity in Geralt’s gaze. “I would rather it be better.”

“You don’t get to decide that-” Geralt cuts him off with a kiss, lips hard against his own. It’s awkward, a bit painful, but Jaskier tilts his head, pulls back a bit and Geralt responds in kind. He kisses, Jaskier decides, like a man who has been kissed not nearly enough, and he commits himself to fixing that immediately. Geralt’s grip loosens in Jaskier’s shirt, but Jaskier’s hand comes up to bury in snow white locks, keeping him close as his heart rockets into his throat.

The strings of the lute dig painfully into his fingers when he comes to, and he shakes himself, releasing his tight hold and groaning when blood rushes back into the pads of his fingers. He tucks the lute back away in its case, not wanting to look at the flowers painted onto the wood along its wide belly. He tells himself not to touch the lute, to leave it alone so that all this will go away, but the longer he sits on his couch, leg bouncing and tv on some awful movie the more his fingers itch to play.

Instead, he forces himself to get up, to pull out his vacuum and mop and cleaning supplies. He spends the afternoon scrubbing down every inch of the apartment, puts away his laundry, and even tidies up his desk, which is a rather artful disarray of papers. Some, like Priscilla, call it a mess, but Jaskier knows where each piece of paper goes, and he prefers it stays that way. Cleaning can only distract him for so long, and once the smell of lemon cleaner becomes too much he caves, grabbing the lute and ducking out onto his balcony.

The sun is beginning to descend on the city, and he allows it to warm his bones and loosen his muscles as he plays. Each song that comes from him is new and old and entirely his, each rich, resounding note a piece of him. The instrument is no more a stranger to him than his guitar, or his flute, or any of the other instruments he’s picked up and enjoyed along the way. Its weight, the feeling of the double strings pressing under his fingers is home to him, and he plays long after the sun is set. There’s a reckoning, a righteousness within this instrument that calls to the deepest parts of Jaskier’s soul, and he finds himself crying with no real reason as to why.

He cries silently, holding the lute close to him and staring out over the city. Cars rush past his building, far below, and somewhere nearby a dog barks. But it’s all background noise- it’s nothing compared to the harsh intake of his breath or the way that it shudders out of him. When he can’t stand it anymore he retreats back inside, leaving his lute on his dresser before stripping down and crawling into bed. There, buried under blankets and utterly, terribly alone, Jaskier closes his eyes and dreams.

“You’re alive.” A low, rough voice breathes behind him. He turns, but he already knows what will be waiting for him, and he can feel his face lighting up in a grin.

“Geralt! Of course I’m alive, how could the world bear to part with me just yet?” His heart jackrabbits in his chest at the sight of the man before him, clad as always, in dark armor and a stormy, conflicted expression. Well, the expression is new. The armor, not so much. He finds himself smiling for no real reason as to why, but Geralt’s face is open and honest and terrified, and he can’t keep from reaching out to gently touch his cheek.

“There were rumors- about a bard, having been murdered by a beast.”

“As if I could be harmed by a beast with you protecting me.”

“But I wasn’t.” Jaskier takes a step forward, cupping his witcher’s cheek and smiling when Geralt leans into the touch.

The dream dissolves as Jaskier shifts, drifting between consciousness and unconsciousness. The latter wins out, and his body drifts away while his mind slips again.

Blue eyes stare at him through the mirror. It isn’t a great mirror, small and cracked and woven with imperfections, but he won’t need it for long. He only needs to make sure his hair is presentable, his golden doublet unmarred by any stains, and that his smile, when shown just so, is as charming and delightful as always.

“You’re fussing.” Geralt says, and Jaskier knows, his heart knows that voice and the hand that slides over his hip better than anything. He finds himself leaning back against a strong chest, laughing and tipping his head back.

“Some of us care for our appearance before a performance.” An amused hum, and then lips on his neck, gentle and sweet, kissing a trail up toward Jaskier’s waiting lips. He sinks into the kiss, turning as Geralt’s arms come up and around him, careful not to crease Jaskier’s clothes.

“How long will you be gone?”

“Most of the night. You’re free to come, love. I’m sure they’d love to pester the White Wolf himself.”

“Mmm, pester is right.” The warmth in his chest is softer now, with no edges of anger, and he knows what this is. It’s love. Pure and unfettered by doubt.

That same warmth burns in his chest when he jerks up in bed, leaping from under the covers to run into his bathroom. The mirror he has now is perfect- gleaming with the fresh cleaning he’d done just today and showing his reflection without any defects. The same blue eyes stare back, sweeping over the same lips, the same cheekbones and nicely shaped jawbone. The same messy, tousled brown hair as the bard in the dream. As him . Whoever he was- is- is long gone- left behind in another life completely. That isn’t him anymore, it can’t be, but when he thinks, and thinks hard, they’re there. All the memories, the times in between his dreams. The first time he’d seen Geralt, sitting in the back of a tavern refusing to meet anyone’s eyes, to draw any unwanted attention to him. The feeling of his hair, so devoid of color, twisting around his fingers as he washed blood and viscera from them. His friends- Priscilla, in her blue and red ensemble with the poofy shorts, Essi, a near twin to Priscilla, only shorter and plumper. Valdo, his rival, the troubadour who writes songs without any meaning but somehow comes out on top.

Valdo.

Jaskier scrambles for his phone, dropping it twice before finally swiping open the screen. He has his number, more to make sure he never answers than anything, but now, now he needs it more than anything else. He hits dial without letting himself think, holding his phone to his ear and shifting nervously from foot to foot. The line rings and rings, and just as he thinks it'll go to voicemail he hears a soft click.

"Dandelion? It's nearly three in the morning, what could you-"

"I'm not crazy."

"Debatable." Valdo's voice is amused, but when Jaskier doesn't respond he quickly grows serious.

"You said you were keeping the lute for me." His words are rolling in his mouth, voice mangled by an accent that he can't seem to keep away or bring back. He hears a sharp intake of breath, and then a long, shuddering sigh.

"I was, Julian. For far, far too long. Meet me at the diner on Broadmoor." The line goes dead and Jaskier is left to get ready, a long, long dead name ringing in his ears.

                                                             -*-

There are three diners on Broadmoor. Jaskier curses his luck, but only one seems to have the lights on and so Jaskier heads that way first. He pulls on the door and is hit in the face by the smell of stale coffee and hash browns. He glances around, searching, and spots Valdo in a booth back in the corner. His face is drawn, hair a mess, but he has a cup of coffee waiting For Jaskier when he slides into the cheap plastic booth. Valdo slides the mug toward him and he clasps it in his hands, sniffing lightly. He debates putting sugar or cream in it, but he needs the caffeine too badly right now to care much about the bitter taste. Valdo watches his internal debate with a raised brow, leaning back in the booth and sighing.

“You remember.” Jaskier accuses, wincing at the way his tone sounds. Valdo takes it in stride, tilting his head in a small nod and sipping at his coffee.

“I always have. I didn’t know if you would this time around.”

“This time?” Valdo nods again, and Jaskier is quickly becoming frustrated by the non answers. “Valdo, what the fuck is going on?”

“Reincarnation. You’ve heard of it before, yes?” Jaskier nods, and Valdo continues on. “There are some of us who keep coming back. Not always with memories, not always whole. I seem to have no problem keeping them, but others like Priscilla, or Essi, or-”

“Are they really reincarnations?” Jaskier frowns- how much is it reincarnation if you’re just the same body without knowing if your consciousness is the same?

“I said that, didn’t I?” His glare is enough to set a house on fire, but Valdo doesn’t fold under the pressure, instead waving for menus to be brought over. “For decades I was unsure why. Why us? Nothing seemed to connect us together, just random strangers being brought through life. Until I found out you came along as well.”

“You’re saying that I’m the link?”

“You know us all, have some kind of connection. You are the one constant in each of our lives.”

“But the others, they don’t remember?”

“They never have.” Valdo orders something for the two of them, waving away Jaskier’s protest, and plows forward in his conversation. “You don’t always either. I’ve held that lute for the past two reincarnations, neither of which you retained memories for. But you remember now, or are beginning to.”

“Yes.” Jaskier’s voice is a whisper, and admitting it, saying that it’s real takes a weight off his shoulders he didn’t know he was carrying.

“Tell me how?” It’s phrased as a request, and Jaskier nods, staring at his coffee to try and ward off his tears.

“I was seventeen when my dreams started feeling real- performances or days on the road, nights spent stitching wounds or bandaging cuts. Lately they’ve-”

“Been bleeding into your waking hours. Like when you played in the shop.” Valdo’s interrupting makes irritation flare in the back of his mind, but he tamps it down. He’s only trying to help, and is filling in more details than Jaskier would have gotten on his own. Their food comes then, and Jaskier watches as some kind of breakfast scramble is placed in front of him. It’s heavy with hashbrowns, eggs, bacon and cheese. It looks awful. Jaskier digs in hungrily, groaning at the heavenly taste- shitty overnight diners always have the best food. They eat their food in relative silence, too hungry and tired to care much to continue with something else in front of them.

This all seems fake, too good to be real. Valdo’s instant reassurance of what he’s feeling, what he’s dreaming, it has to be some kind of con, some way to get dirt on him. He expects the other man to laugh any minute, to call him crazy and tell him he needs serious help. He’s waiting for a punchline that isn’t coming, and it makes him anstier and anstier by the second. It explains so much- the old, old memories he has of a time before electricity, or running water, of nobles and peasants and monsters. Of witchers and sorceresses and bards. There are newer memories too- of him in a diner much like this, sitting across from a man with white hair and shining golden eyes. Of dancing in a club to his own music, standing alongside all the others in a rally, holding a sign protesting the inequality that ruins his life while cameras show his face. Through it all, his companion is there- a silent, steady presence.

“There’s- a man. Who I am desperately in love with, no matter who I am.”

“Your witcher. White hair, cat eyes?” He doesn’t need to nod for Valdo to know the answer, and he grins. “His name is Geralt of Rivia, though Rivia is long gone now.”

“Is he…”

“Alive? Of course. They, unlike us, do not die.”

“They?” He doesn’t even get a chance to let Valdo talk, his vision going blurry and ears ringing.

“C’mere asshole!” Jaskier laughs, darting away from the witcher intent on catching him. It isn’t Geralt- his hair is dark and cropped short, voice smoother, less gravelly. He’s also much, much more expressive.

“Catch me if you can!” His lungs hurt from running and laughing so much, and he squeaks as hands grab the back of his doublet and yank him to a stop. Jaskier squirms as arms wrap around him, and he pouts, letting himself go deadweight. “You aren’t supposed to use your witchery powers, you know.”

“Oops.” He’s let go then, and Jaskier shoves the other man lightly, grinning.

“Ass. Maybe I’ll go find Eskel, at least he follows the rules of the game.”

“Rules are for peasants.”

“Then you should fit right in, Lambert.” He dodges a swat to the back of the head, laughing and disappearing further into the keep.

Valdo is staring at him expectantly when he blinks, the stone walls and cold breeze fading away from his mind. His food is lukewarm in front of him, and he takes a big bite just to avoid having to say anything yet. Valdo is too smug for his own good though, and he sits forward, grinning.

“Jogged your memory, eh?”

“Shut up.” His insufferable grin only grows bigger, and Jaskier wants to smack it off his face or strangle him. Either would work, honestly. “Is there some way to contact him, or any of them?”

“Not unless you’re a government official, or happen to know someone who had a pest problem. But, there is something that might work.”

“What?”

“Your songs. I'm sure you've already written new ones with the lute- release them in an album. If they’re listening, which is near impossible not to with your reputation, they’ll find you .”

“What if they don’t?”

“Then I suppose you’ll have to bed a government agent.” Jaskier scoffs, wrinkling his nose, but Valdo wags his eyebrows and he can’t help the laugh that bubbles up from his chest. He falls into silence then, staring down at the rest of his food, and his voice is soft when he finally finds the courage to speak.

“Thank you. For keeping it safe.” When he glances up, Valdo’s eyes are bright, shining with relief.

                                                             -*-

Jaskier does what he does best- he writes a few songs, then writes a few more, until he’s bursting with music and lyrics and ideas. He gets himself into his studio and doesn’t leave until he’s recorded an entire album, with his lute being the main focus. It brings with it a new, exciting kind of charm that his producers eat right up, a kind of mystical energy that isn’t present in any of Jaskier’s other songs.

It’s also a release- he lets go of the monsters that haunted him, bringing them roaring into his music instead and letting them run wild. His dreams are still plagued by memories, but the more he plays, the more he tries to remember, the easier it gets. Turns out when you stop fighting against a piece of yourself, letting it in is much, much easier. The music videos are his favorite part of the whole process- he crafts one specific to each song, embedding as much of a message as he can in the hopes that one of the witcher’s will see. Will see him and know him, and extend a hand.

He tries to look up the witchers, to see if there’s any kind of way to find them online, but Lambert is too common a name and he has no clue what last name he would use, if any. Eskel’s name yields less results, but still too many for him to narrow down, and he’s left back at square one for them. Geralt’s name? Now that pulls up results.

‘ The witcher, most formally known as Geralt of Rivia, is one of the world’s only practicing monster slayers, and a bit of a recluse. He was last spotted hunting some kind of sea serpent along the mediterranean, and then boarded a plane bound for America.’

‘Geralt of Rivia, White Wolf, was allegedly seen decapitating a local woman at a train station in France. When questioned by police, they were informed that the woman was a bruxa who had been preying on locals. Mr. Rivia was released without further incident.’

That article makes Jaskier laugh, and he prints it out to tack above his desk on his cork board. Leave it to Geralt to scare everyone around him while doing his job. Any article related to Geralt gets its spot on the board, actually and he’s fairly certain he looks like a stalker, but they’re his only glimpse into what Geralt has been up to. It makes the pain easier to handle, knowing he’s just been too busy to seek Jaskier out, and certainly not ignoring the neon signs that are his music. Half of them are Geralt’s exploits, after all, and if he doesn’t recognize them then Jaskier has failed to faithfully recreate them.

But the songs work- somewhat. In a small town somewhere in the midwest, a witcher hears Jaskier’s music, and begins to hunt for his white haired brother.

Jaskier, in the meantime goes about his life, bouncing from interview to interview, one of which he’s in now. The chair is somewhat uncomfortable and the lights are a little too bright, but the woman interviewing him is new, nervous, and he does his best to put her at ease.

“You’re doing great, love. What were you saying?”

The woman blushes, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear before asking again. “Your newest album, it pulls away from the bouncier, lighter tone of your second album. Why?”

“Good question. Writing fun music is wonderful, lovely, but I, and I’m sure you’ll be surprised, have my own fears. Monsters that haunt my dreams, who begged to be put into song.”

“So the songs are based on dreams?”

“Now you’re catching on.” Jaskier winks, drawing another giggle from her, and he leans back in his chair, tilting his head. “No one can tell me they don’t dream of dark and twisted things sometimes. Of wanting a knight in shining armor to come save them.”

“That’s an incredible way to put it. Are any of the monsters in your songs real?”

“Oh yes. The leshy, or leshen is a forest spirit that is said to roam the deepest parts of a forest. There are also ghouls, terrible hunchback creatures who stalk battlefields, and basilisks, large winged creatures with iridescent scales and scalding breath.”

He sees his interviewer shudder, and his gaze goes soft, a wistful smile tugging at his lips. “Where did you hear about these monsters?”

“From a friend, years ago.”

"Do you still talk to them?"

Jaskier's eyes find the camera, and it's a terrible cliche to spike the lens, but he does it anyway. "We lost contact a while back. I'm hoping that… through my music, I can find him again."

"Well, I'm sure your fanbase can help!"

"That they can." Jaskier grins, glancing back at the interviewer, and he hears someone yell cut behind them. He stands, shaking her hand and giving her a quick hug. He murmurs a few words of encouragement, and when he ducks into the room they've designated for him he tells his producer to send her something. Flowers or a gift or anything. She handled him like a champ. It's thankfully his last interview of the day, and he grabs his lute, which he brought just in case before ducking out the door. He makes his escape from the building out onto the street with relative ease, slinging his lute across his back to navigate the crowds easier. The amount of times he’s had to refuse security before they learned was more than he could count. He's stopped a few times by fans, asking to take pictures, and he glances at them on his phone once his Twitter dings.

@dandelion stopped and took a picture! Best day ever!

The rest of the post is filled with heart eye emojis and hashtags, but Jaskier stares at the photo. The awful stripes and swirls on his button up are reminiscent of a bowling alley floor, but his jeans are cute and his boots top the whole outfit off. He thought it'd looked cute when he put it on, and is pleased to see that others agree. He looks better in general- the bags under his eyes are all but gone and there's a confidence in the set of his shoulders he hadn't noticed before. Like knowing who he is has completed a puzzle he didn't know he'd lost a piece to.

He tucks his phone back into his pocket as he skips down the steps to the subway, whistling merrily the whole time. The public transportation in the city had to be his favorite thing in the world, aside from jelly donuts and Geralt's eyes. It makes going from place to place a snap, and he doesn't have to constantly tell people he can't drive when they ask where his car is. The train is running a minute behind, as usual, but Jaskier books it down the rest of the stairs and through the turnstile, jogging up just as the doors slide open. People file on quickly, taking their seats, and Jaskier moves to step on when he spots snow white hair.

That in itself isn't unusual- plenty of old people ride the subway, but it's a man who looks no older than his mid thirties. He's dressed in all black, jeans and a heavy sweater, and strapped to his back are twin swords, their pommels shining dully in the fluorescent lights of the train. A duffle bag hangs from one shoulder, nondescript, but a pale, scarred hand hovers over it protectively. Jaskier is aware he's staring, holding up the train, but his feet are rooted firmly in place as his head begins to pound. The man- Geralt- irritated by the lack of movement turns to see what's going on, golden cat eyes cold and hard. The sight sends vertigo crashing through Jaskier so wildly that he feels his knees give out, and his vision blurs as he collapses onto the ground.

                                                      -*-

"No, no. He's fine. Don't hold the train for us." A voice, rough and low and heavenly drifts through his consciousness and he groans, burying his face in a warm, nicely toned chest. Strong arms wrap around him, holding him, and he sinks into the embrace without really thinking. When he moves the arms tighten around him, holding him closer, and he finally rouses.

He cracks an eye open to see an officer in front of them, debating with Geralt about getting him medical care, and he groans, sitting up and plastering his best smile on his face.

"Sorry love, my sugar dropped again. Was I out long?" The officer stops when he speaks, and Jaskier tilts his head curiously. "Tell me you didn't call them, you know I don't want the attention."

He looks up at Geralt, false frown on his face, and Geralt shakes his head. "Another passenger. I told them you were fine."

"That I am! I'm very sorry for the confusion, I just got off of a rather long interview and was a bit hungrier than I expected." The officer looks between them, brows furrowed, but tucks his notepad away and nods reluctantly.

"If you're sure you'll be alright."

"Feeling loads better already! Sorry again Officer!" Jaskier watches until the officer leaves the platform, and then shoves his way out of Geralt's arms. Geralt lets him go without a fight, sitting on the bench and watching as Jaskier paces the length of the platform, ranting. He's speaking in a language he knows but doesn't know, but it's better than letting everyone else hear him.

" I dreamt about you for years! Years, and the first thing I do is pass out when I see your goddamn face. Son of a bitch." Jaskier glares accusingly at him, but the corners of Geralt's mouth tug up in a smirk and Jaskier can feel his heart going a mile a minute. " I could have broken my lute, or-or been cut in half by the doors all because you were on the subway you big old insufferable-"

" You dreamt about me." Geralt's voice is soft, fond, and Jaskier loves and hates the way his voice curls around elder speech. " Jask, I didn't know you'd come back."

" Didn't- didn't KNOW? I am, and I am going to brag here, insanely famous, Geralt. Like on the news famous. How in the WORLD did you not know?"

" I don't watch the news."

"Of course you don't- of course I would get the one witcher in the whole wide world who doesn't watch the news ." He's cut back into English at some point, and he stops, fists clenched as Geralt stands up with his palms out. It's something he's seen Geralt do with Roach a thousand times when she's being antsy, and it drives him up the wall. "I am not a horse , Geralt, I am your fucking barker."

"You're acting more like my horse right now." Geralt is close enough now Jaskier can smell the soft cologne he's wearing, and his knees go weak again with the fact that he's actually here.

"You jackass -" Jaskier launches forward, throwing his arms around Geralt's neck and pulling him down to kiss him senseless. Geralt takes it in stride, scooping Jaskier off his feet and spinning with the momentum. He's careful of Jaskier's lute, but his hands are strong and firm as Jaskier is thoroughly crushed to his chest, held so tight that neither of them seem to be breathing. Jaskier doesn't care- his feet are off the ground completely, a fistful of white hair in his hands again and Geralt's lips on his. He has a beard, neat and taken care of, and Jaskier's other hand slips down to cup the side of Geralt's neck, thumb brushing through the coarse fibers.

Geralt is the first to pull away, Jaskier tipping forward blindly to kiss him again, huffing when Geralt smiles and bumps their noses together.

"Train is coming. As much as I've missed this, I'd rather not miss the next one."

"Tell me you aren't leaving me." Jaskier presses their foreheads together, eyes closed to keep any potential tears at bay. “Please.”

“I have to check into my hotel.”

“Geralt of Rivia, if you think for one minute you aren’t coming home to sleep in my bed you’re a fool. Fuck your hotel room.”

“It has a jacuzzi.” Geralt laughs when Jaskier pulls back to glare, and Geralt holds onto Jaskier’s  hand, guiding them through the throng of people and onto the train. Geralt motions towards a seat, but Jaskier stays plastered resolutely to his side and just rests his head against Geralt's shoulder. He sways with the movement of the train, but Geralt’s arm is around his hip, holding him steady as the train goes around a curve and slows a bit. He feels more at peace with Geralt next to him than he has in years, and he’s drifted off to sleep when Geralt moves just a bit, dipping down to whisper in his ear. Elder speech brushes against him, trailing down his spine, and his eyelids flutter as he leans in to hear him better.

“What stop do we get off at, Jaskier?”

And oh, if hearing his name from Geralt’s lips isn’t sublime. “Two more.”

“ You were asleep.” Jaskier chuckles softly, turning his head and kissing him lightly.

“ I’ve lived here for years. I know how long I have.”   His elder isn’t nearly as pretty or fluid as Geralt’s but he seems to enjoy it all the same, pupils widening at the sound, the sight of Jaskier’s lips moving. He feels like prey being hunted and he loves it. True to his words, two stops later Jaskier is the one to lead them off the train and up the many, many stairs to the street above. His hand never leaves Geralt’s, afraid that if he lets go the man will disappear into the crowd and leave him alone again. His apartment building isn’t far from the station, and he has to pass through three different checkpoints before he’s even flagged into the building. All of the security guards eye Geralt with barely hidden suspicion, but Jaskier is either oblivious or doesn’t care. The hot, possessive kiss that Jaskier pulls Geralt into while waiting for the elevator is answer enough.

Jaskier’s head is spinning again by the time they make it to his door, and he sags against it, panting lightly and trying to get his key in the lock. Geralt’s hand comes up, guiding the key in as he stands just close enough for Jaskier to be intimately aware of every inch of him. Jaskier gasps, shakes against the door and finally manages to shove it open. He hurries into the room, past the kitchen and into the living room. His lute is slung onto the cushions gently just as his knees give out again, and he catches himself on the arm of the couch, Geralt at his side a moment later.

He can’t feel his legs- he really, really can’t feel his legs, and he isn’t sure that it should seem like such a good thing. Geralt is a hard, hot presence between his thighs, and he arches up into Geralt’s touch, whimpering his name. He wants, he wants so desperately and he feels like he could fall apart at any moment, his breaths coming faster and faster as Geralt grins down, at him teeth sharp and glistening and begging to be buried in flesh. He reaches up, brings him down and kisses him, lapping into his mouth just to taste and let a fang scrape against his tongue.

His chest is heaving when he blinks from his memory, and oh, oh he’s embarrassingly, frustratingly hard. How in the hell does he explain something like this? His knees smart from where they’ve hit the floor and he pitches himself forward, out of Geralt’s surprised hands, his palms slapping against the wood of his floor as he pants. It’s better than letting Geralt see him, worked up over nothing. But he doesn’t get the chance to even think of a lie- he hears Geralt’s sharp intake of breath, the soft huff of a stunned laugh. Geralt is on his knees next to him before he can move, lips on his neck and teeth digging just so into the pale, unmarked flesh. Jaskier keens without meaning to, the noise spilling from his lips, and his cheeks flush when Geralt makes a triumphant noise, pulling back and using a hand on the small of Jaskier’s back make him sit back.

“If you say anything smart, Geralt, I will throw you off my balcony.”

“You don’t have to hide from me.” Is all he says instead, and he takes Jaskier’s hands, guiding him to sit on the couch while he takes care of Jaskier’s lute. Jaskier watches, knees pressed to his chest to hide his slowly dwindling erection as Geralt hunts around his apartment, breathing deep and seeming pleased at what he finds. He lingers briefly by the bedroom door, but seems to think better about exploring there just yet. Instead he reaches up, undoing the clasp across his chest and letting his swords slide from his back. He places them on the coffee table and pulls his sweater up and over his head. Jaskier watches it all, eyes wide, and he jumps as the sweater is tossed at him. He catches it with only a minor fumble, pressing it to his face and breathing deep.

He can almost feel the growl that rumbles through Geralt at the sight, and he grins, toothy and bright, sniffing again. It’s easy to lose his train of thought at the sight of Geralt- Modern clothes suit him well, from the cut of his jeans to the way his t-shirt shows off the rather lovely shoulder to hip ratio he has. Practically perfect. What really arouses him, and this shouldn’t ever be admitted out loud, is the amount of weapons Geralt has on him. There are two pistols tucked into sheathes under his arms against his sides, at least two knives tucked into each boot, not to mention the swords he’s already discarded.

“How do you draw the pistols with your sweater on?”

“I don’t.” Geralt’s voice is amused, and he reaches to unbuckle the leather harness, silver rings glittering along his fingers. There are no fingers that are bare of rings, whether they’re smooth, simple bands or ones studded in small spikes. It’s… ridiculously attractive and Jaskier fears for his heart at this rate. The holsters slip off of his shoulders and they too are left on the table with his swords, though he doesn’t go for the daggers in his boots at all. “You’re staring.”

“I’m allowed to.” He breathes out, reaching a hand out as Geralt pads over. His fingers splay against Geralt’s chest as the older man leans down, kissing him slowly, the warm metal of his rings sliding across Jaskier's cheek. Jaskier shivers at the sensation, making a soft noise as he stretches up further to try and get closer. Geralt pulls back too soon, always too soon, and Jaskier groans with disappointment.

“Tell me what happened when we came in.”

“Do we really have to talk about that now?” Geralt leans back, eyes searching his face, and Jaskier sighs dramatically, tugging Geralt to sit next to him on the couch so he can lean against his chest. "I wasn't born with my memories. I had- it feels stupid to repeat this all- I had night terrors as a child."

"Of monsters." Jaskier nods, pressing Geralt's sweater to his face and speaking through the fabric.

"Particularly of me being eaten by them. When I got older, graduated high school, they shifted focus. They showed me, or the bard I thought was haunting my dreams, following you, performing at a banquet, being chased by a farmer's husband. Within the past few months they got worse. They slipped into my daydreams, took them over, until I could hardly go outside without seeing something that would set them off."

"Is that what happened on the platform?" Jaskier shakes his head, sighing.

"I don't know what that was- a reaction to seeing you again, after only seeing you in dreams maybe? All I remember is getting hit by the worst vertigo I've ever felt, and then I was waking up in your arms. This last time- I'm not sure. I really don't want to keep collapsing though, my knees won't be able to take it."

His joke is weak but Geralt chuckles anyway, pressing his nose into Jaskier's hair. "I'll get you kneepads."

"My hero." He feels a rumble go through Geralt's chest and that brings a smile to his face. "What about you?"

"What about me?"

"Tell me about you, what you've been doing. I, for one, have been struggling with my memories and made it as a musician. But you, last of the witchers, are impossible to find info on."

"How do you know I'm the last?"

"Internet speculation. Don't worm your way out of this." Geralt sighs heavily, shaking his head and muttering to himself before Jaskier turns and plops himself into Geralt's lap so Geralt has to look at him.

"Eskel and Lambert retired a few years ago. Contracts are few and far between."

"What do you do then when you aren't fighting monsters?"

"I… Translate." Jaskier doesn't think he's heard right, and he tilts his head.

"Pardon? Was my very sexy boyfriend about to tell me something even sexier?" Geralt raises a brow at the word boyfriend, but Jaskier can see that he's pleased by the automatic assumption that they're together. Like they were never apart at all.

"I interpret. Mostly for doctors offices or business meetings. I'm occasionally called to the field when researchers need help."

"What languages?" Geralt doesn't say anything, cheeks flushing a faint pink instead. Jaskier grins then, pleased as all get out, and he leans forward, bumping their noses together and watching the way Geralt's pupils open wider at the contact. "What languages, Geralt?"

"There- aren't many I don't know."

"Someone's been busy."

"I had time. And language barriers make hunting harder." Jaskier laughs at the defensive tone to Geralt's voice, leaning their foreheads together and laughing until Geralt kisses him to shut him up. And even then he giggles against Geralt's lips, wiggling when Geralt tickles at his ribs.

"No wonder your elder is good." Geralt huffs out a laugh, shaking his head and leaning back so he can look at Jaskier, gaze sweeping over Jaskier's face slowly.

"My brothers and I are the only ones fluent."

"In the world?"

"There are small elven communities hidden around, but other than that, yes."

"Where are your brothers?"

"Somewhere in the midwest." Geralt says it with a shrug, as if it isn't a big deal. "They move frequently."

"Too used to being on the Path." Jaskier muses, though it's truer than he might realize. “What about you, where do you settle?”

“I don’t.” Jaskier tilts his head, thinking about that. He isn’t sure why Geralt would ever settle down, since he’s the last witcher active apparently. It would make sense for him not to have any place to call home, but the thought bothers him. A lot more than it should.

“You have a home here, if you want it.” He whispers, heart in his throat, and Geralt’s whole demeanor softens. His eyes look more amber in the setting sun coming through his balcony, and Jaskier leans forward, lips brushing Geralt’s at the same time his phone rings. He groans, intent to ignore it, but Geralt’s fingers dip into Jaskier’s back pocket to pull it out. He hits answer, holding the phone up to Jaskier’s ear as he glares.

“Jaskier, who the fuck are you kissing?”

“Hello Priscilla, nice to see you again, I’ve been just dandy since we last saw each other.” Jaskier takes the phone from Geralt, pressing it to his ear on his own.

“Jaskier, Twitter is in an uproar, there are pictures everywhere.”

“Naughty pictures?” Jaskier puts the phone on speaker while he moves over to Twitter, scrolling through the thousands of tags he’s gotten in the past two hours alone. They’re all the same picture, which Jaskier saves immediately, some better quality than others. There’s him in his bowling alley button up, held aloft in Geralt’s arms, kissing him senseless. It’s a rather artistic photo, the contrast between his bright colors and lute and Geralt’s stiff black clothing and threatening swords. “Ah.”

“That’s all you have to say? You haven’t seriously dated anyone since high school and that's what you say?” Priscilla is pissed, rightfully so, and Jaskier winces.

“Look it’s not that I didn’t want to tell you, I just-”

“I asked him not to.” Jaskier can hear the sharp intake of breath over the phone from Priscilla when Geralt talks, and she’s much more pleasant this time when she speaks. Traitor.

“Oh. And you are?”

“Geralt.”

“And where are you from, Geralt? How long have you been dating my best friend?” He sees Geralt’s lips quirk in a smile, and he rolls his eyes, letting Geralt do the talking. At least that way he isn’t getting yelled at.

“Rivia. We’ve been seeing each other for a few years now, I would say.” Jaskier snorts at the lie, except well- it isn’t really a lie. They’ve been together for years and years over entire lifetimes.

“Rivia?” A distant quality overtakes her voice, and Jaskier winces, clapping a hand over his ear as Priscilla squeals. “Jaskier, please tell me you aren’t dating Geralt of Rivia.”

“Uh.” Geralt’s lips twitch upward as he raises a brow at Jaskier’s hesitation, but Priscilla is laughing, wheezing out little breaths, and Jaskier waits for her to calm down before he answers. “Is that a bad thing?”

“No, no it’s just unbelievable.”

“Hey!” There’s offense in Jaskier’s tone, and Geralt’s hand rests on his hip, squeezing lightly. Jaskier shudders at the touch, scowling, but his witcher is the picture of innocence. “I guess the cats out of the bag, eh love?”

“Mhm.” Gods Jaskier has missed those little sounds, the answers but not answers.

“You have to say something on Twitter before your fans break the site. And introduce us properly.”  

“Right, right. Dinner okay?”

“Only if I get to pick the place.”

“Deal. I’ll call you later, okay?” Priscilla gives an affirmative and hangs up, Jaskier tilting his head at Geralt with his brows raised. “So, Geralt of Rivia, ready to be official with a popstar?”

“Not really. But with you? I’ll manage.” Jaskier rolls his eyes, moving to tuck himself against Geralt’s side. Geralt’s arm snakes around him, hugging him a bit closer as Jaskier raises his phone.

“Say cheese!” He grins wide, waiting until Geralt isn’t glaring to snap the photo. It’s a good one, Geralt’s eyes liquid and warm, the corners of his mouth tilted up in the smallest of smiles. It’s definitely going to be his wallpaper. Jaskier posts it onto Twitter with a simple caption.

My knight in shining armor.

[echo-bleu]

straight through the smoke (3)

Summary: After Magnus breaks up with Alec and chooses to align with the  Seelie Queen, pulling the Downworld Cabinet with him, Alec is arrested  by the Clave for high treason. Will Magnus find out in time to save him  from a death sentence?

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2

On AO3

Ten minutes left.

Alec stumbles when his guards push him roughly toward the center of the courtyard, struggling to regain his balance with his hands still cuffed in front of him. One of the guards swipes his stele along the cuffs to remove them, and Alec flexes his wrists to help the blood flow back into his hands. He takes a pause to steady himself, then raises his head high and walks the rest of the way.

The large rune carved in the stone of the courtyard hasn’t been used in a long time. There hasn’t been an execution in the New York Institute in over a century. Alec has to fight himself not to look down as he steps in the middle of the rune, instead holding Imogen’s gaze until she looks away.

Beyond the no-man’s-land created by the rune and its safety circle, the courtyard is crowded. They’re all familiar faces, people Alec has led for most of the last decade. There is no hunger, no blood-thirst in their eyes. In fact, the atmosphere of the courtyard is muted and heavy. Disapproving.

Imogen is in front of the crowd, holding an adamas staff. Behind her, the Institute’s core stone of adamas has been set on a small platform, waiting to power the staff. The staff would normally be handled by a Silent Brother, Alec knows, but there must not have been any within the warlocks’ wards. Imogen is taking it upon herself to do the deed, just like she almost did with Valentine – or the man she thought was Valentine. Alec is looking at his executioner.

The anger has settled in him, and then evaporated. There is no time left for bitterness, not when he has mere minutes to live. Imogen doesn’t matter.

He tears his eyes away from her to survey the crowd. Even the youngest Shadowhunters of the Institute are here, some of them barely turned thirteen, and Alec is immensely grateful that his parents took Max back to Alicante as soon as he was stable. He couldn’t stand to look at his little brother today.

He wonders if Imogen has deemed it necessary to inform his parents, if they’re raising hell to save him from this, powerless, in Alicante, or if they secretly think he deserves no less. He’ll never know.

Despite being crammed around the safety circle, his people are standing apart from Imogen’s goons, like they’re showing their disapproval by isolating the Clave’s envoys into a group of their own. The Institute’s Shadowhunters are all standing at attention, in their formal uniforms, the Institute’s insignia on display on their chests. Alec chokes up. Every one of them seems to be wearing the—his Institute’s symbol instead of the more conventional Clave insignia for such an occasion – it’s a deliberate show of support to him, one that Imogen can’t take away from them.

Alec locks eyes with his second-in-command Jens, his mentor, who looks back at him with his gaze full of rage and sorrow. He breaks his stance to place his hand over his insignia, just above his heart. Alec nods at him, trying to make his gratitude apparent in his expression. Jens will handle the Institute until Imogen or the Consul appoints someone else – maybe Jace again, unless his association with Alec has tainted him irremediably.

Alec tries to meet everyone’s eyes, even briefly, in the time Imogen gives him. Sixteen-year-old Kara Svec, a recent transfer from Prague, who Alec has been taking under his wing. She’s crying silently, her head held high, and Alec gives her a tiny smile. Sandra, his favorite IT specialist and Alec’s de facto secretary, since the Clave has yet to assign him a real one. They won’t need to anymore. Andrej, the weapons instructor who replaced Hodge, and his herd of teenage Shadowhunters. Underhill, his brand new Head of Security. Even Lindsay Wayglide and Carson Strongmill, who grumble at each of Alec’s new briefings, are wearing their Institute insignia.

Jace and Izzy are standing at the front, their expressions a mix of horror and trepidation that even their best attempt can’t hide. They’re holding hands tightly, not bothering to stand at attention. It’s clear that they’re still hoping that something will stop the execution, but it’s too late for that now. Alec wishes that he could hug them one last time.

Magnus isn’t there. Alec wonders if he hallucinated his presence yesterday, or if Magnus is out there somewhere, trying to stop Valentine. He has his people to think about. Alec berates himself for hoping that he’d be able to look into his lover’s eyes as he died.

“Alexander Gideon Lightwood, you have been declared guilty of high treason, and sentenced to death by immolation,” Imogen declares, her tone emotionless. “Do you have any last words?”

Alec, turns away from Imogen, clasping his hands behind his back in one last show of respect in the direction of his people. He looks down at the rune on the floor and tries to put his thoughts together, swallowing.

“I was lucky,” he says quietly. The silence in the courtyard seems to grow deeper, expectant. “I was lucky to fall in love with a man as wonderful as Magnus Bane. A man who is a warlock, a Downworlder. Someone that my entire upbringing had conditioned me to despise, and yet the man I met and fell in love with was nothing like what I had been told.”

Alec blinks back the tears coming to his eyes, letting his memories of Magnus wash over him. He can barely remember, now, why their breakup felt so important, why he didn’t run to Magnus and apologize, to spend one more day, one more minute with him. Wasted chances, all of them.

“Nephilim, Downworlders, Mundanes,” he continues, this time raising his head high to meet the eyes boring into him. “We’re all people. When it comes down to it, we’re all the same, with the same faults and the same hopes. I love a Downworlder, and if the Clave is going to execute me for that, then so be it. I am not ashamed, and the only regret I have is that it took me too much time to understand how deeply we Shadowhunters are failing at fulfilling our duty.” Alec turns to look at Imogen, letting his hands fall to his sides. He refuses to show her any more deference. “Our prejudices deform our understanding of the world until it is unrecognizable, and that is how ideas like those of the Circle are born.”

Imogen opens her mouth, but Alec turns away from her again. “The coming times may bring war and grief to our doorstep,” he meets Jens’ gaze. “I am sorry that I will not be there to meet them at your side. But when there comes a time when you have to take a stand, I urge you to think. Is caring for other people a crime that should be punished, just because those people are different from us?

“I love a warlock, and I will not apologize for treating him and his kind like people.”

Alec lowers his head to signify the end of his speech. He traces the rune under his feet with his eyes, once more, then catches Izzy and Jace’s eyes. I love you, he mouths, opening the parabatai bond wide to push through all of his love. They’re the ones who will have to stay behind, and keep fighting.

Jace pushes back fearstrengthlove and Alec nods at him just a fraction. Izzy has tears running down her cheeks. Alec takes all the courage he can get from their gazes and tries to send some back, before he turns back to Imogen. He will not let his siblings see his face as he burns.

Imogen doesn’t look at him as she raises the staff and touches it to the core stone. The entire courtyard seems to hold its breath, watching the tip light up like a stele, ready to activate the fire rune on the floor.

“Pulvis et umbra sumus,” Imogen declares. Her posture tightens when the only ones who repeat it are her Clave soldiers, but she turns her staff to the rune without stalling.

Alec closes his eyes.

This is how his story ends. Burnt to death in the courtyard of his own Institute, under the eyes of his siblings and his people. This is how he dies.

*

Twelve hours left.

“He wasn’t supposed to plead guilty! We were supposed to have more time!”

Isabelle is pacing the length of the small bedroom, while Jace sits immobile on the bed, staring at nothing. He looks in shock, incapable of processing. Clary looks at Magnus with pleading eyes as Jace fails to react to her pats on his arm.

Magnus pinches the bridge of his nose. “The Clave called off the search for Valentine,” he says. “He got through the wards around the city. He’s on his way to Lake Lyn as we speak, and the Consul is going to welcome him with open arms.”

The three Shadowhunters stare at him in shock. “The Consul is part of the Circle?” Isabelle asks with wide eyes.

“Alec said it was the only explanation. I told him during the trial.” Magnus closes his eyes. “Maybe that was a mistake. He pleaded guilty to speed up the trial, so we could get there faster.”

“Fuck!” Jace mutters through his teeth. He rams his fist into the mattress in desperate rage.

“That sounds like Alec,” Isabelle sighs.

“What do we do?” Clary asks, wringing her hands. “We have to stop Valentine, but we can’t let Alec get executed!”

Magnus feels himself flinch at the word once more. Executed. If they don’t find a solution fast, Alec will be burned to death by his own people, for the crime of loving him. Of being a good person, in spite of everything he’s been taught.

Clenching his fists, Magnus forces down the magical outburst he can feel coming and instead conjures a timer. “We have twelve hours,” he says, starting the magical clock with a wave of his hand.

“If Valentine is already in Idris, he’ll be at Lake Lyn long before that,” Isabelle says. Her face distorts before her next sentence. “Stopping him has to be our priority. We can’t let him succeed.”

Magnus shakes his head. “I agree that he’s the priority, but we can’t leave things as they are. This isn’t just about Alec. Even if we succeed in stopping Valentine, if Alec is executed tomorrow and word gets out about why, we’re looking at an all-out war.” He takes a gasping breath, the guilt eating him alive. How much of all this is his fault? He knows, he’s known for centuries that the Seelie Queen can’t be trusted. He chose her side over Alec. And if the war that’s brewing happens, he’ll have doomed his own people as well as Alec.

He leans against the wall, struggling to breathe through the panic. “Magnus?” Isabelle asks, squeezing his arm.

Magnus shakes himself. He can’t give in to the fear. Not yet. “The Seelie Queen betrayed us all. And your Clave is about to execute one of its own Heads for associating with the Downworld. This is a fuse that will blow it up to massive proportions.”

“But what can we do?” Clary asks.

“We need to split up,” Jace breathes, meeting Magnus’ eyes as he understands his intent. “Some of us need to stay behind. To organize.”

“Yes,” Magnus confirms.

They all look at each other for a moment. It’s not an easy decision. “Magnus,” Isabelle says softly. “You’re the best equipped to fight Valentine, especially since Jonathan might be with him.”

Magnus sighs. As loathe as he is to leave Alec, he knows she’s right. “I’ll go. I’ve already spoken to Luke and Raphael, they know where I stand. You can coordinate with them.”

“What about the warlocks?” Clary asks. “There’s still the wards over the city.”

“That’s also why I need to go,” Magnus says. “I’m the only one here who can go through them. I can take one of you with me. The warlocks won’t get involved beyond lowering the wards when I tell them to, unless war is officially declared.”

“The wards are useless now, though,” Isabelle remarks.

“Maybe not,” Jace says. “If you take them down, we expose ourselves to the Clave, and we know we can’t trust them. Right now every Shadowhunter in New York is in the Institute. That could work to our advantage.”

“An insurrection?” Magnus asks curiously.

“Maybe not that far, but Imogen is a minority right now. Our people are loyal to Alec. We may be able to use that to stall, if nothing else.”

Magnus nods. “Buy us more time.” He eyes the timer. “We could use that.”

“Clary, you go with Magnus,” Jace says.

Clary frowns. “You’re a better fighter than I am.”

Jace shakes his head. “You have your runes. And I’m needed here. My name and Izzy’s contacts will go a long way.”

Jace doesn’t add that if Alec is executed, it will incapacitate him and make him useless in a fight, but Magnus can see it on his face.

Clary nods and stands up, checking her pocket for her stele. “Magnus, do you think you could summon me a blade from the armory?” she asks. “I don’t know if we’re still on house arrest, but I’m sure we’ll be watched the second we step out of this room.”

“Of course.” Magnus visualizes the armory the best he can and pulls. The blade he finds in his hand isn’t Clary’s usual one, but Clary doesn’t seem to be bothered as she grabs it and clips it to her belt.

“Alright, Biscuit,” Magnus takes her shoulder. “We can’t waste any more time.”

He watches her hug Jace tightly, then Izzy, and the steel band around his chest tightens a little more at the thought of Alec, alone in a cell, waiting for his execution. He doesn’t let himself wish that they could have had more time, that they could have talked. They will.

“Isabelle,” he says. Isabelle turns to him and hugs him a well, but Magnus can’t quite return the gesture. He’s too tense. “If we don’t make it back in time—”

“We’ll do everything in our power,” Isabelle promises. She doesn’t say what, specifically. She can’t promise more.

Neither can Magnus. “If Valentine succeeds,” he starts instead, swallowing. “Tell Alec that I love him, and I’m so sorry.”

“Oh, Magnus,” Isabelle murmurs. “You’ll get to tell him yourself. Have faith.”

Magnus nods. “I love you, too. Alec is my family now, and that means that so are you.”

“Go kill Valentine for me, then,” Jace says, punching his arm. In another context, it could have seemed callous, even rejecting. But the look on his face says everything, and Magnus suddenly remembers that Valentine raised him. That Valentine is his abuser.

“For all of us,” he chokes out. “Brother.”

They’re brothers in battle now, not just in their connection to Alec. They strive toward the same goal. Jace nods, pursuing his lips in the way he does when he’s trying to hide his emotions.

Magnus opens a portal, layering it with a shield meant to pierce wards, both those of the Institute and the ones around the city. Clary takes his hand, and in a second, they’re gone.

*

Eight hours left.

They’ve set up in the training room. It’s something Alec once started, Izzy remembers, in the first year he took over the Institute. He was sixteen, not even an adult in Nephilim eyes. She remembers that he had to get Jens to sign every single report before he could even send them to their parents because his own signature held no weight, even though he was effectively running an entire Institute.

Their parents still came back for a few days every month back then, and after dressing Alec down for some minor mistake, they’d kicked him out of the Head’s office like his work meant nothing. So Alec had swallowed his pride, changed into workout clothes, and held every single one of his planned meetings in the training room, under the guise of fighting hand-to-hand.

He kept doing that as long as their parents still held some pretense of running the Institute whenever they were in New York. The practice came in handy when first Lydia, then Aldertree and later Imogen took over the Institute and Izzy watched Alec more than once discreetly listen to his people’s complaints and needs while kicking their ass on the training room floor, or letting them pretend to watch him fight Jace or Izzy herself.

Today it’s Izzy and Jace on the mats, sparring without conviction. It’s past midnight, and the benches are full. They’ve had to wait until Imogen retired for the night, leaving only one of her henchmen to watch over the ops center while the Institute works are reduced capacity. They can’t leave the bounds of the city, when they would usually handle calls as far out as New Jersey, and half of the regular patrols have been canceled because of the events of the day. Anything involving Downworlders has been put on indefinite hold.

Izzy straightens with a silent nod to Jace, untangling herself from his grip, and heads back toward the nearest bench to grab her towel. Jens hands her a bottle of water, casually standing up next to her, just outside of the line of sight of the Clave guard in the other room.

“Clary’s training all night,” Izzy says. “I need someone to cover for her. It’s her final exam.”

Jens nods gravely. “Is she on her own?”

“No,” Izzy shakes her head. “She’s getting some help.” She makes a small hand gesture low at her side, imitating Magnus’ style the best she can.

“Good,” Jens nods. “I hope it will be enough.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Izzy sees Jace gesture to her. It looks like he’s got Lindsay to distract the Clave guard, and he has his back to them now. Jace runs his hand across his throat. The sound of the surveillance system has been taken down. The guard won’t notice as long as he’s not looking. They have a few minutes.

She signals the Shadowhunters around her to come closer. They gather around her just as Jace joins them, still looking like an accidental grouping but close enough to listen.

“I think you all know that the crimes Alec is accused of are unfair and that he’s innocent. It looks like the Clave is corrupt far beyond what we thought. I’m reaching out to people we trust to try to overturn this decision, but I need you to be ready.”

“Ready for what?” one of the Shadowhunters asks.

It’s Kara Svec, Alec’s little protegee. She’s at the bottom of the Institute hierarchy, still a trainee, and she’s speaking out of turn, but Izzy doesn’t point it out. She knows it, Izzy can see it on her face. She loves Alec and she’s terrified.

Alec was her age when he took over the Institute, Izzy realizes. She didn’t understand how young that was at the time. They were teenagers, ready to take on the world, and she and Jace must have caused Alec so much trouble with their unruliness. Izzy can barely handle the thought of leading the Institute now, let alone when she was sixteen.

Izzy puts an arm around Kara’s shoulders to comfort her, though the young Shadowhunter is taller than her. “We’re going to do everything we can to get Alec out of this,” she says. It’s looking less and less like they’ll succeed while staying within the bonds of Clave law. Izzy and Jace have tried everything they could already, from calling their parents – they didn’t answer, and Izzy has a feeling that Imogen is purposefully keeping them away – to Jace directly trying to convince Imogen to change her mind. Izzy has been through all of her contacts in Alicante, and the only thing she got was a promise from Aline that she’d call back as soon as she got hold of her mother.

“If we have to, we’ll stop the execution and break Alec out,” Jace says, his voice deep and more confident than he is. “We won’t ask any of you to put yourself in a position to go against the Clave, but we need to know that you won’t stop us.”

Jens steps up at that. “Alec is our Head, and what’s happening is wrong. I am loyal to him before the Clave.” Izzy nods at him. The older Shadowhunter is Alec’s mentor in many ways, the one who taught him how to run the Institute when their parents left. Alec broke traditions when he made Jens his official second-in-command, despite him not being a fieldworker.

“He’s the best commander I’ve ever had,” Underhill declares. “I stand with him. We’ll help in any way we can.”

Kara nods emphatically at that, tears in her eyes, and she’s followed by all of the others. Everyone here has a reason to be thankful to Alec, and that’s exactly why Izzy chose them.

“We’ll do things by the book for as long as possible,” Izzy says. “But be ready. Pass the word to anyone you know you can trust.”

“Time’s up,” Jace signals.

They break ranks immediately, going back to the benches as Jace drags Underhill out to the center of the room. Izzy sits down next to Jens, making a show of unwrapping her hands.

“Whatever happens tomorrow,” she murmurs. “Thank you. For your support, for all these years. Alec wouldn’t have made it without you. None of us would have.”

Jens lowers his head. “I wish I could have protected him more. He took on so much more than he should have had to, and now they’re punishing him for it.”

“Imogen hates Downworlders. Hell, the Clave hates them. Alec knew that when he made his choices, Jens. None of this is your fault.”

“Be careful tomorrow,” Jens whispers. “We’re on the brink of war. If you free Alec and side with the Downworld, you’ll be hunted by every Institute.”

“I hope it won’t come to that, but it’s better than Alec being executed,” Izzy murmurs. She looks around her and spots Kara with her face in her hands, trembling slightly. “Jens, tonight, will you watch over Kara? I’m worried about her. She’s really attached to Alec.” Izzy doesn’t know all the details of the abusive situation she escaped in her previous Institute, run by her father, but she knows enough to know that Alec saved her life by pulling her out. The fear of losing him could pull her right back to the traumatized state she was in when she first got to New York.

“I know,” Jens says sadly. “I’ll take care of her. What about you? Are you going to be okay?”

Jens is one of the few people in the Institute who knows about Izzy still being in recovery, and how stressful the last few months have been.

“I’ll hang on until morning,” Izzy smiles weakly, touched by his concern. “I have Jace. And I have a mission. I’ll be fine.”

*

Two hours left.

“For the last time, the Inquisitor is not allowing any visitors,” the Clave guard growls, his hand ostensibly on the hilt of his seraph blade.

Izzy fights the urge to roll her eyes. “Come on,” she pleads. “He’s my brother. He’s gonna die tomorrow.” She almost chokes on the last sentence, and it’s far less of an act than she’s willing to admit.

No. Alec isn’t going to die. They’re going to get him out of there.

“I have orders,” the guard says. “I’m not letting you through.”

Izzy sighs. She’s been trying to get to Alec for a while, coming back here every hour, but it’s not happening. She turns on her heels and walks back to the elevator. Jace joins her just as she gets out on the third floor and comes with her to her room. “Any luck?” he asks.

“No.”

“Me neither. Still nothing from our parents, and Clary and Magnus aren’t answering their phones.”

“Fuck,” Izzy swears through her teeth. She throws herself on her bed. It puts her face to face with Magnus’ timer, which now read 2:03. They’ve got two hours and three minutes left to save Alec, and they haven’t made any progress. What are they going to do?

The only positive point so far is that Luke and Raphael are still alive, answering their texts, so Valentine hasn’t succeeded in making the Wish. Yet. Clary and Magnus have been out of contact since they portalled to Idris, so there’s no way to know if they’re even alive.

Izzy’s phone buzzes in her hand, and she brings it up to see the text, only now realizing how tightly she’s gripping it. Jace sits down beside her to look over her shoulder.

It’s Aline.

Mom has got the Council together in an emergency meeting. The Consul is out of reach, so she’s calling the shots. What do you need?

Izzy breathes out. Finally, something is moving. Just as she moves to answer, her phone starts ringing.

“It’s Clary,” she breathes. Jace immediately straightens. Izzy taps the screen to answer the video call.

“Clary?”

“Izzy!” Clary’s face appears on the screen, bathes in sunlight. It’s almost midday in Idris. Magnus comes into the frame beside her, and Izzy lets out a breath she didn’t know she held all this time. They both look okay, if a little out of breath.

“We did it,” Clary says. “We got Valentine. He’s dead.”

Izzy closes her eyes in relief – or maybe just exhaustion. Jace says something under his breath and squeezes her against him tightly.

“He raised the Angel, but I got to him before he could make a wish,” Clary continues.

“Thank the Angel,” Izzy sighs. A part of her registers that the Angel she’s thanking is the one who would have annihilated the Downworld on Valentine’s command. “I mean, thank you, in this case. You’re certain he’s dead?”

“Yes,” Clary answers. “Magnus killed him while I talked to the Angel.”

Izzy chokes on her breath at Clary’s nearly casual tone. “You talked to Raziel?”

“Yeah,” Clary laughs. She sounds more shell-shocked than happy. She’s had a long night. They all have, but Clary and Magnus perhaps more than anyone else. “Not my first rodeo with an angel, remember? I told him that we didn’t want to make the Wish today, and he left. The Wish is safe.”

Izzy takes a moment to breathe and process that. It’s too much at the same time, she doesn’t know where to even start, but she has to keep it together. For Alec. Alec needs her to figure out their next step, and the next. He needs her to get him out of this.

The news of Valentine’s death should feel more earth-shattering than it does, but they still have work to do. Izzy puts that aside for now. They can celebrate and think of what almost happened later.

“What about the Consul?” she asks.

“We ran into him while walking to the lake,” Magnus answers. “We had the element of surprise, since he didn’t know we knew he was a traitor. We had to fight off his goons, but I think we got them all. The Consul is dead.”

“Good. Do you have conclusive proof that they were with the Circle?” Jace asks.

“Is this enough?” Clary asks, switching to her phone’s second camera. It moves for a moment before it stops on what is unmistakably Malachi Dieudonné’s face, the Circle rune prominent on his neck. “I think he had a glamour on it that fell when he died.”

“Definitely enough,” Izzy says, taking a screenshot. She thinks for a moment, as Clary brings the camera back on herself and Magnus. “Okay, here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to get in touch with the Council.” She pauses as Magnus nods. “We need to make sure that you’re untouchable, especially Magnus, in case there are other Circle members in the Council. You record a video of you two explaining exactly what happened tonight. Jace authorized Magnus’ portal as Head of Field Ops and Magnus will get paid for his services, so we’re in the clear on that front. Make sure the video shows Malachi and the Circle rune clearly, and that you don’t implicate yourselves. Then send it to the Institute’s servers. It will make several backups just in case.”

“Okay,” Clary accepts. “We’ll do that. Can we come back now?”

Izzy sighs. “No. I’m sorry, but if you aren’t there when the Council sends a team to the scene, this will all have been for nothing.”

“Alec only has two hours left,” Magnus says, anguish in voice.

“I know, Magnus. I’ll do everything in my power to make sure he’s still alive when you get back, okay? But you can’t leave Idris, or you’ll get thrown in jail too, and it will all have been for nothing.”

Magnus pinches the bridge of his nose, but nods.

“Magnus, can you get the warlocks to bring down the wards? We’ll need you and whoever they send from the Consul to be able to come through.”

“Okay,” Magnus says. “I’ll be there the second they let me go.”

“Me too,” Clary affirms. “Guys. We’re gonna make it through. Valentine’s dead. We’re gonna save Alec. Okay? Just hold it together.”

Izzy takes a breath and gives her a small smile, feeling Jace do something similar at her side. “Thanks, Clary.”

They’re all inches away from crumbling, but they need to hold on for a bit longer. One hour and forty-eight minutes left, according to the timer.

It’s a terrifyingly short amount of time that somehow feels like an eternity. Izzy sends the screenshot of Malachi’s Circle rune to Aline, along with a quick summary of what happened, and transmits Clary and Magnus’ video to the Council as soon as she gets it. Jace paces the length of the bedroom, fists clenched. After a while, Izzy takes his hand and pulls him down to the floor, where they sit cross-legged, across from each other.

“I think Alec could use some calm right now,” Izzy gestures to Jace’s parabatai rune, swallowing her tears. It’s almost seven. Outside, the sun is rising, coming through the stained glass windows.

Jace lets out a near-sob. They still don’t have an answer from the Council, and Clary and Magnus aren’t responding to Izzy’s texts. With no official backup coming, all their plans are crumbling one by one until they’re only left with the last resort.

“Breathe with me, brother,” Izzy murmurs, holding out her hands. “Send him strength. And love.”

Jace links hands with her and closes his eyes.

They don’t move until Jens knocks on the door, fifteen minutes before the end of the timer. “It’s time,” he says when Izzy opens the door. “They’re prepping him.”

Clary and Magnus haven’t made it back.

They’ve run out of time.

[ingu]

(1/2) I came here straight from finishing your TUA fic when I saw you had a Tumblr. Honestly, I could gush about it all day?? There's not enough space in these comment boxes, so I might review it chapter by chapter when I have the time, because there were so many things I thought you just NAILED about the characters. It was also one of the most thought-provoking fics I've read in the fandom. There were so many moments where my eyes lit up, because I felt you were really onto something.

(2/2) So yes, I just wanted to thank you for contributing such an amazing story! I was actually curious if you'd be writing anything else for this fandom, but to my delight I saw you posted some ficlet prompts. HMMM... What about "Promise me you’re not gonna over-react." or "It’s four o'clock in the morning, what are you doing?" Whichever interests you!

Gosh anon, thank you so much! This was such a sweet message to read and your words are massively kind. I would be absolutely thrilled if you ever decide to leave reviews on the chapters. It’s been such a relief to hear that the characterisation has been working for you guys!

Also, ask and you shall receive, here’s a non-canon(?) mini AU? continuation? of my TUA fic for you.

-

The house was quiet in the early morning, and even the sounds of the city outside were more muted than usual. With almost a dozen superpowered people sharing the house, it was also the time in the day where Five could be guaranteed a quiet moment to think and work on his equations without the danger of harassment.

Five mulled over his equations as he walked down the stairs toward the kitchen, holding his empty mug. He was right on the cusp of something big, and he knew that he could fix the imbalance in his maths. His calculations had gone wrong somewhere and he needed to redo the working, though he wasn’t entirely sure where he’d made the mistake.

As he walked, Five paused at the sound of ominous creaking in the floorboards ahead of him. It sounded like someone very heavy trying their best to be stealthy, and failing.

“Luther?” Five said, a frown falling across his face.

There was sudden silence, and Five stepped around the corner to find none other than Number One, skulking in the hallway.

"It’s four o'clock in the morning, what are you doing?" said Five, squinting at Luther in suspicion.

“Uh…” said Luther eloquently, his eyes wide and screaming with guilt.

Five stood unmoving, waiting for a response.

“Nothing?” Luther said in a tone that screamed something.

Five stared at him for a doubt filled moment, before deciding he didn’t really care. If it was anything truly important Luther would be rounding up the troops, not sneaking around like he was scared of getting in trouble with Dad.

“You really need to work on the lying thing,” Five said, and then jumped past Luther to get behind him.

“Wait!” Luther suddenly hissed, whirling around in a panic.

Five paused, then turned around with an annoyed frown. “What?”

“Wh- Uh, where are you going?”

“Kitchen.” Five gestured with his mug, before turning away again. He needed more coffee.

“No, stop!”

Incredulous, Five turned back. “Christ, what do you want?”

Luther made a frustrated, grumbling sound. “Okay, look. I’ll tell you. But you have to promise me you’re not gonna over-react.”

Something in Luther’s tone sent alarm bells ringing in Five’s head. “Luther, what did you do?”

“Nothing! I didn’t do anything, I just wanted a snack but then you-” Luther cut off suddenly, his mouth slamming shut.

“I what?” Five said, eyes narrowing. Luther had better be careful how he finished that sentence.

“Look just, come with me, alright?”

“To where?” Five said, as Luther pushed past him and started heading back the way he had come from.

“The kitchen.”

Frozen for a moment by the ridiculousness of the situation, Five rolled his eyes, and followed after Luther.

This had better be important.

-

The lights were on as they approached the kitchen, though it was hard for Five to see beyond Luther’s massive bulk.

“Oh hey, you’re back already?” Vanya’s voice sounded as Luther crossed the threshold. “Where’s the-”

Vanya’s voice abruptly cut off as Luther moved inside and Five, behind him, finally saw just what Luther had been hiding in the kitchen.

“Oh you’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Five muttered, as he found himself face to face with his thirteen year old self.

At the kitchen table, Vanya sat next to Five’s younger self. The thirteen year old Five looked miserable, sitting at the kitchen table, nursing a mug of something looking like hot chocolate. His hair was the same, but he wasn’t in a uniform, and wore a dark striped sweater with jeans and boots, looking unsettlingly like any other teenager he could walk into on the street. The younger Five’s clothes were creased and rumpled, but clean, and Five wouldn’t have been able to tell that he was a runaway if he hadn’t already known. 

Five felt faintly proud of the fact that his younger self managed to not look starved and homeless despite what had to have been a week on the street.

He also couldn’t believe this was happening.

“Holy shit,” the younger Five murmured, staring back at the adult Five with widening eyes. “How-”

Five made a face, then shrugged. “Congratulations, you can’t age anymore.”

Then, he walked around both Vanya and his younger self to check the coffee maker.

“Five!” Vanya chided as his younger self’s eyes went wide.

“That’s not true, Five,” Luther said with a look of confusion, before alarm fell over his face. “Wait, is it?”

Five shrugged. He was just fucking with them, but they didn’t need to know that yet.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” the younger Five muttered, echoing Five’s own feelings, before he suddenly cried out. “Wait, is this why none of you came home?” 

Five frowned as he put down his mug and picked up the empty coffee pot. It was strange to hear such obvious hurt in his own voice. He scratched at his neck, and then sighed internally as he took note of the new itchy patches that sprung up across his skin. Right, the damned psychosis.

“Well, this is certainly an interesting development,” Five said, turning around to face his siblings and his alternate self. “I’m going out to get some coffee.”

Everyone watched him in surprised silence. There were tears in Five’s younger self’s eyes, and that was an even more unsettling thing to see.

“Luther?” Five continued, turning toward his brother. “I expect to see you at Griddy’s in twenty minutes.” He gestured between himself and the younger Five. “We need to talk about this.”

“Wait, you’re just going to leave?” Luther said, stepping forward.

“Luther, do you remember what happened the last time I spent too long near my alternate self?” Five said, smiling mirthlessly. “If you don’t fucking do as I say, then don’t blame me if I skip straight to the homicidal rage.”

Five turned and jumped out into the alleyway before Luther could respond. He was getting really thirsty, and needed that coffee. Griddy’s had better still be open.

[concussed-to-pieces]

The Mettle Of A Man; Part Sixteen

Fandom: Fallout (4)

Pairing: Eventual Paladin Danse/Female Sole Survivor

Rating: Holy shit M.

AN: A very special shoutout to @anonymouscosmos for all of their encouragement and support! You are a god among insects. I’d also like to thank the discord chat for enduring my nonsense, as ever. Enjoy!

Part One: ArcJet

Part Two: The Prydwen

Part Three: Orders

Part Four: Finding Brandis

Part Five: Weston Water And Oberland

Part Six: Meeting Preston And Matthew

Part Seven: Radstag And Radstorm

Part Eight: The Return To Sanctuary Hills

Part Nine: Domestic Ruminations

Part Ten: Institutionalized

Part Eleven: Two Weeks, Three Days

Part Twelve: Haylen’s Warning And The Glowing Sea

Part Thirteen: Under Fire

Part Fourteen: Dichotomy

Part Fifteen: The Litany Trial

[!TRIGGER WARNING!: This installment contains graphic depictions of gore and detailed descriptions of previous abuse. Stay safe!]

Her head had been blown open, or at least it felt that way. The explosion was so close to her face that her helmet had just peeled off like it was made out of shrapnel-laden papier-mâché.

  Sergeant Shaun 'Lucky' Cathan was flat on his back hardly a foot away from her, pinned under the weight of the debris that was slowly crushing his armor. 

  She couldn't move. Her arms and legs wouldn't respond. That blow to the head had been nearly fatal. She was trapped on her stomach, inches from him.

  "Backhand-" Cathan choked, his voice wet. His gauntlet fumbled for her own, large metal fingers gripping her hand. "End of the line for me, eh Handy?"

  She gurgled something, trying to talk. One eye still worked. Barely. It felt like it was full of glass every time she forced herself to blink. It was too dark to see much anyway, even if she squinted. Her head throbbed with the beat of her heart. 

  "Save--your strength, Vega." Cathan instructed. 

  She wasn't sure what strength he was even talking about. Her armor felt like it had collapsed down on her spine. "Sir-" Vega managed to say. "S'been an honor-"

  "Don't give me that-- shit , Vega." Cathan chuckled. "I was just another dog of war. You'll get out of this. Go back to that man of yours, have a few kids, live your life." He coughed, wheezing, "my time is up, Handy."

  "No, no I'm-" Backhand tried to pull him closer, tried to get upright. Pain jolted down her back and legs and she halted, trembling. "I c-can't leave you here, Sarge." She groaned, knowing deep down that it was futile but refusing to give up .

  Cathan's grip tightened briefly. "It's alright, Handy." Her CO murmured. "It's alright. Make sure Tabitha has me buried on American soil. Or chuck my ashes in the harbor, yeah? Piss off all those Cambridge fucks." He chuckled.

  Backhand nodded as best as she could, the tears stinging painfully against the flayed skin of her face. "I will. Promise."

  The rubble overhead creaked and groaned, dust falling down on top of them. "Won't be long now." Cathan mused faintly, "Not long at all…"

  …

  Danse struggled to sit up and roll Vega onto her back. His own injuries faded to the background of his mind as she laid unresponsive, blood slowly pooling in the dirt beneath her left side. Her mouth opened and closed in a spasm; her eyes had rolled back in her skull and her fingers twitched erratically. 

  Have to hold pressure. Stop the bleeding. Danse numbly pressed his shaking hands down on her side just below her ribs, his body suddenly awash in a cold sweat as he realized just how much blood she was losing. He could almost hear Haylen rambling about the arteries, internal bleeding, penetrating damage, Worwick and Brach and Dawes and Keane and Danse felt like he was going to be sick. 

  "H... Haylen! " He yelled desperately. It was the only thing he could think to do.

  Then, against all odds, startling the everliving daylights out of him, Vega sat up . " Oh , you fuckin' asshole! " She hollered at Maxson around Danse's body while the paladin scrambled to attempt to stem the flow of fresh blood that her motion sent spurting out. "You really fuckin' shot me?! You're the worst kind of dick! " 

  Danse was flabbergasted. Her state was clearly compromised, how was she even conscious-

  "Fuck!" Vega growled in pain, dropping her forehead to rest on Danse's chest. "Oh fuck, fuck fuck you, you told me Danse was fuckin' dead, you liar! You expect me to just stand by and let you kill him in front of me?!" She continued to rant at Maxson, her voice muffled somewhat by Danse's shirt. "You dumb fuckin' prick, you stupid fuckin' dipshit motherfuck son of a cockass! This ain't exactly my first time gettin' fuckin' shot, you fuckin' fuck!"

  Danse realized that Arthur hadn't said a damn thing, possibly just as bewildered and awestruck by Elizabeth's impressive grasp of blue-streaked vernacular as he himself was.

  "Paladin Brandis, if I may…?" Haylen's voice was almost inaudible over Backhand's continued snarling. Danse jerked his attention away from Elizabeth, trying to blink the sweat out of his eyes in order to determine the field scribe's location.

  "Scribe, get the hell back behind the line!" Maxson barked. 

  Heavy footfalls heralded the arrival of Rhys and Haylen, the knight using his power armor like a shield to protect the scribe as if they were out in the field. Haylen was suddenly there , on her knees in the gravel next to Danse and Elizabeth. The paladin's eyes were now blinded with tears of gratitude and he huffed out a breath. "Danse, I'll get to you in a second." Haylen said softly, patting his hand. "Let me have her, okay?"

  "Haylen, I…" the large man didn't know what to say, his words failing him. He clutched pitifully at the scribe's hands, sure that he was gripping too tight.

  "I've got her, Danse. It's okay." Scribe Haylen soothed.

  "Yeah Danse, s'okay." Backhand said blearily, "s'Haylen, she's great. We love Haylen." Her head lolled back like it was too heavy for her to hold up. "Haylen made sure I got to eat and stuff."

  " What? " Danse rasped. 

  "The tactics Elder Maxson used during her incarceration…" Haylen trailed off, grimacing and then continuing in an undertone, "I made sure Rhys smuggled in something for her when he brought Brandis' meals."

  "Vega, Jesus Christ, I'm so sorry." Danse apologized needlessly, resting his forehead against Elizabeth's as he supported her neck. "I didn't think anything would happen to you. I...I didn't think in general, I guess." He admitted.

  Vega smiled . "Hey, I'd say whatever shit I went through was a pretty decent tradeoff for finding out that you didn't bite it after all." She slurred. "Missed you."

  " Christ , Vega." Danse muttered in dismay, fighting to untie her hands. Haylen took over after a moment, the scribe's fingers infinitely more steady than his own.

  "I need a Stim and a bloodpack!" Haylen announced after examining Vega's abdomen, looking up worriedly. 

  Not a soul moved. The only sound was the noise of Maxson wriggling in the grip of the armored knight who finally had him secured. "Listen to the scribe!" Brandis shouted to the mute crowd. "You have a sister bleeding in front of you and you would be still and silent? Where are the brave, compassionate soldiers I once knew? Knights! Scribes! Are you not Brotherhood?"

  Two aspirants finally elbowed their way through the throng, making a wide berth around Maxson. One of them bore a large canvas bag. "Good, good work. Drop it here." Haylen instructed, unrolling her field kit. "Can I get a scribe with steady hands and another knight for the opposite side?" She called. 

  A knight thundered past Maxson, the man throwing Danse of all people a haphazard salute before he took up his post at the other end of the group. Maxson practically seethed with rage. "Knight, how dare you salute that--that thing! "

  "That thing is still Paladin Danse of the Brotherhood of Steel, Maxson." Brandis growled. "He won the trial fair and square."

  "I will not allow it to live!" Maxson shrieked hysterically, struggling against the iron hold of the knight bear-hugging him. "I don't care how many of you I have to take down, Danse dies today! "

  "Maxson!" Brandis chided. "Do you even hear yourself? You sound insane! Think about what you're saying before you do something you'll regret!"

  "Not before he dies! "

  "Which would you rather be known as, Maxson? The abuser or the synth fucker?" Maxson froze at the sound of Danse's voice. The burly paladin shot the elder a bloodied sneer, his head tilted to the side at an almost arrogant angle. "After all, you got fucked by a synth." What the hell was he saying? Danse felt unhinged , words flippant, his tired limbs barely cooperating as he forced himself up on his knees and then to his feet. "You let a synth fuck you, Arthur." 

  " Abomination -"

  "You ordered a synth to fuck you." Danse reminded him, voice grating as his words came faster. "Demanded it to fuck you. Abused it. Threatened it with a certain death mission if it didn't. Then gave it that mission anyway." Danse rubbed at some crusted blood beneath his blackened right eye, grimacing. "Does it make it better if you didn't know I was a synth? Because then , you have to justify the reality that you molested a soldier in a compromised emotional state utilizing your privileged position of authority. Can you accept that , Maxson?"

  "You...Maxson, is this true?" Brandis asked incredulously.

  "That thing is clearly lying!" Maxson scoffed, looking around at the spellbound crowd like he expected everyone to agree with him. "Dammit, I am the elder -"

  "Did you hope that I would die out here, Arthur? Or did you assume that I would come crawling back to the Capital Wasteland after my inevitable failure in the Commonwealth?" Danse cut him off bitterly. "Did you think I would be easier to break once I had lost everything , Maxson?"

  "He always fights with Danse!" A tiny squire chimed in. Danse hadn't realised that Maxson had Ingram summon the damn children to watch their trial. "We heard them fight!"

  "Silence, brat! " Maxson screamed, his face purpling with fury. "I am the elder of this chapter, last of the Maxson line, and I will be given the respect I deserve! "

  "Cade's records can verify my story!" Danse shouted hoarsely for everyone to hear, his shoulders heaving with emotion. "Every time we engaged, I did not escape unscathed. Nearly every injury was documented. The dates will align with high-stress situations, and I'll stake my life on there being a long stretch of shit mood during the absence of your preferred punching bag, Elder! "

  " Liar! "

  "Abuser!" Danse yelled in reply, "murderer! You killed Cutler, through your biased orders! You killed Knight Astlin, Scribe Farris, Knight Varham! You killed my brothers and sisters!" Danse's fists clenched tight enough to ache. "And for what, Arthur? For a synth? Or for a man that had no interest in you? Either way, I refuse to accept their blood on my hands, Maxson!"

  " You killed them and you know it!" Maxson shrieked, kicking his legs desperately. "All you had to do was obey me, Danse! Was your pride worth their lives?"

  "There was once a time in my life where I would have done damn near anything you asked of me." His anger petering out, all Danse felt now was weary and bruised. "I loved the Brotherhood, Maxson. I still do. But the path we have taken under your leadership is heinous."

  "Don't you dare to lecture me about devotion, you mechanical mockery! " Maxson retorted.

  "This body may be synthetic, but my heart and mind…" Danse paused, saluting once more. " Those belong to the Brotherhood, Maxson. To my brothers and sisters in arms. Nothing can change that. Not even the knowledge of my true identity."

  "That's what you think!" Arthur flailed in the knight's grip, trying in vain to escape. No doubt so he could pitch himself at the paladin one final time.

  "Elder Maxson, through your words and through your deeds, I deem you unfit to lead our chapter of the Brotherhood of Steel at this point in time." Brandis announced abruptly. "As the senior ranking officer, I, Paladin Brandis, will function as the interim elder until we receive proper instructions from our superiors." He removed his helmet, staring down at Arthur sternly. 

  The young man was quite the pitiful sight, bedraggled from trying to beat Danse within an inch of his life as well as from his struggling afterwards. He still looked mad enough to kill, those blue eyes almost crackling with pent-up fury. "You planned this, didn't you?!" His paranoia on full display, Maxson made no attempt to maintain any sort of composure. "Just how many synths have infiltrated our chapter? Well Brandis?! "

  "Arthur, that's enough ." The senior paladin said in reply, his tone measured. "Don't make an even bigger fool of yourself. Bow out while you still have some dignity." He sighed. "Perhaps the stress of this campaign has been too heavy of a burden to bear for you. I sympathize, but I cannot permit you to carry on in this manner, Maxson." Brandis raised his eyes, scanning the crowd. "Cade! Knight-Captain Cade, please see to Maxson. He is obviously unwell."

  …

  Vega flickered in and out of consciousness. The weeks of abuse culminating in this final (though inadvertent) attempt to end her seemed to have nearly been successful. She only barely remembered Haylen treating her wound, mumbling out an apology to the younger woman for leaning so much weight on her. She caught snippets of Danse and Maxson shouting at each other, bits of the trauma that Danse had endured coming tumbling out and making Vega wish that she wasn't half-dead so she could at least flip Maxson off.

  " Rest , Vega ." Haylen had ordered. " You need rest ."

  And really, who was Backhand to refuse? 

  When next she opened her eyes, she was greeted by a canvas ceiling overhead. Vega squinted a little at the brightness of it. How long have I been out for?

  "Welcome back, General." That familiar voice snapped her out of her staring contest with the tent above her and she rolled her head to the side, unable to help her smile at the sight of Danse. Still a little bruised and banged-up, but alive . 

  Tears streaked down her cheeks and Backhand wished that she could have stopped them, sniffling loudly and covering her face.

  "General Vega, there's no need for that." The paladin chided her softly. Something bumped against her knuckles and she realized after a second that Danse was attempting to give her glasses back. 

  Vega accepted the glasses mutely, grabbed Danse's hand and used his arm as leverage to pull herself up off the cot. 

  "Wait, Elizabeth you-" The paladin began to protest, rising to his feet to stop her. Her legs nearly gave out but Danse managed to steady her, one large hand splayed on the small of her back. "You shouldn't be upright yet, Vega." He scolded.

  I missed you. I thought you were dead. The words tangled up in her mouth and instead Backhand mumbled, "I thought I missed you." Danse's brows furrowed in confusion and she hurried to correct herself, "I mean--I...I thought you were dead!"

  "I needed some time to regroup. Straighten my head out. Heal." The paladin explained quietly. "The O'Brians nursed me back to health."

  "What happened , though?"

  "What happened to you , Vega?" Danse asked instead, gripping her elbows carefully to keep her upright. 

  Backhand shrugged weakly. "Maxson thought I knew you were a synth."

  " I didn't even know I was a synth." Danse huffed, thick eyebrows raising once again. "How on earth would you have known?"

  "Maybe he was going on a witch hunt, trying to get me to confess even though I wasn't guilty of anything." She closed her eyes as she mumbled, "I missed you."

  "I thought of you every day." Danse replied bluntly. Her head shot up and she stared at him, watching as a flush crept up his neck. "I er, I...I am not good at these sorts of things," he admitted. "But it's true. I thought of you and...and of your son. Of the life you should have had. When Preston tracked me down, we realized that something must have gone wrong. So I...came back." 

  Oh . She hated the disappointed pit that yawned open in her stomach. She should have known that he wasn't thinking of her in the same way that she had thought of him. 

  Backhand rested her forehead on his chest, willing her tears to abate. "We need to get them out of the Institute." She said thickly. "All of them. Anyone that will come, Danse."

  "I think you and I should speak to Pal-- Elder Brandis. He has expressed interest in working with the Minutemen." Danse sighed heavily, then continued, "I cannot recommend that we work exclusively with the Brotherhood. There are years of prejudice that have been beaten into these men and women. The allowance of my presence is a show of good faith, but I don't know if I trust the rank and file to storm the Institute without turning it into a massacre." He gave her a wry smile. "I cannot blame them. Even knowing what I am now, it's going to take me some time to remove my knee-jerk reaction."

  "There's always something else to do." She wasn't trying to complain , but God she was tired .

  His facial hair brushed against her forehead, scraping the skin lightly. "I know. What was it you said in the Glowing Sea? 'A run ashore'?" He queried while giving her forearms a gentle squeeze, as if to comfort her.

  "I thought you were dead." She hadn't meant to say it again, watching his eyes go dark and kicking herself for bringing it back up.

  "I suppose I was, for a time." Danse murmured, his expression troubled.

  "I... please don't do that to me again." Vega begged. Her hands fisted in his fatigues, wrinkling the worn fabric. "This is going to sound really dumb and really selfish, but please . Don't."

  "When you thought I was dead, did you..." Danse hesitated. "I mean, did you really miss me? I'm not even...well, I'm not a..." He cast his eyes around, narrowing them like he was physically searching for the word he wanted to use. "Human." He finally managed to say, the admission obviously paining him. "I'm a freak of nature, Vega. A perversion of science and an example of where mankind has gone wrong--"

  "Danse." Backhand cupped his jaw, her palms smoothing over the bristle of his stubble as she coaxed him to look at her. "No offense, but you cannot be this stupid."

  "What do you mean?" The paladin asked, his confusion endearingly evident. "I'm not...how am I being…?"

  Backhand blinked. Maybe he could be that stupid. "You're probably the most human person I've ever met, Danse. The way you care about your squadron, the way you've helped me...look, I wasn't upset about you being a synth, I was upset about you being dead ."

  "Oh." Danse breathed. "Really? You... really? Me being a synth wasn't…?" His words kept faltering, uncertainty shining through with every hitch. 

  " You , Danse. I cried about you being gone ."

  "Elizabeth…" 

  "So don't you dare scare me like that ever again, got it?" Backhand leaned forward, boldly pressing a soft kiss to his cheek.

  "I--yes. Understood, Knight. Uh, General." Danse stammered, his fingers absently touching the spot she had kissed. "W-We should...go speak to Elder Brandis. If you believe you can walk a short distance? I know better than to ask you to stay put and be patient."

  "Permit me the usage of your arm to keep me upright and yes, we can absolutely go."

  ...

  Please don't do that to me again .

  She had missed him, she said. She had mourned him, even. Cried over him. Danse's head was spinning.

  How could that even be possible? How could she...he was a machine . 

  No time left to consider such weighty problems, unfortunately, as he found that far too soon the two of them were approaching what had formerly been Maxson's quarters and now served as Brandis' war room.

  "Ad Victoriam, Paladin Danse and General Vega!" Elder Brandis greeted them warmly with a loose salute, gesturing around the war table afterwards. "Kells, Cade, Ingram, Quinlan, Doctor Li, I trust you all need no introductions?"

  The briefing was, as they usually were, tedious. Nothing brief about it, if he was being brutally honest. Vega held her ground though, which was all he really needed.

  "You boys aren't tyrants or fuckin' warlords. Not while I have any sort of say in the matter." She said sharply. "If you want Minutemen support, we are working as a team and the Minutemen have uninhibited access to all information as it is gathered. That means we'll need Quinlan's full cooperation." She held up a hand, staving off Quinlan's outburst. " Only in regards to the Institute. We don't want your super-secret Spec Ops sealed Brotherhood case files, so don't get those boxers in a bunch." Cade snorted and Proctor Quinlan looked absolutely scandalized, even as he grudgingly nodded. 

  "Now, General, this is all well and good but what does the Brotherhood get out of this bargain?" Kells asked pointedly. "As far as I can see, we're the integral piece in this plan."

  "' As far as you can see ' is an apt phrase, Lancer-Captain Kells." Backhand's tone was cool. This was General Vega for certain, the woman who had whipped the Minutemen back into shape. "Because what you can't see are the rest of my operations. The Minutemen aren't the only force I have at my disposal, just the most obvious." She leaned in a little, her eyes cold as ice behind the lenses of her glasses. "Do you really want to test me on my home turf, Kells? After everything that's happened?"

  "Not testing you, General Vega." The lancer-captain clarified, "simply identifying what seems to be an imbalance in the negotiations."

  "I got you Doctor Li." Vega retorted. "Without her, your Liberty Prime would still be a pile of junk. I've gotten your scribes tons of information to sift through, I've done everything the former elder asked of me."

  "Lancer-Captain Kells, if I might also interject?" Danse asked hesitantly, cringing on the inside as everyone turned to look at him like they had forgotten he was even there. Kells inclined his head after a moment. "Sir, we cannot be so quick to discredit our position. Due to our aerial location, we will be within the perfect striking distance to any sort of localized, above-ground assault."

  "I am more than aware of our position, Paladin . But that does not negate the fact that we have a much larger stake in this than anyone else-"

  "Larger than the locals who have been getting body-snatched for years?" Vega cut him off. "Let's not forget that myself and your new elder were starved and tortured for weeks , while the rest of you sat around and twiddled your thumbs out of fear and respect." She spat. "Don't fuckin' come to me with your scale-tipping bullshit . It took a synth to make you all sack up, and I don't intend to let you forget that." The woman straightened up, looking grim. "I'm not giving you anything else. You can either work with us, or you can keep pitching yourself against the Institute until they've all slipped away and you're left with nothing but an empty facility and unanswered questions."

  "She's right." Doctor Li affirmed tersely. "They won't just wait around to be pummeled. This isn't the Enclave. The board of directors will do everything in their power to avoid you and waste your resources at the same time."

  "We cannot afford to entrench ourselves in a drawn-out assault, Kells." Brandis reasoned. "When we strike, we have to do it decisively. Give it everything we've got and cut off the head."

  Kells nodded, seeming satisfied. "Understood, Elder Brandis. I meant no disrespect, General Vega."

  "None taken. I'm still recovering from getting the shit kicked out of me, so my manners aren't up to par quite yet." Vega rested her elbows on the table, steepled fingers tapping her chin. "I won't take anything from you that you're unable to give, Lancer-Captain Kells. If I can avoid using the BoS altogether, I will." She murmured, tilting her head. "I need to get in touch with some people before I can offer anything concrete, but once Lieutenant Garvey knows I'm alive I'm sure the rest will learn fast. We'll rally and plan accordingly." 

  "Well then, what are we waiting for?" Ingram asked eagerly. "C'mon Vega, let's head to the comm deck and get things squared away!"

  "Excellent plan. You two are dismissed." Brandis agreed, making a shooing gesture at the two women. Once they had departed, he turned his attention to Cade. "Do you have faith in our medical capabilities, Knight-Captain?" 

  Cade nodded. "We had been planning to attack them head on anyways, Brandis. If we're truly going in a little less 'shock and awe', we may actually tip more towards over-prepared."

  "I'm not certain how useful their teleporter will be to us once we get inside. I'm sure they'll lock it down with great expedience. However there is another possible egress." Quinlan spread the old blueprint out on the war table, fingers indicating a small service tunnel. "Now, if their measurements are accurate, power armored troops will not fit in this tunnel. But unarmored individuals most certainly will. This includes any…" he hesitated, like he was preparing himself to say it, "... refugees , or non-hostile denizens." 

  Quinlan referring to synths as anything but had Danse's head spinning. Vega was an absolute marvel .

  "It will be heavily guarded." Doctor Li warned. "They like to pretend that there's only one way in or out. Their precious molecular relay ."

  "Danse, I think you ought to take point when it comes to securing this tunnel." Kells remarked, making the paladin straighten up. "We won't be able to gauge our level of involvement until we have a full muster from Vega, but I'd like a senior-ranked soldier in the mix. And I know how much you enjoy being boots on the ground." The older man offered Danse a thin smile.

  Danse was so moved he needed to take a moment, finally choking out a ' yes sir ' with his hand over his heart. That Kells, even after all the years of growing to despise synths, would trust him with such a task-!

  Perhaps they did stand a chance, after all.

Part Seventeen

[e-vasong]

hi!! I just wanted to ask about the daemon AU--do you have a headcanon abt when their daemons would settle? or did they just settle after puberty? Did 5's daemon settle before or after the apocolypse?

AH!! this is such a good question.  I’m gonna put a cut after this first bit, though, because I took a simple question and accidentally...wrote a 2k thing that kinda straddles the line between answering your question and being a freeform fic? whoops.

Okay.  So I think all the kids probably settle a little later than normal for most people.  It’s been a while since I read the books, but I recall that most daemons, though not all, settle towards the start of puberty.  I headcanon that trauma is one of the things that can push that process back, and all the Hargreeves kids have that in abundance.  Not to mention that I don’t think isolating your kids from a normal childhood and forcing them into a vigilante lifestyle is exactly helpful for their development.

Luther settles first, a day after their thirteenth birthday.  It happens without much fanfare, while they’re resting at home after a mission.  There’s not much a golden retriever can do on a mission that another animal can’t do just as well or better, and Reginald really emphasizes the utility of their daemons above all else.  But sometimes Luther likes to let Amalthea turn into big, soft things when their dad isn’t looking.  He likes them, even if Diego mocks him relentlessly for it.  And that afternoon Amalthea plops down on his chest and turns into a golden retriever, licking at his chin to comfort him after the verbal excoriation their father had given them after the mission had gone wrong at every possible turn.  It’s a miracle none of them were hurt.  That scares Luther more than anything else.  How close he’d come to failing and getting someone killed.  And they don’t even realize that she’s settled until like an hour later when they’re headed downstairs and Amalthea tries to shift back into a form that their father will find dignified and just...can’t.

Klaus settles next much to everyone’s surprise.  It happens a few months after Luther.  Their father has them locked in the crypt again, and it’s particularly bad tonight.  Klaus can see them everywhere, tearing at his clothes, clawing at his skin, and he can barely breathe.  They go after Cassandra just as eagerly as they do him, but she’s harder to catch.  Suddenly she’s a falcon, an ermine, a rat scuttling through a new hole in the wall that their father must have missed.  And then she’s outside.  Twelve, thirteen feet away maybe, and it pulls at the connection between them, almost to the point of being painful.  Hurts enough to gear Klaus out of his catatonic haze and get him to push through the throng of ghosts just to get a couple feet closer to her.  And then Cassandra is a cicada, fluttering up to the lock.  And then she’s a raccoon, clawing futilely at it with those deft, clever fingers, but unable to work it open without anything to jimmy the lock open with.  Yet she’s also trapped by their bond, unable to venture and look for something to use.  And so she tries to shift back to rat, to get back inside, and just.  Doesn’t.  Can’t.  So Klaus stills his breathing long enough to stumble over to the door of the crypt, pressing his back flat against it and trying to still his breathing.  Cassandra curls up in a small ball in front of the door.  And they stay like that all night, until their father comes to let them out in the morning.

Allison, Diego, and Vanya all settle pretty close together, towards the end of their thirteenth year and the start of their fourteenth.

Allison settles on a mission.  She’s so busy rumoring a bad guy into killing his friends that she doesn’t notice the one behind her until Diego drops to the ground with a muffled cry of pain.  She makes a noise, a hoarse-sounding scream of shock and surprise.  But she’s well-trained enough to wrestle her gut reaction under control quickly.  She whips around, a rumor already on her lips, but before she can say anything Alexander is there.  A flash of muted gold and black, not hulking but still larger than she expects.  He jumps, first onto a table.  The spring inside a loaded gun.  Fifty pounds of coiled muscle and snarling rage.  Then he leaps again, surprisingly agile.  There’s a flash of canine, long and sharp.  The man dies with a gurgle, and when Alexander pads over to Diego’s injured body, licking at their brother’s face with concern, Allison sees that those white teeth are bloody and red.

Diego settles during one of their sneak-outs.  They’re walking along the pier, eating fish tacos they bought from a vendor nearby.  Ben is reading as they walk, flipping pages idly.  He’s not paying attention to where they’re going, though Luther keeps trying to get him to put the book down.  But then Diego had told Luther to lay the fuck off, and that had turned into a whole thing, and Ben’s still reading his book.  If Five were here, there wouldn’t be any concern about it.  He’d had that sort of quiet, watchful way about him, where you knew that even if he wasn’t actively stopping you from doing something, he was still keeping an eye out to make sure it didn’t kill you.  If Five were here, he’d have made them take Vanya.  If Five were here...

But he isn’t.  He’s probably off somewhere, living happily away from their father and from them.  Asshole.  It’s an uncharitable thought, and Guinevere would bite him for it if he said it out loud, but Diego is so caught up in his anger that he doesn’t see Ben walk into the pole until its too late.  

Ben swears, hands flying to his face automatically.  Klaus bursts into hysterical laughter.  Allison’s gasps, putting a hand to her mouth.  Ben’s book tumbles out of his hands and into the water, and Guinevere--also laughing--follows it, turning small and furry as she does.  She doesn’t catch it before it gets soaked, but she gets the book in her teeth and paddles over to a small ladder that drops down off the dock.  Ben turns to thank her, but Diego is too distracted to catch what he says.  Diego just settled, he’s pretty sure.  He can feel it in his bones.  He’d kind of been hoping for something that would prove once and for all that he’s better than Luther, but frankly their father isn’t going to be any more pleased with otter than golden retriever.  That’s kind of a bummer.  But when he kneels down to let Guinevere scramble up his arm and around his neck, he can’t really bring himself to care.  She’s Gwen, and he’s Diego, and if their father has anything to say about it?  Well then.  He can go fuck himself.

Vanya settles that winter.  She’s playing her violin in the living room.  Ben is sitting nearby.  They aren’t hanging out, not exactly.  None of her siblings really hang out with her, not since Five, but Ben maybe comes the closest.  Calliope usually takes the form of a cat, winding around Vanya’s ankles as she plays.  She used to turn into a capuchin sometimes, to flip the pages of Vanya’s music, but Io has more or less soured Vanya on monkey daemons these days.  But still.  Things are nice, and today they are in a particularly good mood.  Ben’s company is comforting; it’s nice not to be alone; and Vanya hasn’t missed a single note.  So today, Calliope flutters up onto her shoulder and sings along with her.  And she never changes back.  And when Vanya shyly shows her to their family later, Reginald sniffs, disdainful, having barely spared them a flicker of a glance.  Just a songbird, he says dismissively.  And that is that.

(And later, years and years later, Leonard peers into the veil of Vanya’s hair.

“Is that your daemon?” he asks affably.  He looks unbothered by the way Vanya cringes.  His orb weaver is crawling up the sleeve of his shirt, looking almost like a toy or a strange decorative pin.

“Yeah,” Vanya says.  Cal is a bundle of fluffed-up feathers nestled in the crook of Vanya’s neck.  She huddles in closer at the sight of Leonard’s attention.

“What is she?” Leonard asks, then holds his hands up apologetically.  “I mean, if you don’t mind me asking.”

“Just a songbird.”

“Just a songbird?” Leonard echoes.  He leans in closer.  “Hey, she’s a...great tit, right?  I’ve read about those.”

“Oh?” Vanya asks, bracing herself for whatever is going to come next.  Leonard is a nice guy; she’s sure he means well.  It doesn’t mean that what he says next isn’t going to hurt.

“Yeah,” Leonard smiles at her.  “You’re right.  They are songbirds.  But they’re more than that.”

Vanya pauses, lifts a hand to her hair uncertainly.  She hadn’t expected that.  “What do you mean?”

“Well, I’m surprised your family didn’t ever say anything to you, I have to admit.  They are songbirds, Vanya.  But they’re hunters too,” Harold says.  There’s wonder in his eyes, and when Vanya looks up to meet his gaze, he just smiles.)

Ben, like Luther, settles without much fuss.  Once a week, since they turned ten, they’ve had a designated time to try out new forms for their daemon.  Their father brings out books on zoology.  Gives them specimen after specimen to try.  Ben isn’t quite sure that this is how it’s supposed to work.  All accepted science suggests that settling is half a physical affair and half a mental one.  It’s not just about finding the right shape, it's about state of mind as well.  Amalthea is a golden retriever, but if she had tried that form when Luther was eight, Ben doubts that she would have settled.  But their father doesn’t much seem to care, nor does he seem to understand.  Then again, Io and their father have a dynamic that Ben doesn’t quite get either.  They seem less like human and daemon and more like warden and prison guard.  But maybe that’s just Ben projecting.

Melpomene takes to their father’s training with more courage than Ben does.  His stomach hurts; he wishes that he could go back to bed. This is worse now.  All the others have settled, and Ben’s been doing this part of their training alone for almost a year.  But Mel is braver than Ben is, and she takes the lead.  So they go down the list, while their father watches with those piercing eyes.  Io is perched on the desk, lips drawing back from his teeth whenever Ben so much as twitches a muscle in the wrong direction.

Mel turns into a large octopus.  A cassowary.  A vulture, a great Philippine Eagle, a Sumatran rhino, a spectacled caiman.

And then she stops.  Tries to shift again.

“I’m stuck,” Mel declares, sounding just as surprised as Ben feels.  Their father’s back straightens, and it’s the nearest thing he’s ever given Ben to pride.  He peers over his spectacles.  Nods.

“This is acceptable,” their father says, like there’s any other option.  It’s not like Ben can do anything about it, but he holds his tongue and stares at the floor again.  A predator.  A scary one, not like Guinevere or Amalthea.  Even Alexander is cuddly.  Crocodilians, though, people hate.  This isn’t how Ben wanted his settling to go.  He hadn’t wanted their father to be right.

Ben’s stomach twists.  He feels something nudge against the inner lining of his gut, like it’s trying to escape, and ignores it.

“Dismissed, Number Six,” their father says, and when Ben turns to go his eyes feel wet.

And Five...Ugh.  I’m debating how much of this I want to share, because I actually have this scene written elsewhere?  But Five settles last.  Five settles last by no small margin, not just chronologically, but by age as well.  Five settles late even among other late bloomers.  He settles when he’s eighteen.  Approximately.  It’s hard to keep track of days in the Apocalypse; Five is good with numbers and has a great memory, but it’s been five years by this point and the days are starting to blur, even for him.  The lateness of his settling comes from a combination of trauma, a lack of socialization, and the fact that he is desperately trying to avoid it.  He and Dolores keep a list of forms that they know are safe, forms that she’s taken again and again and hasn’t settled in yet.  

Because in the Apocalypse, an unsettled daemon is an incredible asset.  She can be a hawk, fluttering up to a roof to scout for places to salvage.  A wolf, sniffing out supplies.  An elephant, moving rubble and bricks so they can turn what remains of the library’s atrium into a makeshift shelter.  And a bear, warm and hardy.  That form’s kept Five from freezing to death for the past several winters.  But the thing about nature is that it always finds a way.  They can only fight it for so long.  And one night Five wakes up, and Dolores is a snake, and she can’t shift out.  She’s cold, too.  The night temperatures are too much for her now.  

I’m sorry, I’m sorry, she says to Five, almost frantic with it.

It’s fine, he tells her as she curls up under his jacket, soaking up the warmth radiating from his chest.  You’re beautiful.  It sounds like a lie.  It kind of feels like one too, even though he means it. 

This should be a wonderful thing.  It would have been, under almost any other circumstances. 

They do make it, of course.  We know that.  Five is clever and he is determined and he has no choice but to survive.  He will accept no other outcome, and he’s right in that.  They suffer, but they live.  They win and they get back to their family.  

In the moment, though, they are just a seventeen-year-old boy and his daemon, entirely alone in a world that doesn’t care whether they live or die, and it mainly feels like a death sentence.

(BUT THEN ALSO THEY ALL REUNITE WHEN FIVE TIME TRAVELS BACK AND BEN COMES BACK TO LIFE SOMEHOW AND LEARNS SELF LOVE AND THEY ALL RECOVER FROM THEIR TRAUMA TOGETHER YEE HAW)

[rune-writes]

As Long As You’re Safe

@ffseven #zackweek » Day 3: Family

The Price of Freedom Part 3

Word Count: 1552

Rating: G

Summary: After their first trip to the Nibelheim reactor, Zack accompanies Cloud to visit his mother.

Note: This was inspired by the mails Zack received in Nibelheim, in which Cloud asked Zack to come with him to visit his mother. (It was tempting to write Zerith, but the Family prompt won me :3)

Read on AO3.

~*~*~*~*~

Cloud still lay on the bed when Zack returned to their room at the inn that afternoon. His friend had his head turned toward the window, watching the sky ablaze in deep red and orange, the last stretches of sunlight before it set beyond the peaks of Mount Nibel. Wisps of cloud drifted past, silhouettes of birds gliding among them. There was a sort of longing in the way Cloud gazed at the sky—a sort of deflated sigh as his chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm. Or maybe it wasn’t the sky he was looking at? Zack followed Cloud’s line of sight and found himself looking at the village water tower just visible beyond the windows.

He had heard it was a famous dating spot.

Do you know Tifa? Zack had asked him.

Sort of.

Talked to her?

No.

When he learned that Cloud would be going with him to Nibelheim, Zack had thought the guy would be ecstatic. Even Sephiroth had permitted him to visit family and friends. But then Cloud had stayed at the inn, standing guard with the other infantryman, never showing any signs of taking his helmet off. Not that it had been any of Zack’s business, but when he noticed his friend becoming mute every time a villager drew near, he couldn’t help but think it…odd. Because if he were in Cloud’s shoes and he was back in Gongaga…

Zack cast his eyes down, leaning against the doorway and folding his arms across his chest. If he were back in Gongaga, he’d go to his parents’ house first thing and he’d announce, “Mom! Dad! I made it!”

“Zack?”

The abrupt call broke through his reverie and he looked to see Cloud staring at him. The exhaustion was gone. He’d protected Tifa back at the reactor and the latter had helped him get down the mountain. Now both of them were worried about the other. Zack wanted to chuckle at this cute little observation.  

“So,” Zack began. “When are you gonna go to your Mom’s?”

Cloud blinked several times before he recalled the invitation he had offered Zack—to come over to his house and try his Mom’s cooking. Zack had recognized the face of someone who hadn’t been home for years and hadn’t sent any word.

“It’s as good a time as any,” he went on. “Sephiroth’s locked himself in the mansion and I’ve got nothing else to do.” His gaze fell on Cloud, a tiny teasing grin creeping across his face. “And you haven’t gone to see your Mom, right?”

***

Cloud’s house was the small cottage at the edge of the village, on the opposite side of the inn, beyond the water tower. It was easily recognizable from the little flower garden at the front. Beside it was a two-story building that looked like a house, at which Zack noticed Cloud steering clear of, even going as far as ducking his helmeted head every time someone passed them or called for another.

“You nervous?” Zack asked.

“Yeah.” Cloud’s voice was small and quiet, his shoulders drawn as if he wanted to disappear.

“You’d stand out more if you walked like that,” he whispered. “Stand tall, and proud.”

“But…” Cloud’s feet dragged across the barren, sandy ground. “I failed.”

“They don’t know that.”

“My mom will.”

Zack glanced at his young, dejected friend. “Is your mom the type who holds you in high expectations?”

“No.”

“Then everything’s alright, right?”

Cloud pressed his lips together but didn’t say anything else.

Each step drew them nearer toward the door until their feet finally stopped and Cloud drew a shuddering breath. He looked up at Zack, who gave him an encouraging nod, before lifting his hand and knocked three times. They heard the call almost immediately. Zack gave Cloud’s shoulder a gentle, reassuring squeeze, drawing back his hand when the door swung open.

A woman stood there, dressed in a brown shirt and white apron, her blond hair tied to a ponytail. She looked like an older, female version of Cloud. For a fraction of a second, Zack could imagine what Cloud would look like in his early thirties.

“Can I help you?” the woman said when none of them said anything.

“Ah! Yes, hello, I’m—” Zack spared Cloud a glance. His friend had turned to stone. “—with the company that arrived here the other day.”

“Oh, the SOLDIERs checking on the reactor?” Cloud’s mother pushed the door wider, wiping her hands on her apron and straightening her back. A bright smile graced her lips. “What can I do for you?”

Zack relaxed at her welcome. He told her his name and asked if she was Mrs. Strife. She blinked. Even the surprised gesture looked similar. Zack refrained himself from smiling.

But as she tilted her head to the side, her eyes suddenly widened around the edges and horror filled her face. “Cloud? Is it something about Cloud? Do you know my Cloud?”

Her sudden outburst took him by surprise. Zack hadn’t expected the notion of Cloud would send his mother on a frenzy panic.

“He’s not hurt, is he?” she went on. “I haven’t heard from him for years! I thought he’d come when I heard SOLDIERs would be coming, but apparently he didn’t, and I couldn’t stop myself from thinking the worst—”

Zack didn’t quite know what to do or what to say. Who was he to say anything about it? He hadn’t gone home for longer than Cloud had been away and the only word he’d sent his parents was a letter a few months back. Zack moved—to do what he didn’t quite know—console her? Pat her back? Assure her that no, her son was fine and healthy, and in fact, he was right there in front of her, too embarrassed to show his own face.

But Cloud got to her first when he called her “Mom”, his voice quiet but firm. Mrs. Strife looked up at the infantryman beside him. Zack could hear the smile on Cloud’s voice when his friend said, “Mom, I’m home.”

Mrs. Strife knitted her brows. She might be about to say, “What?” from the way her mouth opened, but then she narrowed her sky-blue eyes, and she stepped closer to scrutinize the grunt’s face. Zack witnessed the moment she gasped, tears welling in her eyes, as she said, “Cloud?” Cloud didn’t get the chance to answer before she threw her arms around him in a bone-crunching hug.

***

She ushered them inside and Zack introduced himself as a SOLDIER 1st Class who accompanied Sephiroth on this mission to check on the reactor. Mrs. Strife knew about Sephiroth. Of course, she did. Her son had idolized the hero for years before deciding to go to Midgar two years prior. Look at you, all grown up, she said. Cloud brushed her off saying it had only been two years, to which his mother countered that it had been two years.

Zack stood a ways away, watching this teasing banter between mother and son. Mrs. Strife noted the clothes Cloud wore, different from the ones Zack and Sephiroth donned. The same one as the guard who stood on his post in front of the inn. Cloud gave her a bitter smile and said, his voice quiet, “I didn’t make it.” There was a pause that stretched for one second longer, but then Mrs. Strife smiled a soft understanding smile and told her son that as long as he was safe, that was all she had ever hoped for.

As long as he was safe…

The words made him pause. Zack had never thought about that. Maybe that was how mothers were. No matter how long their sons had been away, they’d still wait, hoping to receive good news that their sons were alive and healthy. Would his parents say the same if he were to appear on their doorstep unannounced—bigger, older, much more different from the thirteen-year-old boy who had left Gongaga five years ago? His voice had changed. His appearance more so. Would they even recognize him?

“Good thing I made stew today,” Mrs. Strife said. Her bright smile was back. Then her eyes fell on Zack. “I planned to give some to you and the others at the inn, but well, since you’re here now, that can wait for another time.” She turned around on her heels and headed for the kitchen where a steaming pot lay over the stove. “How exciting! A welcome-back party for Cloud!”

“Mom, you don’t have to—”

“Oh, nonsense! Let a mother spoil her son.” She looked over her shoulder, her grin radiant. “Take a seat, Zack. I hope you’ll love it.”

A few feet away, Cloud, who had taken off his helmet, grunted, his face red with mortification. He looked at Zack and gave him an embarrassed chuckle.

“Sorry, Mom can be a bit…”

And Zack couldn’t help but laugh. Because despite Cloud’s reservations and nervousness at the prospect of meeting his mother, meeting any of the townspeople, Zack could still feel his excitement at having been back at his hometown. A luxury he couldn’t say he ever had. See, he wanted to say, everything’s alright. Zack grinned at the blush coloring Cloud’s cheeks.

“Let’s eat, Cloud.”

~ END ~

[vickylavey]

Title: The visions of the Gnawed.

Pairings: gen

Words: 1.5k

Summary: MonProm VtM AU. WARNINGS- blood magic, buried alive; Vicky has dreams she shouldn't be having in the first place.

She was surrounded by an oppressive darkness. Was she a shovelhead, doomed to dig her way out of a shallow grave and become fodder for the Sabbat? Was she captured by hunters and tied with a tarp?

Was there a stake in her chest, only narrowly missing her heart?

She palpated her chest, free of stakes, and reached up above her. Her hands came to a cushy interior of silk.

Was she in a casket?

Vicky felt fear.

Was she found slumbering in her Haven, ruled dead, and buried?

Her hands slammed against the lid. "Help," she squealed, her chest tight, "help. Help! Help me!" Vicky slammed her fists against it. It didn't even rattle. Only muted thumps from her banging. "Somebody, please help me! Get me out of here! Get me out!"

---

Vicky's eyes opened. She bolted from her bed and fell onto the floor, shrieking like her eyes were plucked out. The stainless steel table toppled over with a crash, reverberating off the walls.

Bracing herself on the floor, she sat on her legs and looked around. She was still in her Haven. Was that a dream?

Did Kindred even dream?

Vicky righted the table and looked around. Her skin was covered in a thin film of blood- she was so scared she was sweating.

Did Kindred even fucking dream? Never before did Vicky dream. Whispers, epiphanies, but nothing visual. Nothing like that.

The wheels landed on the floor. Vicky heard something clatter onto the linoleum. She crouched and retrieved something odd. A piece of wood, stripped of bark, with thirteen knots. It was wet with blood.

Vicky whimpered. She immediately checked the door. Locked. The windows still nailed shut. Her mind raced. What the fuck was that? And how did someone break into her Haven?

She paused midstep. The Tremere, and by extension, the Camarilla.

Someone needed to be told. Vicky pocketed the fetish and ran from her Haven. It was still light outside, but twilight made it easier to stick to the shadows, avoiding the vestiges of burning rays.

Vicky holed up behind the bar. She held her legs and rocked.

Was she found? Was the bloodhunt ongoing? Would the Vegas Camarilla stop until they found her? Would she be staked and left to sunrise?

If she had a heart, would it fail because of her fear?

The door opened. Vicky vanished and peered over the counter. It was Amira and Vera. Vicky's Obfuscation was cut short and she raced to them. Vera caught her by her shoulders.

"Vicky, what the fuck?"

"I had the most terrible dream, and I found this in my Haven! Under my bed!"

Vera peered at the wooden fetish Vicky presented. She frowned. "It's nothing I recognize," she explained. "I'll give some Tremere I know a call. I doubt they'll give you anything substantial, given how they hoard their magic, but they might give you why it could've been made, and that could give you a lead." She turned to Amira then. "Accompany her."

Amira nodded. "Of course."

He fetched a towel from behind the bar and wiped off Vicky's skin. "You're covered in blood..." he remarked.

"I-I was so scared, I started sweating."

"I see." Amira hummed. "Let's get you washed up when Vera finishes, then we can check this shit out. Give you some dignity before we see those witches."

Vicky nodded. "Thank you. You're all such good friends."

He shrugged. "This Barony is mostly made of misfits like you and me, thanks to the Baron. He's more like a father to many of us. Jyhad isn't as extreme here because of it."

"I see." Vicky sniffed. She was grateful for that. The Camarilla was so cut-throat, so self-serving. It was like treading rapids there, and all she got out of it was her sire assassinated and existential fear.

Some minutes later, Vera returned. "I have to stay here. But some Tremere is willing to meet us."

"And they're willing to go against the fucking Camarilla?" Amira snorted. "Sounds like a trap."

Vera crossed her arms. "I never said to trust them. But I don't have any better ideas. God knows the Tremere cling to power in the Camarilla for self-preservation. An additional safety net to hide their Thaumaturgy."

"O-okay. I can see them," Vicky said. Who knows. They might be the very ones behind it.

Amira sighed and scratched the back of his head. "Okay. Where are we meeting them?"

"Parthi Park an hour from now. There are three of them. Hope and Joy are Tremere. The third, named Faith, is Lasombra. Don't expect the area to be cleared, however. It is a public park. The Masquerade holds."

They nodded.

When they came to Parthi Park, Amira and Vicky took a seat beside one another. He leaned back and kept an eye out with a cigarette between his lips.

Vicky sniffed. "Do you know these guys?" she asked.

"I know of them, and I've seen Faith with Polly over the years. They're not a part of my coterie, though."

She smiled. "How opportune then."

"Hardly. I'm not interested in politics and coteries and shit. I get why they're needed, but they're a pain. I don't think I'd give a Tremere the time of day anyway. They're creepier than Nagaraja and suck Cammy dick on top of it."

"Point taken."

Amira said, "In your shoes, though, I'd consider it. You're... feeble. All due respect. Feeble and unhinged. Almost to the point of being Gnawed. You need all the help you can get."

Vicky scowled. "I don't trust people Vera and Polly don't. I can't have people I don't trust in my coterie."

"I get that," he replied. "Just know we may not be around forever."

Vicky shook the memory of her dream. Of imagining Vera or Polly or Amira underground and scratching at a coffin.

It gave her goosebumps.

From the shadows emerged a trio of women. Witches. Vicky stood. "Hi... are you Joy, Hope, and Faith?"

"Ironic names for Kindred, no?" said the woman in the center. Height-wise, she was unimpressive, but otherwise gorgeous, with full lips painted black, and even fuller thighs.

Nonetheless, Vicky nodded to them. "Shalom."

Their company smiled at Vicky. "It's rare to find Kindred who cling to their old faith."

"I'm not a very good Jew," she replied.

"No matter," she smiled. "I'm Joy. These are Hope," Joy gestured to her right, where a small woman stood, black hair cut short, "and Faith." To her left was a tall, slender woman with hair white as snow and thick glasses. They nodded to Vicky and Amira.

"I must cut to the chase, however. Time is of the essence."

Vicky pulled the fetish from her pocket. The blood was drying by that time, and she presented it to them.

Joy took hold of it, delicately balancing it between her fingers, tasting the blood. "A wooden artifact covered in vitae, shaved, thirteen knots..." Her head cocked. "Hope, you're more familiar with ritualism. What do you make of it?"

"Easy. It's devoted to the thirteen clans." Hope was passed the fetish. She glanced at the bottom. Her eyebrows raised. "Interesting."

"What is?" Amira asked.

"A crown is carved on the bottom."

"What does that mean?"

Hope said, "It could be used to influence visions, manipulating the blood the right way."

"Then why is there a crown carved on it?" Vicky asked.

"I have a theory," Faith chirped. "There are Gehenna cults, Kindred who seek to cause the Final Nights." She held up the fetish. "This wasn't just meant to influence visions. This connected you to the Antediluvian."

Amira frowned. "The Antediluvians who haven't met Final Death are in torpor.

"Yeah," Vicky said. "And my nightmare... my nightmare was violent. Trying to escape a coffin."

"A silk-lined sarcophagus?" Faith asked.

Vicky's heart thumped. "How did you know that?"

In perfect unison, the mages said, "We know things."

"See things,"

"hear things,"

"feel things." Joy splayed her hand in front of her face. Blood, glowing like embers, made a web between her fingers. "The blood gives us many gifts, Vicky. You need only to learn."

Vicky understood why Amira disliked Tremere. They were creepy.

Amira said, "How do we trust y'all aren't part of the cult? The Camarilla doesn't believe in this shit."

"We are Kindred first, foremost, and lastly," Joy replied. "Our only allegiances are for self-preservation. You know that well, don't you?"

Her chest squeezed as she thought back to her escape from the Camarilla, and her arrival to the Barony. If she hadn't sided with the Barony, would she have been executed?

What a frightening thought.

Vicky bowed her head. "What now? Why me?"

"Your visions are famous. Someone may be reaching out for help. Who, I haven't the slightest, but that's the most rational conclusion." Joy folded her arms. "We're keeping the fetish regardless."

"Take it away." Far away. Vicky didn't want it. All she wanted was to board up her home.

They bid their farewells. Amira guided Vicky back to Vera's club.

And Vicky felt dread for the coming nights.

[halloweenonthemoon]

Joey Meeting Cas’s Parents.

Time is a thought pattern and measurement made up by the human mind. Sometimes we use it to keep track of important days and events in our lives. Sometimes it seems to take forever, and other days it seems to pass like one is going through a time machine. Just one hour, just 60 minutes, 60 seconds within each one of those individual minutes, is all I have to convince them. These were the thoughts that ran across Cas’s mind as he finished tying his dark ocean blue tie. The blue popped and drew one’s eye away from the rest of the swan white suit. “My Sunday best” Cas signed softly in a mocking tone before nervously picking at the loose ends in the fabric. His bright seafoam eyes darted to the grandfather clock standing in the hallway.

The clock was a gift from this great grandmother on his mother’s side. It stood at a height of 7 feet and was the tallest being in the house. It was made of dark oak wood that could be found in any fairy tale forest. The clock has a man-made touch that ruined its magic. The golden hands shined like the sun on a pleasant summer day and it had a little ticking sound that sounded like a robin’s morning cry to the world. This was what Cas’s parent’s found perfect for their home and their traditions.

If there is one thing to be known about Cas Rare’s family is that traditions are everything to them and they have kept some very old ones alive. There are always the weird ones, like knocking three things before entering the office and the kitchen, and then of course some more serious ones. For example, poor Cas knew this one too well, everyone in his family had married their high school sweetheart without fail. Some are still together though that’s not the case for most of the family. That doesn’t matter to the Rares though, as long as the action happens then to them the tradition is still kept.

Then a loud ringing broke the silence that swallowed the emotionally empty home whole. Cas jumped back towards his old light brown bed with the many shades of green plants surrounding it. “That’s just the doorbell, take a breath you’re okie. Gods, you’re such a nervous wreck don’t let them see into your eyes. Act normal.” His inner voice yelled at him hoping he would understand the importance of this. Cas shook his head to clear any emotion from his face. Even though he’s the master at faking a poker face, the one thing that usually gives him away is his eyes. There’s a saying that the eyes are the window to the soul and with Cas, that statement is most definitely true. He started his journey down the seemingly endless hallway heading to what he considered a death wish though others would just call it a set of stairs.

The old woodland stairs creaked as he made his way down, carefully counting out how many seconds it took him to get to the bottom. “Your girlfriend is late,” a cold and disapproving voice called out from the kitchen. Girlfriend, what an odd word thought Cas. This wasn’t the first time he heard that word in the romantic sense and probably wouldn’t be the last. His parents, teachers, teammates, and even some of the town folks ask him how a young man like him is still single. He’s the captain of the football team, on the student console, and the vice president. He’s a straight-A student and even helps with the school’s volunteering program. They say he’s the faithful son and a model student. They claim Cas is fulfilling the American dream.

Little do they realize that Cas has been hiding a huge secret. A secret he learned to keep from a young age and what happens when you don’t. The sad part is the town may have the occasional jerk but that’s not why Cas guards this secret with his life. How does one explain to the people who claim to love you unconditionally that you’re the thing they hate the most? That no matter what you do you can’t change it. How does one explain to a person with a strong homophobic belief that you’re part of the community?

“I’m sorry sir; she lives across town and most likely lost track of time” Cas called back to his father while straightening his back. “Hmm, that's the disappointing son. A young girl should know to respect others' time.” Mr. Rare called back, his voice holding the same emotion and tone as his words. Cas signed to himself before jogging over to the tall doorway that seems to tower over anyone with an avenger human height. He knew parents hate surprises and they're about to get a big one. Good thing they don’t have any heart issues, he joked softly in his mind.

When he opened the door, he could not believe his eyes. There stood his boyfriend in a black suit with the coat opened to show off a salmon pink shirt. His usual long, wavy light and a slight orangish-brown hair braided showing off his side cut. Of course, he was wearing his tall black boots under his suit and was holding a gift of pretty greens and sunset pink roses. “Wow, those roses do draw your eyes out dear,” Cas smiled at his boyfriend while feeling both jumpy and at peace.“Sorry for being late love!” The short man explained quickly, “I told Jackie I wanted to pick up some flowers for you, and I lost track of time.” Jackie was an older brother figure to Joey Light and had taken him in when he was twelve-thirteen years old. Now being 16 Joey had a sense of getting used to his new life and this town...for the most part at least. Sometimes he forgets about how the locals are stuck in their old ways and the dangers that hold.

“You’re ten mintu-” “Ooo, is she here now?” Mrs. Rare cut off Mr. Rare running from the kitchen to greet who she thought was going to be her future daughter-in-law.

Mrs.Rare is the president of the books for kids program, and many in the town love her for her general kindness to others. If someone needs a helping hand, usually, Mrs.Rare is there. If it wasn't for her the town’s new and improved library wouldn’t exist. Though Mrs.Rare has a darker side to her that not many had seen. She has this undercurrent of believing she was above you and a slight god complex.

“Oh,” She stated gently while her honey-dyed hair swayed from side to side. “Hello, May I ask your name child?” Mrs. Rare hummed, placing her hands on her waist, as a small power move. Joey smiled trying to come off confident stating “Hello Mrs.Rare, my name is Joey” mentally cursing himself for not sounding more “proper” before widening his smile. Joey can feel Mrs.Rare’s eyes judging him while trying to give off the “I’m like second mother” vibes.

“I’m sorry hon, but I’m afraid that Cas is busy tonight. His girlfriend is coming over to finally meet the family!” she says quickly before placing her hand onto Cas’s arm with a small pulling motion. Joey was about to speak up, but Cas conquered him. “Actually mother, Joey is supposed to be over here. I want to explain it to you and father during dinner” his right hand was grabbing his left wrist and rubbing it in circles. Mrs. Rare’s eyes were processing but stopped and went dilated for a minute. They darted from Cas to Joey a few times before saying “Please come in” while rushing to the dining room.

The air in the room seemed to disappear at that moment and Cas felt like he was in outer space. All the noises of the world were muted for the purest minute, and objects were floating. Cas nearly felt like a sleepwalker as Joey seized hold of his hand. He was the sunshine in this world and was a burning candle in this gloomy house. Smiling at his boyfriend, the two of them made their way to the dining room, mentally preparing for whatever battle faced them.

The room was massive with a huge chandelier of shades of white and baby blue hanging down from the ceiling shining all over. There was an extensive dark oak table that usually is only used for meetings and fancy gales. Tonight the table will be a battleground between two opposing sides. Joey recalled how in this situation he felt like a tiny mouse trying to hide from the humans who had enough misfortune to discover him in their kitchen. He tried not to reveal his fear though and puffed out his chest standing next to Cas.

“You’re 11 minutes late, Miss” Mr.Rare called out, entering the dining room with his wife behind him carrying drinks for the small group. Mr. Rare was a tall man with the air of being a naturally born leader. He had these honey brown eyes that always seemed to be looking down at you and a mouth that seems to be just a thin stick. The people voted him for mayor because he reminded them of an old wartime warrior. Tough and gets what needs to be completed. He was surprisingly good with people and especially those of the older generation.

Joey quickly took a step forward trying to seem confident and not like he was wanting to walk straight back out the door. Fear is something he would never let win, and he wasn’t going to start today. He raised his hand and looked Mr. Rare in the eyes. Joey may be short and a tiny guy but he has a lot of guts and attitude to make up for it. “Hello, Mr.Rare. My name is Joey Light, and I deeply apologize for being late. I thought it would be the gentleman thing to get your son some flowers.”

Cas loved and hated when Joey did this. He tried to hide the forming smile on his face while trying not to be petrified that Joey had said that while looking his father dead in the eyes. “Excuse me Father; Joey is my guest tonight, I should have told you early.” Cas quickly explained stepping slightly in between Joey and his father. His father raised one eye to the two men and nodded gently before saying “I see...why don’t we sit down and have some lovely food that your mother made for us?

Mrs. Rare quickly set down the glasses on the table and explained that she’ll be right back with some silverware. Mr. Rare took a seat at the usual spot-the head of the table while Cas took out a chair for Joey. The sitting arrangement planned out the week before was Mr.Rare at the head of the table, Mrs.Rare on the right side of him, Cas’s “girlfriend” on the left side of Mr.Rare, and Cas next to his “girlfriend.” Cas knew his father would be annoyed about him changing it up last minute, but he also wanted to keep Joey safe. Even as Mr.Rare was glaring at his son as he sat on the left side of him.

After 5 minutes Mr.Rare appeared with a huge smile on her face that was the opposite of her eyes. “Here’s the silverware” She hummed before taking a seat at her throne and poured some water into everyone’s glass. She looked like a lioness with her curly frame and long face. There was a silence that felt like forever to Cas and he knew his parents wanted an explanation. This was a power game, and he was smart enough to give in first. He made the mental note that he had 39 minutes left to convince his parents not to kick him out of the family.

Clearing his voice, Cas said “Father, Mother, I know you're expecting my girlfriend to come tonight for dinner but-” “Ah yes, I was wondering when she would be here.” his father chimed in looking at him with a confused look. Cas felt like a deer in headlights and felt his heart skip a beat. Joey quickly grabbed Cas’s hand under the table and gave it a comforting squeeze. Cas looked up to a soft smile that he knew was a rare sight.

He took a breath and continued making sure he was strong with his tone “I’m afraid she can’t come tonight because she doesn’t exist.” Cas let his eyes travel to his mother’s face which was the perfect look of surprise and to his father’s- the eyebrow raised again but there’s a fire in his eyes now. No one said anything as there was this moment of silence before Mrs.Rare looked over to Mr.Rare.

“What do you mean she doesn’t exist?” She singed gently while straightening her back. She had that same fire that Cas’s father has, though hers represent more expression. Cas jerked his head and spoke louder hoping it would aid him to sound more sure, “I mean she doesn't exist. Mother, Father, I’m a part of the lgbtq+ community- technically Bi. I would like to introduce you to my boyfriend Joey Light.” Joey smiled at his boyfriend. It was the first time he heard his boyfriend stand up for himself and he was proud. Though he retained enough knowledge to prepare for the fight that was about to go down.

Mr. Rare spat out the water he was drinking before loudly saying “You’re what?!”If it wasn’t for the situation the look on his face would have been comical. His eyes darted between the two boys processing what he just heard. The corners of his mouth twitched into a smile before he started laughing. The laugh was hollow and seemed more than just fake. It scared everyone at the table a little bit.

Mrs. Rare had a better reaction by just sitting there staring down at her food with a slight smirk on her face. Cas didn’t know which reaction was the worst. He knew this was very out of character for his parents.

“Hahaha, you tell the best jokes son” Mr.Rare laughed out before wiping away some of the tears from his eyes “You genuinely had me fooled for a minute.” Cas felt his cheeks turn a rosily pink shade before speaking up again, “I’m not joking Father…”. Now it was his mother that spoke up with that smile; looked smug before explaining to a child why they can’t have a cookie before dinner “Honey you can’t be bi, it’s just so unnatural and a choice. Besides, why would you date a man if you like women?”

“Excuse me?” Joey, who’s been quiet the whole dinner, finally spoke up with his usual amount of sass. “This is why you’re uncomfortable whenever your folks get brought up in the conversion darling?” Joey said promptly, altering his voice into a honey-like texture while turning to face Cas. Cas could merely bob his head and tried to think of a way to quickly diffuse the situation at hand.

Mr. Rare stood up and pointed a finger at Joey getting more and more angry stating “Young man, who do you think you're talking to? She has a very reasonable statement. Thank God he is only Bi, there’s still hope then.” Now he is getting up and walking behind Mrs.Rare’s chair placing his hands on her shoulders.

The room was divided down the middle between the parents and the young boys. One side was the older generation with their traditions and the newer generation with a wave of change. The two were different colors: blue and red, dark and light, the sun and moon...etc.

“Still hope? Sir with all due expectations that is a horrible thing to say. So what if Cas likes girls and guys, he’s still a great person and an amazing friend. ”Joey knew he was taking charge where he shouldn’t, but he didn’t care. The only care on his mind right now was protecting Cas.

“Great Person?” Mrs. Ruth questioned raising her drinking glass to make a toast. Humming, she stared at the young men sitting in front of her deciding her words carefully. “I know what you’re kind does. They think they’re so special and for what? You had a choice to make, and you chose to go against society. Everything could be normal if your generation just followed the guidelines in place!”

Cas looked down at the table with a look of pure rage while his hands were shaking. Emotions that he had been burying were traveling to the surface and threatening to spill over. His voice was barely above a whisper when he made his statement “Choice? Do you think we get a choice? Do you think I would choose to be afraid of telling people who I’m dating? You think it’s a choice to have to hide a part of my identity, so I don’t get jumped? You think I would choose to spend every day being judged by people like you!” His voice was growing in volume and emotions during the whole speech. In the end, Cas felt his cheeks burn from embarrassment and tears stung his eyes.

There was an air of quiet where one can feel the energy in the room through the walls. Both boys were standing by now, Cas trying not to break down and Joey comforting him while shooting dirty looks at Cas’s parents. Mr.Rare was watching with a hateful look at the young boys' interaction, and Mrs.Rare was nearly shaking her head at this display.“You’re being just like your sister. You know why we disowned her.” Mr.Rare coldly stated and started to look at this watch as bored with everything going on.

“Older sister?” Joey questioned and was caught off guard by this statement. He never realized or thought to ask if Cas even had any siblings. He solely thought he was an only child and that’s why Cas’s folks were exceedingly hard on him. Cas shook his head before adding a sign. “At least use his pronouns, he uses him/him” Cas continued looking tired, probably because he had this conservation a million times before about his brother. “What, did you kick his brother out for coming out of the closet?” Joey joked while a smirk on his face until the realization struck him.

“You disowned him? Wow, you’re undoubtedly an unpleasant person. I mean, I encountered some pathetic people but you guys take the cake.” Joey’s voice was harsh like an icy storm while he was leading closer to the parents.“I know you don’t like it, but things are changing. You can’t stop change. You either could change with it or get left in the past.”

Mr. Rare was going to reply when the grandfather could be heard clicking and ticking. He frowned and looked down at his wife who merely smiled back. “Cas we will continue this conversion later, your mother and I have a town meeting.” Mr. Rare called softly before both of the parents walked out of the room. The boys know that this is the first of many fights to come but they're not going to give up. They got each other, and they know they’ll make it just fine. Cas may have not been able to convince his parents in an hour, but it’s a step.

*this copied kinda of weird from my Google Doc, though please enjoy! Feel free to ask questions.*

[romewritingshop]

Wake up Parker! Chapter Twelve: The truth is difficult

Relationship: Peter Parker x Tall Older Reader (Peter is 22 and Reader is 26/27)

Warnings: Angst, stress, sadness

Word Count Total: 1723 (This Chapter)

Tagged: @bggerbtch​ @technicallykawaiisoul

Summary: Peter Parker is a student in the city of Brooklyn. He’s lazy, spoilt and he procrastinates a lot. He meets a woman named (Y/N), She’s recently moved to Brooklyn for an independent life. Something Peter is fascinated by. Over the course of a few months, Peter needs to realise that he has to grow up and become responsible for his life.

WAKE UP PARKER! MASTERLIST

It has been three days since he’s been in his room. After lying to Mr and Mrs. Stark that he passed, they celebrated and held a party the next day. Peter felt awful. His skin wasn’t as bright as it used to be and he was constantly sweaty. Playing video games or watching Netflix didn’t make him feel any better. Mrs Stark was so kind as she would often come up to his room and warm him some food. He did not deserve their kindness. Mr. Stark was proud as he gloated to his friends that his son passed and got a first class degree.

Peter had gotten himself into a right mess as he sat up on his bed with his head in his hands. A natural position for him to now go to because of the lying and the guilt of failing taking a toll on him. A low knock rapped on the door as Peter sluggishly muttered permission for the person to come in. Even his voice didn’t have the happy excitement it used to.

“Hey Peter! How’re you feeling?”

It was Mr. Stark! Peter was surprised Mr. Stark hadn’t figured out he was lying as he felt the bed shift. Peter slowly glanced up and saw a bright beam on Mr. Stark’s face. He hated that smile. It was as if it was mocking Peter and pointing out what a terrible human being Peter was. Mr. Stark noticed Peter did not look like the lively boy he was. His skin was slightly ashy and the bright chocolate hair was now a muted black. 

The eyes were a little sunken and his body was a little thinner than it was before. Mr. Stark couldn’t bear to see Peter like this. As much as it hurt him, he knew that it was Peter’s own fault. He just needed Peter to admit the truth and he would then go easy. Pepper was confused as to why Peter was looking sickly and Tony didn’t have the heart to admit he knew why.

“‘M okay, Mr. Stark.” That was another lie.

“Have you been eating?”

“Yes.” Lie.

“You know Peter, we should really go to the hospital. You are not looking like yourself.”

“‘M fine. I don’t need a doctor.”

“Peter! You look like a skeleton’s ghost! You’re not as healthy as you used to be.”

Peter knows. He knows he looks like shit. He can’t help feel like shit.

“I just want to sleep, that’s all.”

“I really don’t know how you got sick! Ever since you told us you passed, you’ve been in this funk.”

Peter winced at the mention of the word ‘passed’. It was a dangerous word and Peter felt bile come close to the back of his throat. Mr. Stark couldn’t stand this any longer. He had to confront Peter.

“You know, I was talking to your economics professor the other day. Sam Wilson, right? I thanked him for helping you pass and preparing you for the real world. He said something that really stuck with me.” Peter’s heart dropped at the realisation that Mr. Stark knew. “He said, Peter didn’t pass. He failed. In fact he wanted to know if you were going to retake the year so you had an opportunity to pass. You see where I’m going with this?”

Peter wanted to vomit but nothing was coming up. He didn’t have the strength to jump up and run out of the room, away from Mr. Stark. He sat still as he listened to Mr. Stark. This was going to be a long lecture.

“Peter. Why did you lie? Actually, we don’t need to know why you lied. We need to know why you lied for three days to Morgan and Pepper.” Peter didn’t have the strength to say why. Even he wasn’t sure why he lied to Morgan and Pepper. 

“I think I can guess why. See: if you had told us you failed the first day, we probably would have been upset but we would have supported you and encouraged you to try again. You lied because you knew it was your fault you failed. I’m surprised you kept up with the lie.”

Mr. Stark noticed he was standing upright. He must have been pacing whilst scolding Peter. He turned to Peter to see he hadn’t moved much. The guilt was really eating at him as Mr. Stark sighed.

“Peter. You really should have told us, or at the very least you should have told Pepper you failed.”

“He failed!”

Tony and Peter stiffened at the female voice. Not wanting to look back at Pepper’s distraught face. She couldn’t believe what she heard. Peter failed! And Tony knew! Peter and Tony could feel steams of anger wave their way. Pepper stepped into the room as she stared hard at Peter.

“Peter! I - I defended you against Tony. Made sure Tony gave you the very best in life and this is how you treat us! Peter I have cared more about you than Morgan and this is what you do! Lie!” Pepper turned to Tony, not sparing him from her wrath. “And you, Tony! You couldn’t even tell me our son failed!”

“I can retake!”

Tony and Pepper turned their heads to Peter’s direction as he stood up in his plain white t-shirt and navy tracksuit bottoms. Peter was surprised he was able to stand up and tell them about re-taking. 

“I know exactly what happened and what went wrong. I'll pass next year. There is no need to panic!”

Tony frowned as Peter misunderstood the whole point of the conversation. It wasn’t about failing. It was about lying.

“Peter! It’s about lying. The lack of responsibility for not owning up to your mistakes. Peter it is your own fault you didn’t pass because you didn’t even work hard! All the opportunities I’ve given you were a waste. I’m not going to continue giving you easy opportunities just so you could be an ungrateful spoilt brat. If you would have told us the truth, we wouldn’t be here right now.”

Peter was starting to feel more angry. He didn’t need Mr. Stark to point out his mistakes. He didn’t even ask Mr. Stark to give him those opportunities. Mr. and Mrs. Stark were about to walk away when Peter yelled.

“I didn’t ask for your help! You just took pity on me because my aunt was your best friend!”

Tony stiffened as he heard Peter mention May. Never did he think Peter would see himself as a burden. Pepper felt a storm rage inside as she was outraged by Peter’s suggestion.

“Pity! You think we took you in because of pity! If May heard you say this today, she would not be happy with you. May wanted you to be successful in life, she would not have wanted you to waste it away. We took you in because we wanted to fulfill May’s wishes. Not because you were alone.”

Peter had nothing else to say. He had to get out of the room before things went from bad to worse.

“I need some air.”

Peter pushed past his parents and was beginning to head down the stairs when he heard Mr. Stark stop him. Mr. Stark wanted one thing clear.

“Do you feel like a burden?”

“Mr Stark -”

“Do you feel like a burden?”

Peter gave a small nod as Mr. Stark took a deep breath. Mr. Stark treaded down the stairs until there was a stair gap between the two.

“If you think you can make it on your own, then go. You think you’re a burden on us, why don’t you go? I doubt you'd make it. You couldn't even stay one week at the office.”

“Mr. Stark?” Peter couldn’t believe what Mr. Stark was saying. He was kicking Peter out of the house. “Mr. Stark?”

“Go, Peter.”

Mr. Stark looked away and saw Morgan and Pepper at the top of the stairs. Morgan seemed confused by the scene as Mr. Stark trod up the stairs and took Morgan back to her room. Pepper felt her heart lodge in her throat as she watched Peter break before her. She had never seen Tony or Peter like this. She was torn between comforting Peter or questioning Tony.

Tony managed to put Morgan to sleep, telling her that Peter wasn't feeling too well. Morgan knew something was wrong but she didn't question it. If her mother and father knew what to do then she shouldn't have to know. Tony was glad to have a child that didn't question things. He heard the door open as he sat just beside Morgan's sleeping form.

He felt thin fingers curl around his shoulder. He didn't have to look up to know it was Pepper, telling him off for his parenting.

"He's packing a bag and getting ready to leave. I hope you're happy Tony."

Tony didn't say anything and he heard the door creak again. He knew it was Peter and if he turned around to face him, Tony would break down crying. This was a mistake Tony and Peter were making but for the moment it was the only choice they both felt was right.

After Mr. Stark's order, Peter decided to go to his room and pack his bags. He knew Mrs. Stark wanted to stop him but he told her not to. If Mr. Stark wanted this then who is Peter to deny. He had a blue sports bag which he used to stuff some clothes and grabbed his rucksack and phone. Stepping out of his room, before turning left and noticing Morgan's bedroom door open.

He tiptoed towards the door and pushed it slightly open. Mrs. Stark had tears in her eyes and Mr. Stark wouldn't even look at him in the face. Peter knew it wouldn't be right to leave without saying goodbye, he needed to.

"I'm going."

Mrs. Stark broke down, trying and failing to keep her sobs down while Mr. Stark remained still like a statue. What Peter didn't know was Tony had a tear stream down his face as he restrained showing Peter any emotion. This was it for Peter. The moment he stepped out of the front door, he was alone. He wasn't sure where to go from here.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN: THE REAL WORLD IS DIFFERENT

[kyndaris]

Suddenly Thirteen

When I was younger, one of my favourite films starred Jennifer Garner acting like a teenager who was pretending to be thirty. In high school, all I wanted to do was grow out of the phase of terrible acne and finally be able to get my driver’s licence. I had a thousand dreams. Each one more fantastic than the next. One day I would want to be an actuary, a researcher or an astronaut.

Fast forward a decade and a half, and I was still single, stuck in a job that I hate with a passion with no long-term career prospects as well as up to my eyeballs in debt. When had my life gone off the rails? Where had all the hopes and dreams flitted away to?

I glanced at the time down in the bottom right of the screen. It was two in the morning on a worknight and the only thing I could bring myself to do was scroll through Facebook, bitter and miserable. A glass of shiraz rested on my bedside table. It probably wasn’t a good idea but I needed some comfort after my explosive break-up with the man I had been dating for the last three months.

So, of course it seemed the perfect time to trawl through all the positivity that I could never have. A photo of a mouth-watering dinner from an acquaintance in the grade below me. Another Dungeons and Dragons post from old primary school friends that I had drifted away from over the years because life had felt it necessary to get in the way.

I was full of regrets and I had just barely hit thirty. A deadlier combination I knew not as I morosely pondered what could have been.

It was roughly two thirty in the morning before I closed my laptop and settled into bed. I knew it was a bad idea. Going to bed drunk and at so late an hour. Work would be hell when I woke up. The hangover would only serve to dampen whatever enthusiasm I had that it was a Friday. Maybe, though, I would be able to get away with calling in sick.

There was always a first time for everything.

My eyes had barely closed when my alarm sounded – loud and incessant – in my ear. Telling me that I needed to get out of bed if I wanted to arrive at work on time. Groggily, I reached for my phone on my bedside table, hoping to hit snooze. It wasn’t there. Frowning, I sat up and looked around my room.

Was it me or did it seem smaller? And had my bed been moved to the side?

Before I could make sense of what was happening, my door slammed open. Standing in the frame was a man that I had not seen for many years.

“Come on, Sharon, let’s get a decent breakfast in you. Don’t want to be late and starving for your first day at high school.”

This couldn’t be. I had to still be dreaming. Or perhaps my drink had been spiked. I pinched myself. Hard.

Pain lanced up my arm and I knew that this was no fever dream. Oh God. What was happening?

Sensing something was wrong, dad approached me. “What’s wrong, sweetie?”

“This isn’t right,” I blurted. “Am I still dreaming?”

Dad frowned at my response and crouched down next to me. “I know high school can be frightening. You’re going somewhere new. But it’s also exciting. Think of all the friends you’ll make and the things you’ll learn! Now, I’ll see to the waffles. Don’t want them to burn. Come out when you’ve changed, all right, sweetie?”

I sat in silence for several minutes, trying to wrap my head around everything. Dad was here. And alive. A sharp stab of longing pierced my chest. Even if I was still asleep and dreaming, I didn’t want to waste the opportunity of seeing him again.

Hastily, I climbed out of bed and padded over to the wardrobe. My old uniform sat neatly folded on the dresser. Within a minute, I had zipped up the skirt and buttoned up the crisp white shirt.

It was time to brush my teeth, wash my face and go down for breakfast.

Catching my reflection in the bathroom mirror, it took a few heartbeats for me to understand that I had been blasted back to when I was thirteen. No longer was my hair platinum blonde. Instead, it was the original muddy brown of my youth. My teeth were in disarray and my face was covered in freckles.

I shuddered at the thought of going through puberty again.

This wasn’t a dream. It was a nightmare.

Dad called my name again as I was just finishing up my ablutions. After taking one last look at my younger self in the mirror, I dashed down the stairs.

“Well, isn’t someone a little more chipper now?”

I didn’t say a word as I plonked down at the breakfast table. Dad was true to his word. Waffles, drizzled in maple syrup, sat before me. All of it seemed so surreal. I grabbed up fork and knife and began to eat in earnest, savouring each bite, even as I told myself that none of this was real. It couldn’t be.

Within minutes, I was finished. By 7.30, my bag was packed and I was in the car, waiting to be driven to the nearest bus stop.

A part of me was nervous as we drove down the familiar streets of my childhood. It had been years since I moved and I had never looked back. Yet, sitting in the car with my dad, I was reminded of all the wonderful moments I had shared.

Before I knew it, we arrived at the station. Dad came with me, looking as proud as ever, as we both waited for the bus. There were other children as well. Many that I recognised. To my right was Blake Johnson, short and skinny. In a few years, he would go through a growth spurt that would have him towering over even the teachers.

Seated on the bench, with her mum, was Floris Yu. She had on a thick pair of glasses and she had her hair tied up in twin pigtails. It was hard to believe that by the time we were all in university, she would have slept with half the boys in the grade.

It was nearly eight when the school bus finally pulled up.

“God, sometimes I wonder where the years went. You’re a big girl now, Sharon. Have a good day at school. Mum will be here to pick you up. But you’ll have to tell me everything that happens on your first day, all right?” Dad said as I was just about to board, tears in his eyes.

I hugged him tight, relishing his warmth. “Be careful on the roads, dad.”

“I will, sweetie. Now, go on.”

Taking an empty seat near the back of the bus, I pressed myself up against the window and waved desperately at him. Dad smiled and waved back. As the bus began to move and turn around the corner, dad stood there, as if imprinting this moment in his memory.

--

The first day passed by in a blur. I met my teachers as well as my future friends. Despite the fact that Olivia was now back to her awkward twelve-year old self, we clicked just as easily as the first time. Danielle was as chatty as I remembered her. Oliver, on the other hand, seemed lost and a little preoccupied. I wasn’t sure what was bothering him. Had never really paid it much attention because by the time we became fast friends in Year 9, he had got over that bump in his life.

Mum greeted me when I got off the bus. Before I could do or say anything, she grabbed hold of my schoolbag and slung it over one shoulder. “So, how was your first day? Make a lot of new friends?”

Smiling, I answered her. We talked until we reached the car and then we talked even as mum drove us back home.

I was still regaling mum with tales of my adventures as we walked through the front door and the phone in the kitchen rang. Mum went to pick it up. Her face went through an entire gamut of emotions. A feeling of dread welled up through me. Oh God, how could I have forgotten?

Gingerly, mum placed the phone back down. As if frightened it was going to turn around and bite her. She looked at me, eyes wide and her face as pale as death.

“What’s wrong?” I asked even as I cursed myself for being a fool. Caught up in living the fantasy that I found myself in, I had wiped away all traces of Patrick and his failing health.

“We need to go to the hospital.”

Without even changing out of my uniform, I clambered into the driver’s seat, adjusting it for my considerably shorter legs. Mum stared at me, lost for words when I asked for the keys. How could she just stand there when Patrick was on life support and awaiting the final decision to euthanise him?

“Come on. We need to go, mum. Now. I’m the better driver. Just throw on Google Maps on your phone and direct me.”

“Sharon, you’re thirteen. And what’s Google Maps?”

Cursing under my breath, I realised my error. It was supposed to be a dream, but it was damn near too realistic for my liking. “Forget it mum. I’m sorry,” I said as I climbed into the passenger’s seat. “Let’s just get going. Patrick needs us.”

Mum nodded mutely and got in the car. She turned on the ignition and effortlessly put the car into gear. I knew she had questions. But she had the wisdom to set them aside and concentrate on more immediate needs.

Within ten minutes, we turned into the driveway of the veterinary hospital. I hopped out of the car as soon as we came to a stop, unbuckling the seatbelt and flinging open the door. Mum shouted after me but I ignored her as I raced to the open doors where dad was standing.

“How’s Patrick doing?” I asked.

Dad shook his head. “He’s having trouble breathing. Doc says he’s on his last legs. We’d better hurry in.”

I pushed past him. My feet took me down the familiar corridors until I reached the operating room. Looking through the circular window, I spotted Leanne. She was easily recognisable. Despite the gown she wore, I could identify her blonde streaks that had been tied into a neat bun.

Lying still on the table was Patrick. He was my first dog. A golden retriever that had been my protector and friend for as long as I could remember.

Was he already gone? But then, his chest rose. Within seconds I was by his side, holding his face in my hands. Perhaps he sensed me there for his tongue came out to give me an affectionate lick.

“You’re going to be fine, Patrick.” I didn’t know if I was saying this to him or merely to console myself after witnessing the same event twice. It wasn’t fair.

A hand came to rest on my shoulder. It gave me a comforting squeeze. “I’m so sorry, Sharon.” Dad. It had to be.

I gently patted Patrick’s muzzle and gave him one last forlorn look before I sought the shelter of dad’s embrace.

“Why did it have to be him?” I said into his chest as we were gently ushered out. A part of me resented the fact that I couldn’t be there when Patrick took his last breath. Only Leanne bearing witness to his last moments. But she was the vet. And it was her job to see it through.

--

We arrived home, sad and despondent. The last few hours had stained the days in hues of grey. Dinner was a quiet affair. I went to bed early, unable to shake off the loss I felt, though I should have remembered it all having experienced it before. Somewhere over the years, the pain had healed. Now, the wound had torn open again.

If mum had allowed me, I would have preferred going to sleep with a glass of rum. Unfortunately, my mum had always been a stickler for rules and in this dream of mine, I was underage.

Oblivion was difficult to find. After tossing for what felt like hours, I fell into a fitful slumber – unsure of what the next day would bring and hoping that I would wake up in my proper time, where things made sense and the pain that felt so raw now was only a distant memory.

But when I blearily opened my eyes, I found myself again in my old childhood bedroom. Instead of tastefully selected paintings, there were a myriad of posters. Most of them featuring Disney Princesses. A part of me wanted to scream. The more adult part felt deflated – resigned to the fact that I was trapped in the wrong time period and forced to relive my teenage years.

I wasn’t sure why that was the case. More than likely, it was some cosmic joke.

Dad came in with a tray topped up with breakfast around seven. “I know yesterday was difficult, Sharon. It was hard for me as well. Patrick was with us for so long. But you need to eat. And when you’re finished, let’s have a talk. I can call up the school. Get you the rest of the week off.”

His offer was tempting. And in my previous past, I had taken him up on the offer. But this was supposed to be a dream. Or, at least, I believed it was. Curiosity got the better of me. I wanted to see where such a choice would lead me as I already knew the alternative: bound to the bed for six days and moping around the house. It had meant playing catch-up when everyone else had picked the friendships that would last for more than a decade.

It was with great effort that I pulled myself from the warmth and comfort of my covers and slipped once again into my school uniform. Though I had experienced the death of Patrick before, the pain of his loss was still as visceral as ever.

Dad understood that when I gave him my bravest smile and said, “I can do this. Patrick wouldn’t have wanted me to be crying my eyes out all day anyways. Just because I’m at school doesn’t mean I won’t miss him.”

“That’s the spirit.”

It was a near thing, but I managed to scoff down breakfast, get dressed, pack my bag and arrive at the station just as the school bus trundled up. I got on, determined to have a good day at school. Even though I might have appeared as if I was just thirteen, I knew that in my head I was a grown woman that had already gone through a whole host of experiences.

With time, I knew, that the pain of losing Patrick all over again would dull. It was simply a matter of putting on a strong façade for the rest of the day.

The second day of school went by as quickly as the first. Before I knew it, the final bell had rung and I was on the bus back home. For a short while, as I was relearning the names of my teachers, I could forget that I was trapped in a different time and that my loyal dog that I had known all my life had passed away the day before.

Never before had I thought high school as a place to forget my woes. My memories of the teenage years had been filled with confusion and angst and worries about the changes my body was going through. Coupled with the pressure to perform and the mountain of homework that I always left to the last minute, it seemed like a miracle when I finally graduated.

Yet, here I was, putting aside the grief and pain as I socialised with the teenager versions of some of my oldest friends. It was striking how far we had come. From precocious students who dreamed of the world to weary adults, caught in the grind of the corporate machine even as we hid our misery by posting edited photos on Instagram and Facebook.

When I walked home from the bus stop later in the afternoon, I felt better than I would have thought given the recent death of Patrick. Rather than desiring to curl up into a foetal ball, I was filled with the determination to change my future.

It was to these thoughts that I fell asleep, after having completed my homework. For close to an hour, I had tried to figure out the maths equations that had never had any bearing in my position as a slave to capitalism.

--

Rays of sunlight peeked through my window when I jolted out of bed. I glanced towards the alarm clock, hoping to glean the time, but it was missing. Instead, an iPhone sat in its place and it was ringing shrilly. I picked it up. The time read 7:30AM.

Still muddled by sleep, I had just shimmied out of my pyjamas when I realised that things were not quite right. Back in high school, I didn’t have a smart phone. It would still be another year or so before Steve Jobs would announce his creation to the world at the Macworld convention. And it wasn’t until my first year at university that I had acquired my first Samsung S2. Purchased, of course, with my own money earned from a part-time job.

Nor had dad come in to check if something was wrong.

Looking at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, I confirmed my suspicions. Thirty-year old Sharon stared back at me. Hair, dyed blonde at the tips with dark roots threatening to undo all my good work. I was back in my time. The strange dream that had held me hostage had ended.

A part of me felt bereft. The halcyon days of my youth were gone. A second time.

I let out a frustrated breath and checked the time and date on my smart phone again. Now was not the time of reminiscing over what could have been. I had an hour to shower, get dressed and head to work. Another day in the cubicle, earning the money I needed to survive in a cold and unfeeling world.

God. I needed a coffee. And I needed it yesterday.

--

The day passed as slowly as a snail. By eleven, I was jittery, wishing for the day to end. My earlier musings of what to have to lunch replaced by the monotonous repetition of office busywork. Jenny, one of my work colleagues, seemed to sense my mercurial mood.

“What’s up, Sharon? You don’t seem to be blazing through your cases as quickly as you usually do after your banana bread and skim latte combo.”

“Just got a lot of things on my mind, Jenny.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“Not really,” I said as I opened up another spreadsheet that reduced a person’s life into a series of indecipherable numbers.

She took the hint and kept quiet until lunch time finally rolled around. And before she could invite me out for a walk and offer to shout me some sushi from the restaurant down the street, I was already out of my seat, headed for the elevators. Luck smiled upon me and I managed to get into one of the death traps on my lonesome. But despite the myriad of choices for lunch along the street where my work was situated, I didn’t feel hungry. Instead, I simply let my feet lead me through the labyrinth of streets in the bustling central business district of the city – searching for something I could not quite name.

I returned, five minutes after the prescribed end of lunch. Jenny looked up from her desk, eyebrows arched into a question that I purposely ignored.

As soon as the time on the bottom right of the computer screen hit 5PM, my bag was packed and I was in the first available lift.

Within thirty minutes, I walked through my front door. The keys went to their usual tray, my bag landed precariously on the dining room table and I plonked myself on the sofa. Hunger had my stomach growling but I could not bring myself to start preparing dinner. Exhaustion tugged at every limb, despite the fact that I had done little in physical exertion. It was easier to just let the lid of my eyes close and allow my mind to drift.

When next I woke, morning light was shining through the blinds. Groaning, I sat up and stretched – trying to rid myself of the kinks. Having missed lunch and dinner the day before, I was starving. Still half-asleep, I went to my bag to fetch my phone and take a gander at the time.

But no matter my efforts, the screen remained black. Shit. After what felt like ten minutes, I managed to find my charger. At the very least, today was a Saturday and I had no plans beyond a property inspection. If I was lucky, I could squeeze in some time to finish the detailing on my next costume for the convention next month.

The day went quickly, even though I lounged around the apartment for most of the day. A quick jaunt onto Facebook only helped further my apathy as I scrolled through posts filled with fun and laughter. In my head, I knew that many of the pictures I saw were curated. Did I not do the same when I tried out a new café? The image of who I was on the internet was never quite the perfect representation of who I was in reality.

By 8 in the evening, I was ready to slink back into bed. Just as I was about to shut my laptop, Facebook Messenger popped up with an alert. Curiosity won out and I clicked it open without first glancing at the name.

Hey! How’s it going? I know it’s been a few years, but damn, how’s life treating you?

My gaze drifted to the profile picture in the upper left corner and the name emblazoned in bold white letters. Simon Lau. After we had gone to different universities, studying distinctly different degrees – he had studied medicine, whereas I had wasted most of my loan on a diploma in business – it came as a bit of a shock.

Hi Simon. Life’s been good for the most part. What about you? From the pictures and posts I’ve seen it seems as if you’ve been keeping busy.

Yeah. It’s been hectic. Finally managed to get tenure at my local hospital. Being a doctor isn’t easy. The hours are long and the pay is pretty lousy.

Well, I do believe congratulations are in order. Becoming a doctor is no small feat.

What about you?

I stared at the words, wondering how much of my life to reveal. When I compared myself to the achievements of many of my other friends, it felt like I had done little. An anime and boardgame fanatic with a flair for the dramatic.

I’ve hardly achieved anything of note.

That can’t be true. The Sharon I knew in school was a powerhouse. Sure, you might not have gotten the best grades, but I’m sure that you would have achieved anything you set your mind to. In fact, I’m kind of envious of the cosplay photos you’ve been putting up.

A smile broke across my lips. I had missed the conversations I used to have with Simon. We had met in fifth grade, as part of a gifted and talented initiative held by our school. From the moment he had shyly introduced himself one recess early in Term 2, we became inseparable as we poured over our love for Neopets and Little Figher 2.

Somehow, we chatted until midnight as we reminisced over the old days. Before I logged off for some much-needed rest, we exchanged mobile numbers and set up a meeting point for the convention that would be in town for the long weekend.

I fell asleep, grinning from ear to ear.

Within moments, I was rudely awoken by my alarm clock. With a groan, I sat up in bed and reached one hand to shut it down. As I yawned and blearily looked around my room, I was shocked to find myself once again in my old childhood home. I was back in the past again, reliving my time during high school.

--

For months, I lived two lives. One in the past, and one in my current time. Just like the first time I had ventured into my high school days, I was able to change small elements and make better decisions. When Floris came to me, dishevelled and shaking from an encounter she did not want to talk about, I was able to offer her a shoulder to cry on rather than be consumed by my own selfish problems.

It made me understand her a little more and see why her path so swiftly diverged from mine back in Year 8. In my present, there were also slight differences. As if somehow my actions were like the beating of a butterfly’s wings. Or perhaps I was simply seeing through different eyes. After all, having the ability to go back in time and make changes for the better seemed farfetched and I still wasn’t entirely convinced that I was having incredibly lucid dreams.

But what mattered during the second chance I was given were the moments I spent with dad, as well as being able to see my classmates in a different light.

All of that changed, however, as I was wrapping up work and my phone buzzed. I was back in the present again, after enjoying two weeks of school holidays where I had messaged Simon almost every single day. Frowning, I glanced down at the caller id that was flashing on my screen. It read ‘Beau.’ For a moment, I was confused. Only a few days ago, I had been scrolling through Tindr as the sole occupant of my apartment. My rooms had been a mess. Every spare surface covered in various pieces of fabric in a desperate bid to complete my costume before the upcoming event.

After all, I was going as my favourite character from a popular video game franchise.

Curiosity won the best of me. I accepted the call and was surprised by the voice I heard on the other end.

“Good evening, milady. Did you have a good day in the office?” asked Simon Lau. “I’ll be home around six and can come over to help for the last stretch. That okay with you?”

I was at a loss for words. Was Simon my boyfriend? It didn’t seem quite real. Yet, as I searched through my memories, new ones overlaid the old. After dancing around each other all throughout high school, we officially entered into a relationship during first year of uni. And though we had the occasional fight here and there, there had only been one instance when I had seriously considered of breaking up with him.

Simon was my second half. He knew me inside and out. Just as I did him.

“—Earth to Sharon. Are you still there?”

A smile slowly curled the tips of my lips upward. “Sorry. Just remembering how lucky I’ve been to have you by my side.”

“Of course. I wake up every day grateful I can see a handsome doctor with impeccable musculature in the mirror each day.”

“Narcissist.”

He chuckled. “Hey, you’re the one that brought it up in the first place.”

“I only said that I love having you by my side. Looking back, it almost seems predetermined,” I said. A giddy moment passed before a faint memory flitted across my mind that left me feeling hollowed out. “Sometimes I wonder what might have happened if things had gone differently. The thought chills me to the core.”

“There’s nothing to fear, Sharon. I’ll be back over before you know it. Just wrapping up the last of my shift,” said Simon, seemingly to sense my doubts and wanting to allay them. He was wasted as a doctor in the local hospital. But it was his passion to help and render assistance to those that needed it the most. And who was I to stand in the way of his desire when it was the thing that drew me to him? “Can you hold on until then?”

“Yes. I’ll see you soon.”

“Love you.”

With that, I ended the call – my heart lightened. God. What was wrong with me? Wondering what life would have been like if Simon wasn’t with me? The mere idea was inconceivable.

I stared at my phone, and the nickname I had given Simon, for several minutes before I pocketed it away. Dinner. And then, when he came, I could resume the work on our cosplay outfits for the event the week after next.

--

The dreams continued, though they mostly played out like memories of a time that sat parallel to what I knew to be true. Yet, they seemed so real. Back in my high school days, I lived a different life to the one I knew. Simon, for one, despite my best efforts, seemed to drift away from me. We had different circles of friends and pursued individual interests. The childhood connection we had was not strong enough to keep us linked.

Each morning I would wake up, covered in sweat, and glance to the spot next to mine in bed. On the days he stayed over, he was a warm presence by my side and my fears were allayed. For the nights that he had a particularly late shift, I had to wrangle my anxiety into submission with relief only brought upon by hearing Simon’s voice.

It was a dangerous line I walked.

And it felt like I was losing my mind. The mismatch of memories weighed heavily on my mind as I went through the motions of work and putting the finishing touches to both my and Simon’s costumes for the convention that was the coming weekend. After all, we were going as a pair from an animated show, though I had the feeling I had initially wanted it to be from my favourite video game.

Alas, the work would have been too great. At least for Simon’s outfit, as I had no access to a furnace if I wanted to ensure complete and utter accuracy. Foam was great and all, but nothing could beat a proper metal chain.

We finished the costumes just a day shy of the big event. To my great joy, as we tried them on, to learn that they fitted as well as a glove – although mine was a little tight around the chest. Simon, on the other land, looked impeccable. Once he had the wig on, he would be nigh on indistinguishable from the character he was cosplaying as.

I, on the other hand, was a little too short to be a perfect representation of my character. It didn’t matter though. What was important was that we were matched in perfect synchronicity and that others knew that we were together.

“Looking good. I could almost mistake you for an elf,” said Simon.

“The ears will go on tomorrow. I don’t want to risk damaging them.” Slowly and carefully, I tugged off my boots. “What about you? Ready for the big day?”

“You know it,” he said with a grin. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need the bathroom. And while these trousers are sublime, it’s going to take me a while to wiggle out of them.”

As soon as he disappeared down the hallway, the phone that he left on the coffee table lit up. I knew it was rude to take a look. Yet I feared that Simon would be called away for another shift at the hospital. So, risking a glance towards the bathroom, I picked up his phone and read the text message.

The words within immediately pierced my heart, shattering it into a thousand pieces. I tried my hardest to rationalise it all away. Surely, it was a joke. Or perhaps it had been sent to the wrong person.

But a second look only confirmed my worst fears. Why, on God’s green Earth, did it have to be Amy Fletcher?

Looking through the memories that weren’t my own, I knew she had been Simon’s girlfriend ever since Year 12 prom. During first year of university, they had broken up over something that most would have considered silly or stupid. At least, that was the rumour I’d heard on the grapevine as I focused on my own achievements. They had got back together in third year and everywhere they went, people said that they were inseparable. The perfect couple.

Yet, in my timeline, none of that happened. Simon was my boyfriend. Had been since high school. So, why the Hell was he receiving texts from Amy? And ones that seemed to border on what decent people might label licentious?

“What is this?” I demanded when Simon came back from his trip to the bathroom.

He looked at me, confused. “My phone?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, Simon,” I snapped at him, fuelled by righteous anger. “Why is Amy fucking Fletcher sending you texts?”

“We bumped into each other last Friday. One thing led to another and we had coffee. Then, I don’t know, we exchanged numbers,” said Simon, his tone defensive. “Nothing came of it. It was just an innocent and casual catch-up.”

I didn’t believe him. How could I? The evidence was right there. In my hand. “Then why is she asking for pics, Simon?”

He stepped up to face me, his face red as a tomato. Before I could react, he snatched his phone from my grasp and looked at the screen. A minute passed. Maybe two. All I heard in the deafening silence was the sound of my heart beating an erratic tattoo.

Then finally a giggle. A bit of a chuckle and before I knew it, Simon had thrown his head back as he laughed and laughed and laughed.

To say that I was shocked would have been an understatement. Here I was, with evidence of his infidelity, and all Simon did was find amusement at my own expense. It was enough for me to see red. Desperately, I tried to swipe his phone back. But he was taller. His arms much longer.

He dangled his phone just out of reach, as if it was all a game. Each time I jumped Simon would duck under my grasp. And when I shouted obscenities, he ignored them with an easy smile.

It was only when I had tears trailing down my cheeks, threatening to walk out and throw the costumes I had laboured over for countless hours into the nearest dumpster, that he finally stopped. The expression on his face now serious and concerned. “Oh, come on Sharon. Can’t you see? She was asking for our cosplay photos. Just innocent and harmless fun. Stop acting like a baby. You’re better than this.”

“Why? Amy has never cared for the ‘geeky’ stuff. In ninth grade, she said anime was for little kids or people that hadn’t grown up.”

“Give her a bit of credit, Sharon. Not everyone has to be into pop culture. Sure, they can watch a couple of shows on Netflix, but you shouldn’t deride them for liking things like The Christmas Prince instead of Die Hard.”

I knew he was right. It was Simon, after all. But I didn’t like it. I fell into a sullen silence. Intractable to any of his overtures for peace.

“Goddammit, Sharon. Don’t just shut me out,” he said as he changed into his shorts and a ratty old t-shirt he used as bedwear. I was already under the covers, after having spent a good forty minutes in the shower. He tried to cuddle, but I was having none of it. With a sigh, Simon turned away. I knew I was being spiteful, but I couldn’t help it. The rage was still there and it would not be appeased.

It was as if it had taken on a life of its own. One that screamed vengeance at the wrong that Amy fucking Fletcher had done to me by texting my boyfriend.

Even when the lights turned off, I lay in bed, brain in overdrive as I pondered my next steps. Amy Fletcher would not get away with this.

--

The next day dawned. Though I had not slept, I was still buzzing with nervous energy. Jittery, almost, in anticipation of what was to come. Simon kept mostly busy with convention preparations, pausing every so often to look at his phone.  He didn’t notice. Not when he saw the texts Amy sent his way. I wanted to wipe that giddy-looking smile off his face. How could he do this to me? I was his girlfriend. Not Amy.

Even as I seethed, I was reassured by the plan that had come to me overnight. The old memories – of another time – had provided the answer I sought: Amy Fletcher’s address. It wasn’t far. It was only a ten to twenty-minute drive away. Given the traffic, it was plenty of time to get there, do what I needed and return before we set out to the convention.

Just to ease the burgeoning anxiety within me, in case things should go horribly wrong, I had slipped out of bed at three and Googled the address in my head. The Street View of the house matched several photos on her Instagram and Facebook. If I was wrong, I would simply play it off as mistaken identity.

I couldn’t say it was a good plan. But it was the only one that I could come up with that would satisfy the raging beast inside me.

“Where are you going?” Simon asked when I headed to the door at a few minutes past seven.

“Hardware store,” I replied. “Picking up a few more things that I forgot. It’s for the costume.” And then, I made the error that would cost me nearly everything. “You know, glue gun refills. Just in case something falls off.”

Perhaps if I had stayed longer, I would have seen the consternation on Simon’s face. Focused solely on the goal that I had set for myself, I hurried to the car. In my bag, I had my phone, keys, wallet and a sharp knife that I filched from the kitchen.

Traffic was light and I arrived at Amy Fletcher’s house with time to spare. For several long minutes, I sat in the car. My mind was a cacophony of noise. A part of me wanted to abandon the crazy idea that had seized me. The other, louder part, wanted to push on. It was unable to rest easy knowing that there was a threat to the perfect image of Simon and I.

When my hands had steadied, I opened the car door and walked to the white front door on stiff legs. Just to the side, hidden in a small alcove, was the doorbell. I pressed it.

Every second that slipped by felt like an hour. Until the door opened and standing before me was Amy Fletcher, her long brown hair, with blond highlights, was tussled and she was dressed in pyjamas covered in cartoon rabbits.

“Hi. You’re Sharon, right? Simon talked a lot about you when we caught up the other day. He said that you were going to a convention today. What brings you here?”

“Well, I heard you lived close by and I was in the neighbourhood,” I said, ducking underneath her arm as I forced my way inside. “This place is lovely. Did it cost a lot? God, I’m kind of envious, y’know. Simon and I, well, we haven’t been able to afford a house yet.”

“Hold on. Stop.” Amy Fletcher called out after me as I took a look at her two-bedroom house, situated in a quiet and idyllic suburb. “You can’t just come barging in. I know that we used to go to high school together, but it’s still very early in the morning.”

She caught up with me as I arrived in the kitchen, puffing a little. Her hand landed on my shoulder: a warning and a threat. It was enough.

I whirled around, one hand digging deep in my purse until my fingers had curled around the handle of my sharpest kitchen knife, and then I plunged the blade into her chest. Thirty fucking times.

Her screams were delicious as blood spurted. The beast, lurking with me, was appeased at the sight. As Amy Fletcher lay on the ground, her heart pumping out the last few litres of blood, a feral grin stretched across my face. I had done it. Simon was mine.

As I headed to the sink to wash up, I heard the first faint sirens. I dismissed it at first, until my phone rang.

Beau.

I picked up. What else could I do? Simon was my one and only. I didn’t know who had ratted me out, but I knew that I had to tell Simon. He would understand. He would be there for me.

“What have you done, Sharon?” were his first words to me. “I called the cops as soon as I noticed the missing knife. Tell me you haven’t done anything to harm Amy.”

Red. All I saw was red at his words.

“I’ve removed her from the equation,” I said with murderous glee, hoping to wound him with my words. How dare he accuse me when I was trying to salvage our relationship? If I hadn’t acted, Amy Fletcher would have inserted herself into our everyday and ruined our lives. “Don’t you understand, Simon? She was a fucking homewrecker. I did you a favour. I did the fucking world a favour.”

“You’re mad.”

Me? Mad? Simon thought I was crazy?

I laughed at the insinuation. Simon knew nothing of my madness. Of what I would do just to keep the world mine. The lengths I would go…

But as I looked at the dead body before me, the reality of my situation came crashing down on me. I know I shouldn’t have found it funny, but I could not stop. One I had started, all I could see was my future slipping away because of the mess I made. Tears pricked at the corner of my eyes. Why had I let all my fears and anxieties take control? Amy Fletcher, despite all her faults, did not deserve what I did to her.

The police found me in the kitchen, murder weapon in my right hand and my phone in the left.

As they dragged me out, handcuffed, I continued to laugh. Even as the world faded to laugh, all I could hear were my high-pitched cackles of depravity…

--

With a groan, I woke up, and blearily blinked at my surroundings. It took me a moment to recognise that I was still seated at the kitchen table, my face pressed against the keys of my laptop. Beside me, was an empty glass of red wine. As for the bottle itself, it had rolled to a stop on the counter-top and seemed ready to plunge over the side. Luckily, I had corked it or else I would be cleaning up the stains for a few weekends.

Shit. Stiffly, I got out of my seat to rescue the still half-full bottle. As I picked it up, I managed to catch a glimpse of the label.

Devil’s Touch: Let your inner desires come alive

I scoffed. Yeah right. More like my bloody nightmares. Running a hand over my face, I wondered if anything had been real or if it had just been an overactive imagination fuelled by the alcohol I had ingested. Probably the latter, I decided as I placed the bottle into the fridge.

Glancing quickly at the time, 3:50AM, I packed up my laptop and headed to my bedroom.

Just as I was about to grab another two or three hours of oblivion, I was startled back into full awareness when I heard a sharp rap on my apartment door. There was no mistaking the sound, however hard I wanted to try. I looked at my phone. It had ticked to 4 in the morning.

Grousing, I slipped into my robe and padded on sock-covered feet to see who had come calling in the early hours of the morning. Whoever it was, they had better have a good explanation for disturbing the rest of my pitiful night, I thought, as I opened the door.

[hans-writes-things]

Fairy Dust Chapter 8

The Pinnacle of Arcane Research, PAR for short, was a massive glass tower with a museum of magical artifacts in it's lower three floors, followed by five floors dedicated to the largest school of arcane magic on the entire continent. The rest of the 150 floor building was dedicated to research. This was the tallest building in L'waren, by a wide margin. It was a city landmark, and a symbol of power and perseverance to any of the city's races that had a history of magic.

After the fade of magic throughout the world, wizards of every race scrambled to keep hold of the power they had accrued through their art. Most wizards, being too arrogant to band together, obviously failed in their endeavors, but a few of the more clever ones formed alliances that grew into companies. One of my ancestors had been a wizard of some renown, and the company he and his had founded was still alive, still run by my sister. The Pinnacle was a joint effort, created and funded by a handful of companies of wizardly origin, built with the end goal in mind of making arcane magic a force to truly be reckoned with again.

I knew why Sam had hesitated to tell me where we were going. It was not my favorite place to visit. My name alone would get us through the door and even allowed us, on one occasion, to make appointment with the high wizard in charge of the school in connection with a previous case, but the look on her face suggested something more this time.

As we entered the building through the main doors, walking through the group of daily visitors coming to view ancient magical artifacts, I couldn't help but to be awestruck by the view. Ancient wizards had commissioned the craftsmen in building their towers and PAR had spared no expense trying to emulate history's greatest wielders of arcane magic. The entry hall was especially opulent, sporting a pair of massive, gnarled and twisting trees, made from stone, and decorated with thousands upon thousands of precious and semiprecious crystals and stones to serve as foliage. Threads of the purest gold wove through the whole construction and the boughs of the trees met over the entryway to the museum to form an arch. It wasn't the first time I looked at these, and yet they seemed even more marvellous, more magical, than the last, and they were. I knew that they would be even more amazing still the next time I would look at them. It was part of the school of the Pinnacle. The students of arcane magic would prove their dedication to their studies by spending one whole week of every school year, exhausting every ounce of strength in their bodies, by pouring their magic into the trees, helping to shape them, maintain them, even grow them. On a good year, the nearly twenty thousand students combined, would grow them a whole inch between them. On a bad year, the trees would wither a little, even lose some their foliage. Of course the result of that ritual was mainly used as a measuring stick for the top floors of the tower, the high wizards, and their decisions as to how to market their work. Still, the trees were undeniably beautiful, and undeniably magical, and they tugged at my sense of awe and wonder, no matter what else I knew of them.

The air in the entryway held a soft and constant birdsong, and within the boughs of the great trees I could see the subtle flit of movement. This year had been a good year then, a bumper crop of ready and eager young people, hungry to be part of the magic that the tower offered. Sam scoffed softly at the display and offered me an awkward smirk. "Thinking of running away and joining the mages?" She elbowed me in the thigh as she spoke. She was trying to lighten the mood, and I felt my mind starting to put a couple of things together, though I hadn't quite figured out what was off just yet. "Yeah Sam," I replied, breaking eye contact, "I've always wanted to become a gardener, don't you know?"

She walked over to the right towards the desk, guards, and elevators that lead to the upper floors of the building. I followed a few steps behind, feeling as though I was decidedly not going to enjoy this visit one bit, though I still hadn't quite figured out why, beside the usual. Behind the desk sat an elven woman with dark hair and dark skin. She seemed older than any other elf I'd ever met before. Her skin seemed thin and wrinkles creased the corners of her eyes and mouth. Her eyes were bright and sharp though, a stark contrast with the rest of her features. Her hair was tied up in a tight bun. To either side of the desk, and behind her down the hall to the elevators, stood several half orc guards.  The ceiling was not as high here as it was over the entrance to the museum section, and the muted colours of the desk, the woman's suit, and the guard uniforms, helped to make the severity of this other entrance less conspicuous when compared to the bright and welcoming gateway to magic offered between the two magical trees.

"Good morning." Sam started but was cut off before she could continue. "Detectives Xyrocelzam Daxldizk and John Winters, what can I do for you?" "We request an audience with the archmage." Sam said without hesitation. I bit my tongue and froze in place a step behind Sam. The archmage? She hadn't explained exactly what we were here for, but, the archmage? "Your errand?" The elven woman asked, and though she reacted quickly she had hesitated, just a hair. "Interplanary travel." Sam said, again, as though the phrase was normal and expected. This time the elven woman hesitated notably enough to draw a concerned glance even from one of the guards. "I beg your pardon?" "We need to speak with whoever is in charge about how something extra planar could even get here" Sam said, this time her voice a little firmer. "It can't" the elven woman started, but this time Sam cut her off, "and we would very much like to know who around here has been playing with necromancy." This time I could see one of the guards move his hand reflexively down to his weapon. "Or we could just discuss how the arcane is falling short" Sam offered and gestured in my direction "the divine are already preforming miracles again." And there it was. That's why she had been so apologetic and awkward. I sighed and slowly, with my hands held open in a gesture of surrender, reached up and removed my new sunglasses. The elven woman gasped, bringing one of her hands up to her mouth, and shot up from her seat. "My gods" she whispered. "I'll make some calls, please wait here."

I turned and sat at one of the benches to the side, keeping my eyes low to the ground. The room was too bright, not just in the amount of light, but the sheer intensity of colour. Even the shapes and angles of things seemed sharper than they should be and the room felt as though it might start spinning at any moment. "I'm sorry" Sam whispered, standing next to me, "but we need answers." I nodded, which immediately reminded me how close I was to nausea. "Count the tiles." Sam offered, and I looked down at the floor. What I had previously assumed was a smooth surface had actually been made from countless little tiles of odd shapes and sizes, all of them nearly the same colour. Nearly. I started counting and trying to get a feel for them, for what they were, for the pattern in what looked more like chaos. Slowly I found myself realizing the pattern they formed was reminiscent of a forest floor. Pebbles, single straws of grass, a carpet of old mulch and leaves, dirt. The room settled and the pain became manageable and I couldn't help but to lift my eyes and glance in the direction of the magical trees. They glowed with magic, each tree echoed a thousand times in faint reflections through the air itself. Each stone and crystal leaf throwing the image through the room. I was in an entire forest of gentle light and unearthly beauty and all I could say was "what?" "Yeah, I thought you'd like that." Sam whispered.

"The archmage will see you now." The elven woman called over. I closed my eyes, and pocketed by sunglasses before standing up. "Please follow me." The old elven woman led us past the elevators to the far wall of the hall, then placed her hand on the wall, chanted a gentle spell, and revealed a small keyhole. She entered a key she held on a bracelet and to the side of her the wall slid open to reveal a separate elevator with only two buttons. One for up, and one for down. To my surprise, we went down.

"My name" the elven woman spoke "is Far'emin Chuft. I am one of the three members of the current council of archmage in the Pinnacle of Arcane Research." "I know." said Sam. "I didn't." I muttered, feeling a little more myself, and thus a little more frustrated at the turn of things. "We aren't fond of a lot of people knowing, Detective Winters." The elven woman continued. "Wizardry is all about knowledge, about information, and protecting personal information is how we keep ourselves safe. Magic is not what it was in my mother's age, after all."

The elevator slid to a halt and opened. I squinted instinctively but quickly relaxed again. The hallway was softly lit and coloured. The hallway had simple wooden floors and walls, well worn by age, but clearly well cared for. The ceiling had softly glowing lights though I couldn't see an electrical source for them. On the other end of the hall were wooden double doors, open a slight crack, and from beyond them came a pair of voices in hushed conversation. Far'emin kept in the lead and threw the doors wide as she entered. The room was large and circular with portraits along the outer wall, faces of what I presumed were noteworthy wizards, perhaps previous archmages. The center of the room had a circular table with a large crystal set in it's center, emanating a soft glow that somehow managed to bathe the entire room in a gentle and comfortable light, even to my sensitive new eyes. Around the central table were thirteen plush chairs, only two of which were occupied.

As Far'emin entered the room she ran her hands over her face and back over her hair, letting out a soft sigh of releif, and when I glanced her way her hair had changed colour, from a deep and rich brown to a stark white, and the skin of her face and hands had darkened still, as though it had absorbed the colour from her hair, darkening to nearly coal black. I whispered "Drow" before I could catch the though in my mind, and Far'emin chuckled slightly. "How very astute." "Let me introduce my colleagues," she then said "the very honorable mister Joseph Darian Swit," she gestured towards a stout human man with almost dwarfish features. Thick black beard and a pair of round glasses completed the look. He looked up and nodded at her mention of his name. "and the lady Amana Silverlight." The high elven woman stood up from the circular table and gave a slight bow. My mind ran a few pointless circles within my head, reminding me of what little was known of the drow even before the fade, and the reputation they still had to this day, and watched as Far'emin walked over to the high elven woman and gave her a hug and a gentle kiss and just gave up on thinking I knew anything.

Sam, which until this moment had seemed unfazed by the entire encounter, stood frozen by the door with wide eyes, watching Far'emin's every move as though she expected her to simply explode, taking the room and everything in it with her. "Sam?" I asked softly. "She's a fucking dark elf!" Came a half whispered response. "Yes, yes I am." Far'emin responded with a sigh. "I know what reputation my people have, but there's much you do not know. The fade did not just affect the surface." "Come now!" Joseph suddenly spoke, his voice a deep booming one that jostled us to move, "Take a seat and let us see those eyes. Please?" Sam seemed to remember why we were here and took a steadying breath. "Alright then. Come on tall boy."

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What you get here, on Tumblr, is my first draft of each chapter, as it happens to exist.  I’m considering making a patreon for working on this thing.  In the meanwhile, keep me in writing fuel via;  https://ko-fi.com/miniar