#All commentators that spend time putting themselves over instead of the talent should be fired because they ain't doing their job

[whysamwhy123]

About a minute or so into the one women's match and Nigel starts talking about himself, putting himself over instead of the talent in the ring 🙂🙂🙂

[sl-ut]

brutal

CHAPTER TWO

pairing: glenn rhee x reader, oc!alexander x reader (siblings), various x reader

description: rick tells all about his experience of waking up in the hospital, y/n gives the group a piece of her mind, and she and glenn get a moment to themselves.

warnings: swearing, mentions of violence

words: 2.4K

date posted: 27/02/22

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“Disoriented, that’s what comes closest. Disoriented. Fear, confusion, all those things but… Disoriented comes closest.”

Y/n buried her face into the blanket that she had settled into, leaning closer to the fire for warmth. Despite the unbearable heat during daylight, the Atlanta climate allowed for nights that were quite cold, especially so when Y/n’s sunburn caused her to become much colder than usual. She could hardly hear as Rick retold his experiences over the past two days over the chattering of her teeth. Alexander barely withheld his laughter at his sister’s misery, pulling her snugly against his side for extra warmth.

“Words can be meagre things.” Dale commented, “Sometimes they can fall short.”

“I felt like I'd been ripped out of my life and put somewhere else. For a while I thought I was trapped in some coma dream, something I might not wake up from ever.” Rick continued.

“Mom said you died.” Carl whimpered as he snuggled closer to his father.

“She had every reason to believe that. Don’t you ever doubt it.”

Lori pursed her lips, staring down into the low flames as she spoke, “When things started to get really bad, they told me at the hospital that they were gonna medevac you and the other patients to Atlanta, and it never happened.”

“Well, I’m not surprised, after Atlanta fell. And from the look of that hospital, it got overrun.”

Y/n’s eyes were drawn to Shane as he cut in, “Yeah, looks don't deceive. I barely got them out, you know?”

She rolled her eyes, tired of having heard time and time again about how Shane had stepped up when his best friend was in the hospital, and had ultimately been unable to save him, so he instead opted to protect his family. Though, it appeared that Shane had been wrong when he pronounced Rick to be dead, which only seemed more alarming considering that he had taken over Rick’s role as father and husband since they had arrived at the quarry, not that anyone was supposed to know, but neither were great at keeping secrets. Besides, as Amy had mentioned earlier that day, Y/n was neither blind nor stupid, and had an impeccible talent for reading people.

From the firepit beside their own, Ed Peletier dropped another log onto the fire, causing a cloud of sparks to erupt as the flames began to rise. The site made Y/n shiver even more, imagining the heat that would be given off such a flame.

“Hey Ed, you wanna rethink that log?” Shane asked.

“It’s cold, man.” Ed grunted as he leaned back in his chair.

“The cold don’t change the rules, does it? We keep our fires low, just embers so we can’t be seen from a distance, right?”

“I said it’s cold. You should mind your own business for once.”

Y/n wanted to snort, but contained it as Shane pushed himself from his chair, stalking across to pause in front of Ed, “Hey Ed, you sure you wanna have this conversation?”

“Go on, pull the damn thing out.” Ed challenged, “Go on!”

Ed’s wife Carol jumped up from her own seat, snatching the stick that had been used as a poker to haul the log out of the flames before returning to coddling her daughter. Shane watched the woman curiously as he stomped on the small flame that had started on the grass.

“Carol, Sophia, how are y’all this evening?”

“Fine. We’re just fine.” Carol nodded at him, “I’m sorry about the fire.”

Y/n frowned as she watched the timid woman cower slightly under the gazes of both Shane and her husband. The dynamic of the Peletier family was made clear very early on after they had arrived at the camp. Ed, the drunken bigot, would spend his days lounging around, ordering others around while Carol and Sophia would arrive for their chores every morning with fresh bruises. Their tent was set up not too far from Y/n’s, and some nights she could even hear Ed berating the pair of them loudly.

“Have you given any thought to Daryl Dixon?” Dale asked. “He won’t be very happy to hear that his brother was left behind.”

An uneasy silence settled over the group. Alex had only briefly explained what had become of Merle Dixon in Atlanta to his sister, making sure to mention that there was a possibility that he was still alive. Regardless, Y/n did not want to be around when the news was broken to the younger Dixon brother.

Y/n had come to learn that Daryl was not quite like his brother. He was quieter, and didn’t seem to approve of the way his brother treated others, whether he stopped him or not. She had only ever spoken to him once, which had been earlier that morning after Merle had set his sights on her. Ain’t no pedo, he had said to her. It wasn’t exactly the type of thing to say that would earn her trust, but it certainly made her think of him much differently than she had previously, when she considered him to be just a younger version of his brother.

“I’ll tell him,” T-Dog announced, “I dropped the key. It’s on me.”

Rick shook his head, “I cuffed him, that makes it mine.”

“Guys, it’s not a competition. I don’t mean to bring race into this, but it might sound better coming from a white guy.” Glenn added, shrugging as he glanced over at Rick.

“I did what I did,” T-Dog demanded, “Hell if I’m gonna hide from him.”

“We could lie.” Amy suggested.

“Or tell the truth. Merle was out of control. Something had to be done or he'd have gotten us killed.” Andrea leaned closer to Lori as she continued, “Your husband did what was necessary. And if Merle got left behind, it is nobody's fault but Merle's.”

“And that’s what we tell Daryl? I don’t see a rational discussion to be had from that.”

“He would’ve killed T,” Alex added, “Man was a liability, and I really don’t think he’s a great loss to the group. You’ve all seen how he treats others, and I, for one, am glad that I don’t have to worry about him assaulting my sister anymore. If Daryl can’t see that he was a danger to us all, that’s his own problem.”

“Al,” Y/n scolded, “He’s stuck on a roof in the middle of a walker-infested city, you can’t seriously have absolutely no remorse for the guy.”

“It’s a horrible way to go, I admit it. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone, but the fact is that if we didn’t leave him behind, we’d all be dead right now. From all the shit he’s put us through, and whatever he’s done before all this, I’d say he’s had this coming for a long while now, and if it hadn’t been just him, it would have been every one of us.”

“I was scared, I ran. I’m not ashamed of it.” T-Dog affirmed.

“We were all scared. We all ran. What’s your point?”

“I stopped long enough to chain that door. Staircase is narrow. Maybe half a dozen geeks can squeeze against it at any one time. It's not enough to break through that… Not that chain, not that padlock. My point… Dixon's alive and he's still up there, handcuffed on that roof. That's on us.”

Y/n pursed her lips, “So you’re going back for him? I mean, if there was no way that he was still alive, it would be a suicide mission. But, if he’s still up there, we can’t just leave him.”

“Do you not remember the little chat we had earlier, Y/n?” Shane asked, “We do not risk the rest of the group, ‘specially not for some asshole.”

She glared at him, “No, you just risk whoever you care the least about.”

“You can’t be serious, Y/n,” Alex pleaded, “What Dixon does to people, hell, what he’s done to you? If he comes back here acting the same way, he’s a dead man, anyway. And if he’s still alive, he may have gotten out of there.”

The girl huffed, rolling her eyes, “Yeah, after all he’s done. I’m not gonna apologise for being a decent human being, even if Dixon doesn’ deserve it.”

“So what,” Shane grumbled, “You gonna go out there on your own, save Merle and bring him back to camp so we can all live happily ever after? Y/n, youhaven’t even killed a walker. You don’t have a weapon, not that you would know how to use one if you did, and even if you could bring him back, do you seriously think that he would be happy to just forgive and forget? No, he’s gonna be bringing some sort of vengeance back here.”

“Because he was left for dead, chained up on a rooftop like an animal.” Y/n stressed. “I’m sure that if it were Lori or Carl up on that roof, you’d be leading the charge and sacrificing every single one of us on the way.”

Lori visibly grimaced as the girl mentioned both her son’s and her own name. Y/n momentarily felt guilty for bringing them into the situation, but her anger overwhelmed any other emotions. Shane shrunk into his chair at the awkwardness that filled the air soon after the words left her mouth. His jaw clench, clearly withholding his own anger from lashing out at a girl who was just barely considered an adult. Y/n scoffed, pushing herself up from her spot on the ground, and without another word, she stalked off to the privacy of her tent.

She stared up at the roof of the tent silently for about twenty minutes before the zipper of the door began to open. Y/n quickly turned herself over to lay on her side, clamping her eyes shut tightly to avoid the confrontation that she could already sense on its way.

“You’re not slick,” Alex snorted, “I know you’re awake.”

She slowly rolled back over to face him, scowling as she found him seated on his own sleeping bag, lazily unlacing his boots and kicking them off.

“I’m not apologising.” She demanded, “I’m right.”

He shrugged, chucking his hoodie onto the floor as he laid back, “I know.”

“I’m just so tired of…” She sat up, “You know?”

“Look, I don’t like Merle, and I think that we’re better off without him. Still, you’re right, no one should be left behind like that. If there’s a chance that he’s still alive, I think we should at least try.”

“Are you shitting with me right now? You’re serious?”

Alex chuckled, “I am. But that doesn't mean that we’re going after him. You and I wouldn’t make it ten minutes in that city on our own, we’d need help, and I’m not putting your life at risk. I know you don’t like him, and I get that he’s not always right, but we all wouldn’t have made it this far without Shane.”

Y/n frowned, “Yeah, I guess.”

“Hey,” He sat up as she crawled across to unzip the door. “Where are you going?”

“I have to pee.”

“Oh, well don’t be gone too long.”

“I said pee, you ass. I’ll be back in a minute.”

Y/n ventured not too far into the woods to take care of her business. Of course, Dale’s RV had an available washroom, but from the look of the camp, everyone had already gone to bed and she wanted to avoid any more deep conversations for the night. She finished quickly, feeling a bit uneasy about being in the woods by herself at night. Hell, she didn’t even like walking across the camp by herself.

“Hey.”

Y/n came to a halt at the sound of another voice, craning her neck to find Glenn still sitting by the dying fire.

“What are you still doing up?” She asked.

He shrugged, “Couldn’t sleep.”

She ran her palms over the sides of her thighs, glancing back over at her tent hesitantly before stepping forward and sliding into the chair next to him. She was certain that Alex would be passed out cold by now and wouldn’t come looking for her; He’d been half asleep since they had returned. He shot his eyes up to meet hers, sitting straighter as she settled in.

“Wanna talk about it?”

“About what?” He tilted his head.

“You know,” She shrugged, “This whole Merle situation.”

Glenn sat quietly for a beat, “No, not really.”

“Good,” Y/n sighed, “Me neither.”

The Korean man furrowed his brows as his lips lifted into a small smile, “Then why’d you ask?”

“Dunno, just in case you wanted to rant or something I guess.”

“Nah,” Glenn shook his head, “I’m just tired of this constant fighting.”

The girl nodded her head understandingly, leaning her head back to stare up at the constellations above, “Do you think we’ll ever get back to normal? Or like, something like it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I imagine that walkers are gonna be around for a while yet, but do you think there will ever come a day when we can be safe? Maybe build a new community or something?”

“I don’t know.” Glenn watched her intently, eyes trailing up her throat to her jaw, inspecting her relaxed expression, “Maybe. I think it’ll be a while, but maybe it’ll all get better.”

His hand grasped her forearm gently, snatching her attention back to him. Her breathing became laboured as she found him to be much closer than before. His eyes were wide, seemingly surprised to have been caught in such a position, though they soon dropped from her own eyes for a split second, then jumped back up. Y/n was unsure of whether or not he was actually going to kiss her or not, and knowing Glenn, he had no idea either. As she moved a bit closer, she paused, their breaths mingling in the short airspace between them.

And then, their lips finally touched.

MY WORK IS, UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCE, TO BE REPOSTED OR SHARED WITHOUT MY PERMISSION. I HAVE NEVER GIVEN CONSENT TO MY WORK BEING SHARED, SO IF YOU SEE ANOTHER ACCOUNT POSTING MY CONTENT PLS LET ME KNOW.

[17tetsuro]

semi eita x reader where y/n is a vb player too, they dislike each other but are usually civil til one day one of them get jealous and they start insulting each other badly but then they make up and realize they actually might like each other

semi x gn!reader enemies to lovers

warnings: swearing

requests are open!

oh god- this one was so fun to write, thank you for requesting!! i kind of altered your request (just a teeny tiny bit), i hope you don’t mind !! i also didn’t specify if reader is on the boys’ team or not, so the story stays gender neutral <3 i couldnt come up w a title to save my life so- but i still hope you like it !!!

* you seriously have no idea why you and semi hate each other

* like ?? objectively theres nothing wrong with him but if you look at him you kinda wanna punch him

* like ,, no hate involved?? he just has a v punchable face

* both of u being volleyball players at the same school you’d think you’d get along

* but nope

* whenever he gets the chance, semi just starts relentlessly dissing you and your plays and thats another thing u wanna punch him for

* “your posture was off and the way you attempted to spike that ball was terrible”

* you always have a comeback that includes at least one profanity and (only, if hes lucky) one attempt to knock him out

* everyone involved in volleyball at shiratorizawa tried to get you to get along but it never worked

* one time tendou locked you in the storage room and you had to climb out the window and endure semi’s constant commentary on how the way you’re climbing is inefficient

* so, you were both pretty fed up with each other

* it was no surprise the whole thing exploded in your faces

* it was after a match that semi started talking about your mistakes again and oh boy

“seriously, if you just paid attention in practice, you’d know how to hit a damn line shot, but no,” semi said, and you finally had enough.

“why would i take advice from a replaced setter? go back to practicing pinch serves, maybe you’ll actually be useful to the team.”

okay, well, that might have been too low of a blow, because you actually thought (though it was hard to admit it to yourself) semi was a decent player and reliable teammate. even as a pinch server, he always did the best he possibly could. but he was not going to hear about these thoughts of yours. ever.

you took in his appearance and duly noted the traces of hurt that were visible in his eyes for a split second.

“you’re a bitch. whoever thought you playing volleyball was a good idea, was clearly a fucking dumbass. you could not get a single point if it weren’t for everyone else dragging you along,” he spat back, arms crossing as he spoke. you tried to not be visibly surprised at the way he just pulled up a facade from out of the blue. his words, though harsh, didn’t sting as much as they should have; he clearly just said these things out of pure anger.

“fuck you, semi,” you replied, fully ready to leave the conversation, when you were suddenly grabbed by tendou, and taken to the locker room.

“tendou, if you don’t put me down i will set your fucking house on fire,” you said, struggling against his grip.

before he could reply, ushijima showed up, with semi dragging behind him. who’s the dog now?, you couldn’t help but think.

“you are going to figure out why the hell you can’t even be in the same room together. now. knock three times when you finally decided that you were going to be civil with each other. if either of you tries to escape, i will personally report it to the principal. toodles,” tendou said, while ushijima nodded along. seemingly satisfied with themselves, the two men left the room and you hear the faint sound of the lock turning. great.

you heard semi huff, and undoubtedly he had that stupid pout on his face that irked you so much. you just rolled your eyes.

“what, no comment about my posture?” you mocked, unable to stop yourself from picking a fight.

you did not expect semi to stay quiet; he always bit back when you attempted to pick on him. the only thing you could think of that could have fucked him up was your comment, but there was no way he was so affected by it, right?

“whatever,” you mumbled, crossing your arms and fixing your gaze from the wall in front of you to your shoes.

the silence was practically eating you alive. you were not used to just being in semi’s company without bickering, and it felt horribly wrong that you were both quiet.

you just opened your mouth to make a comment about how much tendou and ushijima suck, when he spoke up, finally: “you’re a bitch, you know that?”

oh, now that you could deal with. “and you’re a dick. what’s your point? you thought you could constantly pick on me and i would just take it? think again,” you spat, glancing at him.

he was hunched over, elbows resting on his knees, hands supporting his chin as le leaned forward. he did have the pout on his face.

“you’re so fucking dense,” he settled on saying, and you just rolled your eyes. before you could form a comeback, he continued: “tell me, did i ever pick on you, as you put it, without commenting on a mistake of yours?” he tilted his head to look at you and there was something unfamiliar in his gaze.

you thought hard about his question; thinking back, he never did anything but point out mistakes you made that you were not always aware of. he must have seen your answer on your face.

“exactly. did you manage to work on your posture while spiking? did your line shot improve?” and you hated that he kind of had a point; you did spend hours perfecting your form and your line shot after he commented on them. “i was trying to help you,” he added, seemingly as an afterthought.

now that just made you confused; helping you? why? “and why would you help me? aren’t i your mortal enemy or something?” you mumbled.

“where did you get that from?” he asked, eyebrows furrowed. “i just wanted you to improve because i think you have a bright future ahead of you if you continue to play volleyball.”

“what?” you deadpanned. “you’re just pranking me. you’re gonna make fun of me for believing you.”

“yeah, sure. this is all a ploy, i want you to know you’re a wonderful player all your faults aside just so i can go and laugh behind your back that you believed me,” he said, rolling his eyes.

you firmly nodded and he sighed.

“you know what, whatever. i thought you’d understand, clearly, i was mistaken.”

you just stayed quiet and tried to think of why he would lie to you about it, but no matter how hard you thought about it, he wouldn’t benefit from telling you you’re a good player. so you decided to believe him.

“i- i don’t actually think you’re a useless player, either. the team wouldn’t have made it as far as it dd without you,” you confessed, fiddling with your fingers.

“yeah?” and oh, he sounded genuinely surprised and his face kind of brightened and oh.

“yeah, i just... i never knew why you would comment only on my plays and not the others’ and i kind of thought hurting you back would be a good way to deflect,” you said quietly, rubbing the back of your neck and avoiding his gaze.

“yeah, i admit, i could have been nicer about it but... i didn’t want to seem soft, you know. that’s not very impressive now, is it? and also, maybe i was kind of jealous of how talented you are,” he replied, smiling slightly. and- impress and be jealous of? impress who and why? you?

“i personally would have been more impressed, to be honest,” you said, finally meeting his eyes. “and the jealousy i can maybe understand, but why would you want to impress me?” you asked, confused.

“god, you’re lucky you’re so talented at volleyball, cause you can be a real dumbass sometimes,” he said, straightening up and turning his body towards you. “i wanted to impress you because you’re cute and delightfully annoying and i think the moment i first saw you i almost fainted and every goddamn thing nowadays reminds me of you and i wanted to get closer to you and kind of wanted you to see me in the same light i see you in.” everything kind of fell into place after he finished his speech; you finally could place why his pout irked you (it didn’t, what irked you was how cute you thought it was), why you wanted to cause him bodily harm (because, again, you were attracted to him and you subconsciously buried that deep down and thought instead of kissing him, punching would do more good) and why you worked on your mistakes after he pointed them out (it wasn’t spite, it was because you valued his opinion).

“and what light is that?” you asked, smiling widely.

“i- you’re really gonna make me say it?” you just nodded, trying to bite back a laugh. “i like you. there, happy?” he grumbled and you finally let the laugh bubble out of you. “what’s so funny?”

“we could have been dating for the past three years if you could have just chosen a different tone to call me out,” you replied, grinning.

“wait- you like me too?” he asked in disbelief.

“i’m like 99% sure i do,” you said.

“what about the remaining 1%?”

“well, i might need some confirmation. maybe a kiss? we’ll see if i can make it a hundred,” you replied cheekily and semi finally let out a laugh himself.

“don’t mind if i do,” he mumbled, taking your face into his hands and pulling you in for a kiss.

you have just closed your eyes and could feel his breath on your lips, when the door burst open. you tried to lean back, but semi held your face in place.

“uh- i-“ a very flustered ushijima started, “tendou asked me to check up on you two and i- i think i need to get back to- to practice. good day,” and with that, he closed the door again. both you and semi burst out laughing.

as your laughs dissolved into giggles, semi glanced down on your lips and you took a sharp breath. you were getting impatient.

taking matters into your own hands, you crashed your lips to his. you felt him smile into the kiss and you knew that the missing 1% has been added to the 99%.

[fishoutofcamelot]

Hi there! I hope you’re well. I just wanted to send a message to thank you for the elyan content 😍 he is my favourite knight but for some reason I never see much of him on tumblr! So it’s awesome to see him on your blog. I hope I didn’t bother you with this ask 🙈

I AM doing well, actually! And you didn’t bother me, asks will probably never bother me <3

I could go on for a million years about why no one makes content about Elyan - and sometimes forget he exists altogether - but I don’t wanna start drama so we’ll just. Not touch that topic with a 10-foot pole

BUT! Elyan IS a fantastic knight, and the fact that he is your favourite knight too is very iconic and sexy of you. Elyan fans/stans are the sexiest members of this fandom. That’s not even opinion, that’s just science

So! Here’s a list of Elyan headcanons, because he’s worth it:

Elyan is ace. Them’s the facts

He’s also gay but in that stage where he’s questioning if he might be bi. Unfortunately, he died before reaching an answer

I hate to talk about Hogwarts Houses in 2020, but he is one hell of a Hufflepuff. Elyan is his name and protecting his loved ones with life and limb is his game. It is very easy to earn his loyalty, and once you have he will ride straight through Hell for you

Elyan likes hoods. He wears hoods whenever he can (i mean c’mon, that outfit in season 3 was serving some killer looks)

He’s just a protective older brother to literally everyone in Camelot. Yes, even Gaius

Gwen, Elyan, Leon, and Merlin have family game night once every month. They all gather in their old house in the lower town to get drunk, play some dice games, and spend the whole night goofing off

Only a few people know about game night. Even fewer people have seen it with their own eyes. Arthur and Gwaine frequently try to sneak in to see game night for themselves, but somehow never succeed

Elyan loves swimming. They don’t get many chances for it, but whenever they do, Elyan is the best swimmer out of all the knights

He’s also like. Really good at sneaking up on people. Consistently rolls high on stealth checks

Out of everyone in the Round Table, Elyan is the most easily spooked. He hates it when they gather around the fire to tell ghost stories, bc he will NOT be able to sleep the rest of the night after that

Why do people think there’s no dynamic or chemistry between Elyan and Gwaine??? Those two had a SOLID friendship and I will not stand for this disrespect (also, Perelyan is good but Elyaine is godtier imo)

Elyan is bad at blacksmithing. Like really bad. No one even understands how that works, considering he spent his whole childhood training under his father. All the blacksmithing talent apparently went to Gwen somehow

He likes bugs. When he was a kid he would go out in the woods and collect beetles and stuff to stick in little terrarium jars. He’d even give them names and backstories and personalities. Sometimes he would sit under a tree and tell Gwen stories about all these adventures his bugs would go on when no one was looking

Leon HATED bugs, and got creeped out by them, which meant Elyan was legally obligated to harass him about it

Elyan doesn’t get much chance to catch bugs anymore, but he’s also the only member of the Round Table who can put up with spiders

Spider in the armory? Everyone is freaking out while Elyan just calmly picks it up and lets it outside - but not without lots of snark and eye-rolling, of course

The reason Elyan ran away from home was because his mother had died and he saw it as a personal failing. He felt that it was his fault she was dead, because he couldn’t protect her, and left Camelot because he couldn’t bear the shame of guilt

In the last few years of his time away from Camelot, Elyan fell in love and lived out an mlm cottagecore fantasy where he and his lover raised wyverns together. But when Morgause came to capture him, she killed his lover and burnt their wyvern farm to the ground

Elyan tries not to let his grief be known, though. Not just because he doesn’t want to burden Gwen with his pain, but also because his lover had magic and he could get arrested for having fallen in love with a sorcerer

Morgause had Elyan captive for a while before Gwen showed up. She even used the nathair on him in small increments; not long enough to kill him or damage him irreparably, but enough to make him suffer. It’s for this reason that Elyan was able to bounce back from being tortured by Morgana whereas Gwaine didn’t survive it, because Morgause had already microdosed him with that kind of pain two years ealier

Still traumatizing, though. Like. This boy is EXTREMELY traumatized, can someone please get him some therapy???

Moving back to Camelot with Gwen was simultaneously healing and harming. Healing, because  he visited his dad’s grave, rebuilt his relationship with Gwen, and his companionship with her, Merlin, and Leon helped him move on from the pain of his loss. But harming because of all the anti-magic prejudice that surrounded him, and every time someone said magic was evil it was like another dagger in his heart. That was his dead lover they were talking about and calling a monster. Someone who was kind and compassionate and funny, who didn’t have a lick of evil in them, who would have burned at the stake by Camelot’s laws

Elyan didn’t think about what it meant to be a knight of Camelot when he agreed to be knighted. But he was just so determined to fight and kill Morgause, the woman who had killed his lover and his wyverns and abducted him from his home, that he didn’t even think about it. He just wanted Morgause dead. It wasn’t until a few days later when he realized that being a knight of Camelot meant enforcing Camelot’s anti-magic laws, and this realization naturally caused him distress

Instead of abandoning his knighthood, Elyan found a compromise. He would support Arthur in everything, until magic got involved. If Arthur ever captured druids or put sorcerers to death, Elyan decided he would smuggle them out of the city. He would never actively kill or capture those with magic, and would sometimes even try to sabotage efforts in capturing harmless magic-users

Elyan knew full well what Dragoon was doing. He knew that Gwen and Arthur’s love was true and required no enchantment, meaning Dragoon had simply framed himself to get Gwen out of a jam. He appreciates Dragoon, and even though he supposedly killed Uther, Elyan can’t even fault him for that. Elyan wanted to kill Uther too

Merlin is the little brother Elyan always wanted, and Elyan is the older brother Merlin never had. They act so much like siblings it’s not even funny, and some people question if they were actually raised together 

He and Merlin like to team up and tease Gwen. They’ll walk behind her and chant stuff like “Gwen and Arthur sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G”. They’re like children, and it’s both very funny and very annoying

Gwen gets her revenge, of course. She always gets her revenge

They also team up to be like. Super protective of Gwen. The vetting process Arthur had to go through - between Elyan, Leon, AND Merlin - in order to date Gwen was ridiculous

Arthur: Merlin I’m literally your boss. Your friend. You've been my personal manservant for like six years now

Merlin: Yeah, which means I know exactly how much of a dick you are

After being possessed by the druid ghost, Elyan is a lot more in tune with the supernatural

Am I suggesting that Elyan can now see, talk to, and interact with ghosts, and even starts a little agency where he goes around helping them complete their unfinished business? Why yes, yes I am

When Gwen was banished, Elyan wanted to go with her. But she asked him to stay behind and keep an eye on Agravaine, as she suspected him of treachery, and to stop him from taking over Camelot should Agravaine make a move. And, well, Elyan has never been able to say no to his sister

Elyan and Merlin decided to try and find a way to prove Gwen’s innocence. There’s no way she was acting of her own accord, after all. There was some kind of enchantment at play, there had to be. Merlin doesn’t tell him about Shade!Lancelot directly, but does propose it as a theory regarding how Lancelot had come back from the dead. Elyan supports the theory 100%

About two months after the wedding, Merlin and Elyan locate the enchanted bracelet, and Gwen and Lancelot’s names are finally cleared

In Avalon, Elyan, Freya, and Lancelot spend the whole time watching/narrating the events of season 5 like sports commentators. They are all mutually exasperated at Merlin’s antics

When Arthur shows up in Avalon, the only reason Elyan doesn’t punch him in the face is because he’s too busy restraining Lance from doing the same

He does, however, give him a strong talking-to about how “all your magic and you still can’t save my life” is a horrible thing to say actually

Lancelot, however, is more upset about the “I guess I was wrong” speech

Gwaine shows up in Avalon like. SUPER traumatized. He died while being tortured by a nathair, died in a way that he perceived to be failure, and he’s kinda messed up because of that. Elyan, who has already had a few years to cope with nathair torture, is the one who helps Gwaine heal from his trauma

In the 21st century, Elyan gets reincarnated along with everyone else. His childhood is plagued with weird dreams, dreams that terrify him. Snakes and pain, wyverns and fire, all of it. He meets an old man who calls himself Merlin, who helps Elyan through the pain of remembering his past life. For once, Elyan gets to be taken care of instead of the other way around. For once, he is allowed to be vulnerable and weak and struggling. He doesn’t hide his tears. He gets the help he needs and works through his trauma

And one day, many years later, he is walking down the street when he sees someone who looks oddly familiar. The face of an old lover, perhaps

Thanks for the ask! <3

[artificialqueens]

Ever in Your Favor, Chapter Four (Rosnali) - Athena2

Summary: The Games grow closer, and so do Denali and Rosé as they start their plan, finally going public at the interviews.

A/N: I know it's been a while, but I'm so happy to be back to this fic! Thank you all so much for the love and support, not just on this fic but in general, with everything going on lately. It really means a lot to me. I hope you enjoy this chapter, and please leave some feedback if you'd like!

Read on AO3.

Rosé is early to dinner that night, because Denali’s words had gotten to her. She wasn’t just letting Denali down. She was letting herself down, both the younger version of herself who wanted to protect Jan and go home, and herself now, who still wants to go home. She has to help Denali, or it could kill them both. Just because she couldn’t save the tributes she mentored doesn’t mean she can’t save herself now. She can’t go into the Games blind, as much as she wanted to hide behind her sword and snarky comments, and it took Denali—someone Rosé had mentored and given advice to—to help her see it.

And it’s brought them to pretending they’re in love for Capitol favor. It’s a good idea, admittedly. So good Rosé wishes she’d thought of it. There’s nothing the audience loves more than drama, and this is the best you could get.

But alliances are hard, and an alliance with someone she knows is even riskier. Maybe this isn’t a good idea, because what if they work so well together that they’re the last tributes standing? If Denali is the only thing between Rosé and home, can she kill her? Can she kill a friend, someone she’d tried so hard to keep alive in her last Games? Can she--

“Rosé. You’re…early.”

“Don’t sound so surprised,” Rosé mumbles as Denali sits across from her.

“It’s a nice surprise,” Denali says, and Rosé takes it.

“So, about this plan…” Rosé is ready to suggest calling it off. But Denali tucks her hair behind her ears, and it makes her look so young, so hopeful, and Rosé can’t take her hope. Not when the world has taken so much already, leaving the energetic, fun-loving Denali in the dust. However risky the alliance is, they’re stronger together. Her close-combat skills perfectly balance Denali’s bow and speed. Together, they could really do this, and Rosé lets the strangeness of hope bloom in her chest.

“What is it?”

“Nothing,” Rosé says quickly. “I think we’ll be great.”

Denali beams as they browse their menus, food rushing up into the compartment next to them.

Rosé grabs the pickle off her plate. “Want this?”

“Sure.” Denali crunches happily. “Why’d you get it if you don’t like it?”

“Because I was pretty sure you liked them.”

Denali points at Rosé in approval. “See, you’re already doing relationship stuff. We got this.”

Rosé nods, but she wasn’t thinking about the fake relationship. She just wanted to see Denali happy.

---

Denali goes to meet their stylist with dread pooling in her stomach at what horrible outfits they’ll be forced into. Each district’s outfits represent their industries, which means District 1 glimmers in jewels and District 12, shafted as always, resembles a coal miner. It’s the same every year. Today, though, a new stylist sits among racks of clothes in the dressing room. She’s young, with soft skin that absolutely glows. She introduces herself as Symone, and somehow Denali hopes she might not look like an idiot this year.

“First year as a stylist?” Denali asks while Symone takes her measurements. She does her best not to flinch, reminding herself Symone’s hands aren’t an attacker’s hands.

“Yep,” Symone says. “About damn time. I’ve been trying for years, but sometimes people aren’t ready for real talent, you know?”

Denali laughs despite herself.

“I hope so,” Rosé says. “Because no offense, Symone, if you want me to wear another coal miner outfit, I’ll go out there naked.”

Denali’s cheeks are on fire, brain short-circuiting at the image of Rosé’s words.

Symone just laughs. “Well, as fun as that might be, I’d never put you in something that ugly. I’m breaking the rules a little this year.”

“What do you mean?” Denali asks.

“I think the outfits should be less about the district and more about you, since this year’s Games are about the victors. Let the Capitol see not just where you’re from, but who you are.”

Where she’s from is who Denali is--the coal dust coating everything in town; the hungry eyes of nearly everyone she passes; the harsh winters burrowing in raggedy blankets--but she gets what Symone is saying. Instead of being another faceless statistic from a district the Capitol owns, let them see Denali and everything she is.

“What did you have in mind?”

Symone almost drops her sketchbook in excitement. “Well, you both had animal nicknames in the Games, did you notice? The Lion and the Fox. I want to play with that, do some animal-inspired stuff to reference your history and present you as a union. One, instead of two.”

Denali meets Rosé’s eyes. It’s almost eerie how it worked out, how easy it’ll be to present themselves as a pair in Symone’s outfits. Like it was meant to be.

“Do you not like the idea?” Symone asks in worry, mistaking their silence.

“No, I love it! It’s brilliant, Symone,” Rosé says quickly. She’s such a big sister, Denali thinks fondly. She always praised Jan and Lagoona for their drawings no matter how hideous they were. Symone’s sketches, though, are some of the most beautiful things Denali’s seen, and she has no trouble nodding her approval.

“Great.” Symone beams. “I have samples for you to try on, to test colors and stuff.”

Rosé goes first, disappearing behind a wooden screen and returning in a ruffly pink dress, arms twisting all over to find the zipper among the ruffles.

“I got it,” Denali says. She pulls the zipper, not breathing as her hand runs up the curve of Rosé’s spine, letting her touch linger.

Symone shifts ruffles aside and takes more measurements, continuing as Rosé tries on dress after dress, with sequins and stripes and even more ruffles.

“Do a spin!” Denali says.

Rosé rolls her eyes, but she does, her red hair waving behind her as she twirls.

“Faster!”

Rosé laughs and keeps going until she stumbles, and Denali doesn’t even think before reaching out to catch her, running her hands up and down Rosé’s sides.

“Thanks.”

“No problem,” Denali stammers as Rosé retreats behind the screen.

“This should be illegal,” Rosé mutters, emerging in a hot-pink zebra dress with matching hat.

Denali can’t resist her laughter. “You look like Manila!”

“Shit, Denali, don’t tell me that. Let me pretend it’s not that bad.”

“Trust the process, darling!” Symone says grandly.

“Easy for you to say,” Rosé grumbles.

Denali laughs again.

“Just wait, Denali. It’s your turn, and I can’t wait to call you Manila.” Rosé’s smirk is too adorable for Denali to care about what’s coming.

Sure enough, Denali’s paraded behind the screen and given a bundle of clothes. There’s a neon nightmare, with green pants and a yellow shirt, plus a glittery orange jacket with puffy sleeves. Rosé laughs and teases her and frees her from a skin-tight red dress, and Denali gives in to it. The Games are days away, and who knows if she’ll have fun like this again. It’s nice to have her biggest worry be dresses, and she finds herself striking ridiculous poses to hear Rosé laugh and see her smile. It’s been years since they've laughed or smiled this much, and Denali’s going to treasure each one.

Symone ushers them into a group hug, and Denali can’t believe how good it feels, arms intertwined, warm bodies pressed together. She’s really missed hugs all this time on her own.

“You two are perfect,” Symone says. “With my outfits, you’ll be the talk of the Capitol.”

“As long as there’s no zebra print,” Rosé says, and Denali spends the day wishing she could hug her again.

---

The days go too fast.

Rosé hates this place, but now she’d give anything to stay at the Training Center, working out and eating with Denali, rather than go to the arena. She feels like a kid dreading being dragged back to school after summer vacation. She’s been talking to Denali more, bantering back and forth, and she’s starting to like it. But this, like summer, has to end.

They prowl around the training room every day, getting stronger, faster, better. When Denali hisses for Rosé to watch her, make the contestants see how in love they are, the command is useless. Because Rosé already can’t look away from her arms pulling the bowstring taut, how she nods to herself as she aims and lets the arrow fly, a bull’s-eye in each target. Her cheer and hug are genuine, and she revels in the surprised looks on the tributes’ faces.

They eat together every day, passing food back and forth for each other to try, working their way down the menu. Denali laughs until she cries after tricking Rosé into eating chicken in a sauce so spicy Rosé gulps down a gallon of water, and Rosé gets revenge by telling Denali to press a shower button that produces fruity bubbles, bursting into laughter when Denali shows up to breakfast smelling like a perfume store exploded on her.

And it continues, day after day, until other tributes watch them in envy, until Rosé doesn’t have to tell Denali to fake laugh at something she said, because she trusts Denali enough to say it, and Denali likes it enough to laugh.

---

The first sign of the end is their private sessions with the Gamemakers, where they show their skills and get a score. The score doesn’t mean much--people average in the sixes, and a lot purposely act mediocre to fly under the radar. The arena is a great equalizer, and Rosé’s seen tributes score a nine and die the first day. She won with a score of seven. Part of her wants to beat that score now. Plus, with her and Denali playing the romance angle, all eyes will be on them anyway. What’s the harm in Rosé showing off, getting a high score that reinforces how good she is?

There’s no point appearing weak on purpose, and Rosé enters the training room confidently. A dozen Gamemakers have a long table set up on the track, food spread from end to end, forks in hand.

“Sorry to interrupt lunch,” Rosé calls to them. “Think you could make me a take-out box?”

The group jumps, and Rosé snorts when one woman spills wine on herself.

“Go ahead,” a man says, his gaze on the basket of rolls.

Rosé sighs, and she takes the anger boiling in her and uses it like Denali said. She annihilates a training dummy with her sword, then grabs three knives and makes three bulls-eye’s on the wall target. She does the same with three spears, the little red circle not even visible around her accuracy.

The same man dismisses her, and Rosé leaves without another word, annoyed and clueless on what her score will be.

Denali paces the hall outside. She looks expectantly at Rosé, who shrugs.

“They’re having lunch,” Rosé says. “They barely paid attention. But you make them pay attention, okay? I believe in you. Good luck.”

Denali smiles and heads in. Rosé can’t hear anything, but Denali comes out much faster than she did, breathing sharply.

“I fucked up,” Denali says, pacing circles and wringing her hands. “Shit, I fucked up.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t that bad,” Rosé soothes. “What happened?”

Denali mumbles something that sounds like shot an arrow at the Gamemakers.

Rosé blinks. “Did you say you shot an arrow at the Gamemakers?”

Denali hums miserably.

“What happened?”

Denali huffs, coming to a stop. “They weren’t paying attention! Someone brought out a roast pig, and they were literally slicing it while I practiced. So I took an arrow and shot the apple out of the pig’s mouth.”

Rosé bursts into laughter. “That’s so badass!”

“No!” Denali shakes her head, and Rosé sees fear in her eyes. “Rosé, I’m sorry. They’re probably gonna punish you because of me and make things extra miserable for us in the arena.”

“Like they aren’t gonna do that already?” Rosé asks, and Denali cracks a smile. Rosé’s touched that she’s Denali’s first concern, but she won’t let her worry. “Look, it’s fine. They’re supposed to watch you, and they didn’t. That’s on them. I’m not worried, Denali. It’ll be okay.”

Denali nods.

“How did they react?” Rosé asks, because Denali needs more cheering up, more reassurance that she hasn’t done any harm.

“Well, one lady dropped her wine glass. One guy spit out his roll. Another actually screamed and tipped over in his chair.” Denali cackles, and Rosé joins her, laughing until their stomachs hurt. It really is okay.

And when they each receive scores of ten that night, Rosé believes it.

---

Denali’s gotten so used to training that she could pretend the Games weren’t coming. Until it's interview day, with the Games the next morning. The countdown is officially at hours instead of days, and her stomach churns like waves.

She grunts her way through the prep, a trio of people waxing her and fixing her nails, like preparing a doll for the Capitol children. At least it keeps her mind off things. Like how Rosé feels like a friend again, like when Denali and Jan and Lagoona would run up to her after school, babbling about a million things and begging for gossip on the older kids. Like how they both earned the highest tribute scores, labelling them as threats, and how Denali almost likes being seen as a threat. Like how tonight, they’re going to confirm their ‘relationship’ on live television. There’s no turning back, and she almost wishes Rosé was here instead of in her own prep room. At least Denali wouldn’t feel as alone. It’s strange how quickly she’s come to enjoy talking with Rosé again, when they’ve barely talked all their years as mentors, everything they share just too wide a bridge to cross. But they’ve crossed it now, and having Rosé again was worth the journey.

Symone runs in, a beautiful turquoise dress flowing behind her, and helps Denali into her outfit. It’s softer on her skin than the scratchy burlap she’d worn eleven years ago, and Denali hopefully peeks in the mirror.

She’s gorgeous.

The dress is long and white, made of tiny strands of fabric that reflect the light and twinkle in every color of the rainbow, like sun bouncing off gleaming snow. Like the fur of a white fox.

“Do you like it?” Symone asks.

“Holy shit,” Denali mutters, and it’s answer enough.

“I’m gonna get Rosé,” Symone says, but Denali hardly hears her. She can’t look away from how beautiful she looks, with her dress and pale blue eyeshadow and her hair in its familiar braid. She’s the Fox.

And Rosé is the Lion.

Denali gasps when she sees Rosé’s golden dress, the fabric shifting under the light and revealing soft tones of amber. The lion pin over her heart is a little too beat-up to shine, but it does anyway. She’s beautiful, beautiful in a way Denali can’t ignore anymore, beautiful in a way that Denali never wants to look away from again.

“You look amazing,” Rosé says, watching Denali with wondrous eyes.

“So do you.”

Symone hugs them, and they head to their chariot.

Denali hated this last time. Her fellow tribute was bigger than her, and they were stuffed into this thing, Denali crammed against the side trying not to fall out. And she was in a hideous coal miner outfit on top of it.

Tonight, she’s in control, and she's beautiful. The chariots pull through the City Circle one by one, past masses of people. It’s the biggest crowd Denali’s ever seen, a blur of color and cheers. The crowd is screaming when District 1 pulls out, and they don’t let up for District 12. People are already rooting for them, and it’s so bright, so loud. Almost too much. Rosé stiffens beside her and Denali knows she’s thinking the same thing. But they have to do this. Denali squeezes Rosé’s hand, the touch easing the ringing in her ears.

“Don’t let go of me,” Denali whispers.

Rosé doesn’t.

---

After the chariots, they’re lined up by the stage. District 12 is last of course, and Denali has to listen to 22 other tributes be charming and witty and lovely. Nina West, the Capitol interviewer, is unavoidable in a rainbow dress, and Denali winces against its brightness. She wishes a quiet good luck to Rosé before she takes the stage.

Rosé waltzes on stage with the spin Denali made her do in the dressing room and becomes a star in an instant, joking about how the Capitol just had to have her back, about how she still presses the wrong shower buttons and filled the room with bubbles last night, and everyone rolls with laughter. But when Nina’s face turns serious, Denali knows the tide has turned.

“Now, you volunteered for your sister last time.”

“Right,” Rosé says quietly, and Denali remembers her saying that she didn’t want anyone using Jan against her.

“I see you’re wearing her pin again.”

Rosé nods. “I gave it to her as a birthday gift when she was a kid. When I said goodbye, she gave it to me and made me promise to bring it home to her. To me, it’s...it’s a symbol of love and home.”

It’s quiet enough to hear a pin drop. People volunteering like Rosé is extremely rare. Denali remembers how people back home had whispered about her last time. Some people called her selfish, said she was the oldest daughter and shouldn’t have left her parents. Some said she was an idiot and should have sent her sister to the Games, a pig to the slaughter, and counted herself lucky that she was spared. But many people, Denali included, thought that Rosé was brave, almost certainly saving her sister’s life even at the risk of her own. A kind of brave, a kind of love, that you don’t see much anymore. Everyone in the Capitol held the same belief, and it was why they loved her so much, in awe of her devotion and kindness. Why they love her still, if the adoring gazes are any indication.

“And did you make the same promise this time?” Nina asks.

“I did.”

Nina nods solemnly. “It’s wonderful to hear about your family.” Her smile is genuine, and Denali wonders how someone so nice ended up doing this. “While we're on the subject, is there anyone special back home?”

Denali holds her breath. This is it, practically served on a platter. All Rosé has to do is take it.

And boy, does she.

She smiles mischievously, fixing her hair while the audience holds their breath, wondering if she’s taken or if they somehow have a chance with her.

“Well, Nina, I do have someone. Except she’s not home.”

Nina’s eyes light up. “Are you saying--”

Rosé nods. “Yes. The woman I love came here with me.”

People actually scream. Some gasp, some cheer, while Nina tries to hush them and ask Rosé more questions. Even Denali smiles in surprise and she knows the camera catches it. Rosé is every inch the lovestruck woman she needs to be, and Denali listens as she explains how they’d gotten together.

“Denali was like a little sister to me, you know? She was best friends with my sister Jan, and they were always following me around. Little terrors,” she jokes, and the audience laughs. “She was always so funny, so strong and brave. I saw that firsthand when I mentored her. She’s amazing, isn’t she? Everything she does with her bow--I’d poke my eye out.” Another laugh, more smiles. Rosé’s face softens as she continues. “We lived nearby after the Games, but I always kept my feelings secret. I was just too afraid to tell her. But after the Quell, I had to. We stayed awake all night on the train here, and I finally told her. We agreed to work together for the Games, and Denali...she gives me a lot of hope going into them.”

The crowd is on their feet, clamoring for more, but they’re past the time limit, and Rosé exits to applause that goes on for over a minute.

By the time Denali takes the stage, they’re absolutely rabid. Nina asks her basic questions first, stringing things along and making everyone wait. Denali has no idea what she answers, because she’s still reeling from Rosé’s interview, goosebumps on her arms at how much Rosé admires her. She sounded so genuine. Someone hopelessly in love and afraid to confess her feelings, finally doing so in the face of danger. It didn’t happen, there was no love confession on the train, but Denali almost feels like there was, because Rosé made it that real. But this is just a game; she can’t forget that, no matter how in love Rosé seemed. They’re just friends.

“Now, I have to ask what we’re all waiting for.” Nina’s cheerful voice cuts through her thoughts. “Tell us about you and Rosé!”

Denali puts on a smile. “Well, like she said, me and her sisters followed her around all the time. We probably were little terrors.” Nina smiles, and the crowd follows. “I always admired her. I watched her Games all day and night, because I just had to see her win,” Denali says, heart tingling at the memory of her joy when Rosé won. “And then I had her as a mentor, and she helped me so much, with whatever I needed. She never gave up on me, and that respect and awe I had for her turned to love over the years. I didn’t know she felt the same way.”

The words feel real, simple and close enough to the truth to be believable. Denali smiles and bats her eyelashes, a woman in love. Nothing is a lie except for the love part, and Denali could leave it at that, but a memory pops into her head. One to really seal the deal, a thought she hates an instant later, because Rosé is her friend, not just some pawn.

“When I was eleven, my father got hurt. He was fine, but he was out of work for a few weeks, and things were...hard. I was really upset. And Rosé—I don’t even know if she remembers this—she stuck a cookie in my bag every day on the way to school. Just to help me feel a little better. She never brought it up, never wanted attention or thanks for it. She just wanted to help.”

Denali swallows as the audience awws. The camera is surely panning to Rosé, but Denali can’t look at her. The memory hit harder than she expected. She never lets herself remember it, because she hates even acknowledging that she’d needed charity. But it was never like that with Rosé. She never made it seem like charity, never wanted power over Denali by helping her. Rosé just wanted to help. She’s the only person who ever helped Denali when she was a kid, and real tears prickle in her eyes.

“I never forgot that,” Denali continues. “It shows how kind and caring she is. That’s why I fell in love with her.”

Nina wipes her eyes. Everyone is yelling their names, clapping and blowing kisses, and Denali knows.

They’ve won this round.

Game, set, match.

---

Rosé can’t sleep.

It should come easy, after how well the interviews went, how beloved they’ve become overnight. Yet it’s 1am and sleep isn’t coming. She can’t spend another minute in this room, staring at the ceiling and suffocating under thousand-thread-count sheets. She heads to the common room on their floor, and she’s not the only one awake.

Denali’s on the couch, watching footage from her Games.

“Can’t sleep either?” Denali guesses, turning off the TV.

Rosé shakes her head. “Okay if I sit?”

Denali nods, and Rosé takes the end of the couch, afraid to breach the gap between them even if she wants to, wants to feel someone human near her before tomorrow. But they’re not on camera, and maybe Denali won’t want that.

“Does it get tiring?” Rosé asks suddenly.

“What?”

“Watching the Games over and over. Your workouts,” Rosé explains. She never talks about the Games--hell, until this year she’s never talked about anything big with Denali. But something is coming undone in Rosé tonight. Maybe the threat of tomorrow. Maybe how close she and Denali have become. Maybe how everything she said about Denali on stage is lingering in her heart. Maybe how Denali remembered Rosé’s childish attempts to help her with cookies all those years ago, how Rosé’s heart warms at the memory. Whatever the reason, the words are flying out past everything Rosé uses to keep them inside.

“Does it get tiring trying to ignore it all?” Denali doesn’t sound mean, just curious.

“Yes,” Rosé says bluntly. “I just...wouldn’t know what else to do.”

She learned early on that the only way to get out of bed and function was to put all the thoughts and feelings and horrors of the Games deep inside herself, seal them tight, and pretend they weren’t there. They come back sometimes. In nightmares. In certain smells that take her back to the arena, muscles instantly clenching. In the time she got a papercut and was frozen in place when Lagoona found her, because of the blood, the blood. But for the most part, she has a handle on things. Living like Denali--going on runs, watching the footage, talking about it constantly--would just be inviting it in, breaking the seal on the memories. And that’s undoubtedly worse than Rosé’s method of dealing.

“It gets tiring for me too sometimes,” Denali admits, playing with the couch cushion. “I guess I’m trying to fight it. Like if I keep running, memorize the Games, then I’ll beat it and it can’t hurt me.”

“Does it work?”

Denali just shrugs.

“Sometimes I think they want us to forget,” Rosé says. She’s never voiced it to anyone, but she’s safe with Denali.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean …” Rosé tugs on her shirt, exposing her left shoulder. “In my Games, that boy’s axe got me here. I felt it, Denali. My shoulder was torn open, the blood was everywhere. I woke up in the hospital without a mark on me.”

“My knee too,” Denali says quietly. “I saw the bone when it happened, and now there’s nothing. Like it never happened. It just gets stiff sometimes.”

“It’s like the Capitol wants us to fear the Games, but forget how bad they were. They erase the scars and give us nice houses and expect us to be grateful. Perfect little victors,” Rosé spits. There’s an anger there she usually ignores, the deep hurt of the Capitol parading her around as a victor but not actually caring about her.

“I think it’s another way to control us,” Denali says. “Who’s gonna speak out against them when they fixed us up and gave us a nice house with heat and indoor plumbing, y’know?”

Rosé nods. “I guess I just want—“

“You want a life they don’t own. A life that’s yours,” Denali guesses. A guess that flies out so easily because it’s something she wants herself, something no one else understands. When Rosé left for the Games, Denali was still young enough to have that wish. She had the freedom to not know what she wanted to be when she was older. No one dreams of becoming a Hunger Games victor.

But somehow they both did.

“Yeah.” Rosé sighs. It’s something she never really lets herself imagine—a normal life with her family, with easy sleep and no Capitol obligations—but something she longs for just the same. And Denali understands. Rosé wonders if it could’ve been like this all the time if she had the courage to talk to her.

“Are you scared?” Denali asks suddenly.

“Fuck, how could I not be?” Rosé mutters, her honesty continuing. “I mean, I’m scared to go back, sure, but…but I’m also scared that if I come out, I might not be me anymore. I don’t want the Games to make me something I don’t want to be.” She doesn’t know how to explain it, only that she doesn’t want to lose herself to the Games, to what she might have to do. She never wants to become so soaked with blood that she can’t recognize herself.

Denali nods. “You still want to be you at the end. Not just a piece of the Games.”

The words strike Rosé’s heart like she thought them herself. “Yes.”

“It scares me too.”

It shouldn’t do anything. It’s just a simple confirmation that they feel the same way, recognize something in each other. But it proves to Rosé that she’s not alone, that someone understands her, and after she and Denali say goodnight around two, she falls asleep easily.

---

The sun dawns bright the morning of the Games.

Denali moves in a daze, stomach knotting over a silent breakfast with Rosé.

She needs to focus. She needs to let go of last night, of how real Rosé’s love seemed, of how she let her guard down and talked with her, of how close they’ve gotten. This is a game, and it’s about to start. Time seems to malfunction, and one minute she’s picking at her food and the next Manila’s leading them to the launch room. This is it.

Denali’s heart pounds as they get ready. She’s in all black--boots, pants, shirt, and jacket--and Rosé is dressed the same. Her lion pin roars on her jacket, while Denali has her mother’s necklace. She hopes it protects her.

Manila dabs her tears with a bumblebee handkerchief, and Denali would roll her eyes, but she’s pretty sure it’s genuine.

“Remember,” Rosé says hoarsely, “we get our weapons and run.”

Denali nods as they step on the plates that take them to the arena. Denali closes her eyes as the platform shoots up, her head spinning as she tries to breathe. Everything stops, and the announcer’s voice declares the 75th Hunger Games have begun.

Denali opens her eyes.

[nalufever]

do you have any more nalu fic recs?

Sorry, not sorry - you’ve unleashed more than you could’ve guessed. ^^ Always happy to Recommend a List of Fics ~ And thank you for asking! Admittedly there’s a few Recs that aren’t Nalu - I got excited to share my favs. ;)

A Girl Worth Fighting For: Natsu navigates unspeakable horrors to win Lucy’s love or Natsu goes shopping, looking for the perfect white day gift. 

A Lesson: Natsu and Lucy can’t keep themselves from expressing their passions - and the results are bed breaking. Short but smutty - smexy in fact. ;P 

A Solidly Constructed Kiss: Erza strong-arms Lucy and Natsu into working the Kissing Booth to raise funds for a school trip. Lucy’s never been kissed and Natsu acts like he’s never entertained even the idea of kissing another person. Things naturally come to a head when Lucy and Natsu are given the task to build the actual booth; will they fight over construction or build themselves some kind of relationship? 

Fairy Tail Week: A collection of drabbles from tumblr prompts to celebrate Fairy Tail. Fairy, Ladies, Lads, Magic, Guild, Ultimate Team, Stronger, Mashima, Tail. Only rated teen to err on the side of caution, family friendly content featuring most of the Fairy Tail Guild! 

Feathers and Scales: Angel/Demon AU. Devils are more than they seem and Angels no less. Pitted against each other in a never-ending battle for souls, a single Angel and Devil trade mercies and fall in love. Warning: major character death(s). 

Full Moon Secret: Natsu had wanted to tell Lucy his secrets, to share his family history with the fey…it had just never been the right time. Tonight the truth was going to be revealed, one way or another. 

Okay, I could just keep hyping all of my own fics individually - but I won’t - other than to just put in a link to ALL OF THEM. ;) Fair warning, I have a few other fandoms works in all the Fairy Tail stories - from Brooklyn 99 to The Flash, Snow White with the Red Hair, RWBY, Blue Exorcist, Teen Titans and some Hakuouki. Yes, I’m a shameless self-promoter. Speaking of that - one more I need to rec!  Natsu’s Stars in Lucy’s Sky. I swear Imma finish this. 

I also have more than a few favourite authors who write for Fairy Tail (and other fandoms) ~ some have not contributed lately to Fairy Tail or chosen to concentrate on other fandoms - but I like them and their excellent writing. 

ObsessedwithNalu: One of my first fandom friends and pretty much any of her FT stories is gold. @obsessedwithnalu  

Christmas Treats: Admittedly a gift to me and very cherished for that fact - and - it’s frigging awesome. Lucy does a little holiday baking at home before Fairy Tail’s Christmas party. Natsu, as always, is there. One thing leads to another… 

Thanks, Krov: When Krov decided to relax at his favorite bar after work, he never imagined that he’d be seeing some of his old guild members, especially since he thought they had died long ago. Nalu fluff. 

Edo-Nalu love fest: Submissions for the Nalu love fest week of 2014. But instead of regular Nalu, these ones feature Edo-Nalu. Smut-tastic and delightfully mature. 

ImpracticalDemon: Another early fandom friend who’s still writing this, that and the other thing - and she’s just GREAT. Again, a link to all her works and a few that are special to me follow. XOXOX @impracticaldemon  

May the Best Man Survive: “Gray would never have in a million years thought he’d host Natsu’s bachelor party (Nalu pairing). Why is it his job to herd the bunch of rowdy mages from bar to bar, ending up at the guild where the real surprise party is? Oh yeah, the idiot had asked him to be the best man at his wedding. Hijinks, chaos and hilarity ensue.” ^^ A prompt supplied by me and I’m smirking so wide because the fic Imp came up with delivered more awesomeness than I could have hoped for! 

A Star At His Side: “Accidentally Fall Asleep Together” for Endragoneel on tumblr. Natsu and Lucy spend the day together at a festival in Magnolia. Natsu ends up watching more than just the stars when the festival is over… 

Christmas Gifts: When Erza walks Wendy home from the Guild’s Christmas Party, Wendy realizes how alone her friend and mentor is feeling. She sets out to recruit Lucy, Natsu and the rest to break Jellal out of prison for just one night, as a Christmas gift for Erza. Meanwhile, Natsu has accidentally burned some of Lucy’s writing. Will she forgive him? 

Dark Shining Light: One of the best and most welcoming writers I have ever interacted with! I’m still gobsmacked she’s a friend! She’s a legend and I don’t know what else I could add to any discourse about her writing - but the classics are classic for a reason, yeah? Here’s a few of my personal favourites of her works and just know there’s too many to list them all! AKA @ff-darkshininglight 

Mischievous Cat: Let’s just say there have been a few incidents where Happy has come in at a bad time. 

What Belongs to a Demon: Everyone knew she belonged to the great demon lord and she would prove that she deserved to stand by his side. 

The Truth Revealing Cards: Lucy should have known if there was a card that would reveal her secrets, Natsu would want it. 

Eliz1369: Got introduced to her for her Hakuoki fics but she’d dipped her toes into FT as well ~ and this is a great fic. ^^ @eliz1369 

The Light of Fairy Tail: The members of Fairy Tail may be their own brand of crazy, but their hearts are always in the right place. 

rougescribe: Shame on me for not reading more of this author’s works! @rougescribe  

Fire Sprite No 5: For him, Heaven wasn’t a place or a single moment in time. It was a feeling built on memories upon memories, past and present and a hope for future ones all tied down together. All sharing one common denominator: Her. Nalu. Tumblr Valentine’s Event. 

Fallen Ark Angel: Admittedly I only have interacted from afar with this writer. I mainly read Nalu fics but I love her take on Mira and Laxus and her next gen offspring characters. She’s got a lot to offer and it’s all superb. @fallen029

Loving Satan: Loving Satan is never easy. But when she loves you back, its twice as bad. 

Madartiste: Another one-sided love affair with someone else’s writing. And her stories are all wonderful and prolly appear on hundreds of Fic Rec Lists - but here’s one of my Favs! @madartiste  

Hoarding: Getting interrupted gets old fast. 

UranoMetria: I added her to my stable of fav authors 05-03-2014. Wow. Eons ago and even if I’m not sure she’s still active in the fandom, I salute her. Kudos. 

The Goddess Gate: With six years of partnership, Natsu and Lucy are torn apart by a mysterious visit from a secret magic council. Lucy is kidnapped and her memories suppressed. She fights her way back home to regain her life - with a startling secret revealed as she begins to remember. The lives of all Earthland hang in the balance. **Okay, this is a wicked old fic - but amazingly written and fuelled my own desires for writing. Last updated in 2018 but who knows? Some current attention may slay any demons on her back in regards to writing - and even if not - the hours of enjoyment reading this is worth giving a comment just to say, ‘thank you for writing.‘ 

Wild Rhov: Do I even need to say anything about this author? Famous, famous, famous. Excellent. Writes a lot of pairings and fleshes every relationship into something REAL. I Can’t Even. @wildrhov  

Beastly Possession: Something is murdering people in Magnolia. When Lucy is attacked, Natsu goes on a rampage to find the culprit, and everyone in Fairy Tail wants revenge. But could this bloodthirsty attacker be someone they know? Warning: High octane nightmare fuel! Do not read while eating, and beware of red eyes in the dark! 

Shell1331: Introduced via Imp. This writer is in a few fandoms and is worth reading. @shell-senji  

Juicy: Impulsivity and poorly chosen words get Natsu into more trouble than he’d expected, which is saying something for him. 

AbsentAngel: Everyone should know this writer. Been stalking her since 2014 so that says something. Tho, it’s prolly just that I’m creepy. ;) My suggested fic here is being re-written/has been? into something original and worth being purchased when it becomes available and re-read over and over. No, I am not being paid to shill but I am open to having senpai notice me. @absent-angel  

To the Flame: She stares, transfixed, as the blood runs down his fingers and begins to pool in his palm. He holds his hand up to her lips in offering, and she tears her eyes away from the blood to study his face. He is smiling softly. “Go on Luce, I didn’t cut them for nothing.” [Vamp AU] 

HawkofNavarre: Loved for awesome and delightful Gruvia content. Looks like there’s a tumblr but I can’t manage to link it. :(

You Stole the Rain: He just wanted to be friends; fine, she just needed to change his mind. Gray x Juvia 

Ricardian Scholar Clark-Weasley: Not sure I spelled that right even after checking three times! I usually short hand that to RS-CW in my head. And she’s prolific - has a tonne of fandoms and is a tower of talent. Is anyone reading all my fangirl gushing? 'Cause she follows one of my fics and comments (sorry I haven’t updated that fic in a while) and it’s a source of happiness that someone who writes so well happens to enjoy some of my content. Okay, bragging over - back to the Recs! 

Tales of Fairies: A collection of oneshots exploring different friendships, ideas, sad themes, comical scenarios, and lots and lots of pairings…but mainly Nalu. 

snogfairy: Another giant in the FT fandom. Impressive talent. @lineffability  

naughty nalus: smutty nalu oneshots B) ***Mature content!*** 

Rivendell101: Another giant in FT and other fandoms. This author would be considered required reading if I ran a fandom course in a University setting. Just sayin’ @rivendell101  

Crave: /krāv/ Verb. To feel a powerful desire for (something). They crave each other. And satiation doesn’t come easily. He growls against her again. “Beg for it,” he demands, lips ghosting against her. 

Lakerae aka @hidetheremote : Did you think I’d forgotten you? Ha! Gotcha good! You’re an inspiration to me because you’re working so hard to publish your children’s books. Kudos to you li'l sis! You’re busy but still make it a point to talk to me and I love you for that and everything.

The Gift of the Magi: A Gajevy Twist: A retelling of the classic Christmas story “The Gift of the Magi,” with your favorite Fairy Tail couple Gajeel and Levy! It’s Christmas time and Gajeel and Levy exchange gifts. They both are surprised what they receive and learn a lesson of the true meaning of Christmas. 

I could add more and more as I search my saved favs on FF.net ~ and I’m sorry to not include all of them - but this is crazy long as it is. If you read and like any of the recommended fics, please be sure to let the author know. To the authors of these and all fanfics, Thanks for everything.

[ronninoir]

Can I Steal You for a Second? CH1

Summary: Adrien is forced to participate in a new dating show, but becomes more excited when Ladybug says she'll participate as her civilian self. AKA: AU where Adrien doesn't know Marinette, the superheroes are 22 and Gabriel is mean and ruthless but not Hawkmoth.

Read on AO3

Chapter 1

Ladybug knew something was wrong with Chat the minute she stepped onto the rooftop where they had agreed to meet for patrol. He didn’t look up when she landed, even though she knew that he had heard her. She slowly walked towards him and decided that she wouldn’t push... for now. As she sat next to him, she began to count. By the time she reached 100, her patience had run thin and she was determined to break the silence.

 “Hey, Kitty, feline a little quiet tonight?” Although she despised his constant use of cat puns, she figured the use of one would help break him out of his stupor. She glanced at Chat, expecting a smile and a witty comeback to come from him, but instead she was treated to sad kitty eyes and a look that broke something inside of her. Her voice came out barely as a whisper, “Chat, what’s wrong?”

 Chat stared intently into Ladybug’s eyes. After a beat, he sighed. “It’s no big deal,” he shrugged it off, or tried to. But Ladybug was insistent. She locked eyes with him and scooted closer, and gave him a look saying that she didn’t believe him. He sighed before whispering, “Well, it actually is a big deal.” He took a breath, closed his eyes, and then continued on, “They—I—my father is forcing me to do something and I just—I just am not looking forward to going through with it.” Chat broke eye contact with Ladybug, but she moved her hand to his shoulder. He leaned into it absentmindedly.

 “Chat, you know you can tell me anything,” She said with a soft smile. They were partners after all. She would be there for him through anything.

 He slowly looked up at her again, this time the pain and hurt in his eyes evident. “Even... even if it reveals my identity?”

 Ladybug paused a little, processing that information. She knew that Chat was homeschooled and that she most likely didn’t know him in real life. But is she really ready to learn who her precious kitty is behind the mask? She’s loved Chat for 7 years (as more than friends for 5) so she knew deep down that his identity didn’t matter to her. The reason they hadn’t revealed themselves yet was because of Hawkmoth. He was just as strong as ever and the two superheroes needed to trust each other with everything, to a certain point. Safety is important when fighting someone like Hawkmoth. If one of them was captured... just the thought made Ladybug shiver and her heart strain. She couldn’t do that to her kitty.

But... if she knew his identity, she could help him through this... thing that he was going through. Truthfully, she was curious, both about his problem and his identity. She was Ladybug, and Ladybugs fixed problems, fought hard battles, and supported their team—their partner— through it all. There were many different times that during high school, Chat was all that kept her going, and she would love to return the favor.

 Slowly, the words came out of her mouth before she even realized it.

 “Yes, Chaton, even if it reveals your identity.” He looked at her stunned, before a genuine smile split across his face. That look made the potential problems worth it.

 “My father is forcing me to ‘branch out’ for the company and complete a publicity stunt. There is this reality show that is really popular in America that they are shooting a season of here in Paris. They want me to be the star, since my fans are numerous and should be a good starting point of a fanbase for the show.” Ladybug started a little upon hearing that Chat has fans outside of the suit. She had expected him to be normal, just like her. Her mind started racing, trying to figure out what he was going to say before he said it.

 Chat pauses and took a deep breath, looking extremely nervous about the next part of his explanation. He looked at her in a way that encouraged her line of thinking; she should know what he was talking about. Thinking that her brain must have shut down for some reason, she tilted her head slightly as she could feel her face scrunch in a half confused-half thinking face.

 “What show is it?” aiming for innocence even though her voice shook and so she didn’t sell it very well. The only thing she can think of is the new reality show that Gabriel Agreste (only the most talented fashion designer in Paris and a huge idol to Ladybug) is doing to promote his line. But that can’t be it... can it? She couldn’t remember the details of the show, except that it involved one boy and a lot of girls. In fact, if she remembered correctly, the boy was going to be Gabriel’s son, Adrien. He models sometimes and is very good-looking, but that can’t possibly be...

 Ladybug gasped a little and looked up at Chat, seeing him in a new light. She had admired his pictures for a long time and this cat-themed superhero sitting in front of her looked a whole lot like Adrien. If the hair was styled and his eyes were not of the cat variety.

“The show is called The Bachelor.” Chat continued on, not noticing the way that Ladybug was staring at him. “They take one guy and thirty girls and he takes them on dates and week by week has to narrow it down to just one girl that he loves and he is supposed to propose to that girl at the end of the show.” Chat explains with a slight rise to his voice. It’s as though he’s freaking out about the whole thing and is having trouble getting the words out. Of course, Ladybug realizes, that is exactly what he’s doing. He stares at her, trying to get a read on how she’s taking it all, and so Ladybug pastes on a smile and says the first thing that comes to mind.

 “You’re Adrien Agreste.” It didn’t come out as a scream, so Ladybug gave herself a mental pat-on-the-back for maintaining part of her composure.

 Chat nods and then gives a slight murmur of, “Plagg, claws in.” With a flash of green light, Adrien is sitting where Chat once was and a little black creature has flown into Ladybug’s face.

 “That didn’t take you long after he spelled it out for you. You’ve been working with this doofus for SEVEN WHOLE YEARS and yet you couldn’t spell it out?” The black kwami, who was super adorable, by the way, was flying around waving his little paws and getting all worked up. The whole thing, from Adrien being Chat and being chewed out by a kwami who was VERY different from Tikki, was just so absurd, she couldn’t help but laugh.

 “You must be Plagg!” Ladybug said between giggles as she guided Plagg to sit in her hands. “Tikki told me lots about you, but I didn’t know you’d be so feisty when I got to meet you.”

Plagg crossed his arms and gave her a disdainful look, “Well I haven’t had any cheese in a while and I get cranky when I’m hungry.” Ladybug laughed again as Adrien sputtered from where he sat. His mouth was hanging open and his eyes were huge. Clearly, he didn’t think Plagg would be so mean to Ladybug when he first met her.

 “Plagg! I fed you right before we left!”

 But his comment wasn’t heard over Ladybug’s laughs as she rubbed Plagg’s belly and behind his ears. “Has the mean Adrien not given you any cheese lately?” Ladybug said in a joking voice. Plagg gave her some kitty eyes and shook his head woefully. “Well I’m sorry I don’t have any cheese on me, but I promise, I’ll always come stocked with cheese from now on.”

 Plagg flew up and gave Ladybug a look. He must have decided that she was trustworthy, because then he turned to Adrien and declared, “I like her. She cares about me and my cheese needs. You should be more like her.”

 Adrien blanched and Ladybug began laughing again. That seemed to shock Adrien back into the present and he quickly spat out, “Well, she’d be less willing to give you cheese if she had to put up with smelling like Camembert all of the time!” At that comment, Plagg stuck out his tongue at Adrien and then dove into his shirt pocket and out of sight.

 Ladybug was smiling like an idiot. Why hadn’t they revealed themselves earlier? This was a blast and Adrien was all Ladybug could have hoped for in a partner. Suddenly, the reason that he HAD revealed himself came back to her and her smile quickly faded.

 “So, you’re going to have to do this show.” Adrien looked up at her and his expression was wary again. “What are you going to have to do?”

 “I have to get to know a pool of 30 women and narrow down my choices until I find one that I can see myself spending the rest of my life with. My dad thinks that it is going to be good for the company if I do this. Plus, I think he wants me married off and this is a sure-fire way of doing it, at least in his mind.”

 That all made sense, but there was one big thing that had never seemed clear to her, “What does your dad gain from this show? How would a dating show help a fashion designer?”

 Adrien smiled a little at that. “It’s actually kind of brilliant. So, my dad is partially funding the show, so he has a lot of say in what happens. In the American version, they bring their own clothes and such and just go about the show. My father has decided that every girl will wear a Gabriel original, whether that’s formal wear, casual wear, even swimsuits, at all times during the filming. It’s virtually going to be an extended runway show. Everyone will tune in for the idea of watching me fall in love, but will actually fall in love with the fashion.”

 Ladybug had to give Gabriel some credit, that was a great marketing idea. Although at the expense of his son...

 “Does he really expect you to fall for the person you’re going to marry on this show? That seems a little crazy, and you’re only 22.”

 Adrien’s eyes dropped from Ladybug’s and his hand went up to rub the back of his neck. A slow blush began to cross his checks, and Ladybug hated to admit it, but he looked really cute like that. “I was furious when he told me, but he made me a promise. If I would go about the show, play through it like I’m supposed to, and stay engaged after the show for six-months, then I’m allowed to break it off and pursue someone on my own.”

 “Wouldn’t that leave a bad reputation for the show? Surely your father doesn’t want that.”

 “He doesn’t. But the American version very rarely comes up with successful relationships, so he’s willing to let the show end badly if it promotes Gabriel Fashions well enough.” Adrien shrugged and smiled. “As long as I get to make the decisions about my love life, I’ll be okay.”

 Ladybug smiled at that, but it began her mind whirring. What kind of Ladybug would she be if she let him go through with this. They were two halves of a whole, or at least that’s what Tikki kept telling her. She loved him as more than a friend and the thought of sitting back and watching him serial date girls made her stomach twist.

 “Are you actually going to try to date these girls? Like actually get to know them and what-not?”

 Adrien’s face twisted in thought, “Well, I’ve considered it, but I have a feeling that the girl I love won’t be playing with me. It’s a shame really. Especially since she has to stay here and protect Paris while I’m gone.” There was a twinkle in his eye that made Ladybug’s stomach flutter with butterflies—and the non-akuma kind at that. Chat had always flirted with Ladybug, but she never took him seriously even if she really really wanted it to be real.

 Suddenly, a thought, one so wild and out-there Tikki would never go for it, came. It was an idea that could actually work, if she played it right.

 A playful smirk grew on her face and her heart began to race. “What if she was?”

 His shocked expression was enough to make the shaming she was going to get from Tikki later worth it. “Would you really?” Then, after a beat, his face fell. “You can’t. You have to stay here and protect Paris. What if an akuma comes up? Who’s going to fight it?”

 “We are silly! You don’t expect me to be Ladybug and Chat Noir without my kitty, do you? The show is only shooting in Paris, right?” She thought she had heard that mentioned, but she wasn’t as invested when the topic first came up.

 The cogs were turning as he responded, “Yeah we are.”

 “Then that settles it. I’ll apply to be a contestant, you’ll escape away and help me fight akumas and possibly patrol once a week, and then we won’t have to stop being a team.” And I’ll have a chance to go on a proper date with you and we’ll fall in love and get married and have three kids and....

 Her thoughts were interrupted by a bone crushing hug from Adrien. “Thank you so much! It won’t be as bad with you there.” When they pulled away, the smile on Ladybug’s face wasn’t forced.

 “C’mon kitty, let’s start patrol.” She shot him a wink and stood. She gave him about 10 seconds to transform before she sprinted off into the night.

~~Let me know what you think! I’m excited to see where this goes

[haloud]

it’s a postcard, i’m settled (rated e)

@lsobelevans put in a request for more mylex, so here’s a new entry in my ongoing series! ft. domestic bliss and multiple blow jobs ;). hope you enjoy!

The cabin becomes, without really any of them meaning to make it this way, more or less a home for all three of them. It’s an isolated little world all their own, even if it’s way too small for three grown men—something Michael keeps talking about starting to change. But for a half-forgotten hunting cabin in the middle of nowhere, it’s taken on a whole new life. It’s where Michael bops around to music only he can hear trying to figure out how to flip pancakes. It’s where Kyle can walk in the door and find Alex reading on the couch in front of the fire. It’s where Kyle can get space from the pressure of being a doctor in a town this size and find a little sliver of peace.

There is a drawback besides the size of the space, though, and Kyle’s job is a part of it. Michael’s as well, but as odd as his hours can sometimes be, he doesn’t have the demand of being on call that Kyle has. Out of sheer necessity, Kyle spends most nights at his home closer to the hospital and as their relationship develops, Alex and Michael find themselves welcome there more and more on the nights Kyle can’t make it out to the cabin, and somewhere along the line Alex takes over the tiny second bedroom office. Kyle gladly lets him and even happily endures the irritated muttering about Kyle’s lack of commitment to cybersecurity.

Whether they’re at home or at Kyle’s, though, there’s no getting past the fact that, well, they’ve gone domestic. Michael continues his culinary adventures to a pretty satisfying level of success, and Kyle pays him back by washing up, even though Michael hangs around the whole time flicking suds at him and cackling when he tries to bat them out of the air.

Once the dishes are done, Kyle takes the plate they left to warm in the oven, and the two of them head up to the office to bring dinner to Alex, who never came down to eat with them.

“Did you miss the dinner bell?” Kyle asks, knocking softly on the open door.

“Yeah, sorry, I’m just in the middle.” Alex only glances up briefly from his computer screen, sparing a smile for his boyfriends but returning his attention immediately back.

“I understand time-sensitive projects,” Kyle says, “But I think you can spare fifteen minutes to eat before we have to reheat your dinner a second time.”

Michael rounds the desk and settles his hands on Alex’s shoulders, squeezing tenderly. He says, “If the surgeon says you’re working too hard, you’re working too hard,” and he slides his arms over Alex’s shoulders and down, clasping his hands down at Alex’s navel and nuzzling a kiss to the back of his head. “Maybe…you could take the rest of the night off…and let us pamper you.”

Slowly, oh so slowly, he starts to untuck Alex’s shirt so he can creep his fingers under the hem and stroke his stomach. Alex grabs his wrist but doesn’t do anything else to deter him; he even leans his head back onto Michael’s shoulder, and his eyes drift shut when Michael nudges forward to kiss down his neck.

“You deserve a break…and you have this nice, sturdy desk…” Michael purrs against the slight day’s-end stubble high on Alex’s neck, inching his shirt a couple centimeters higher, revealing more of his flat stomach, lightly teasing every bit of skin he uncovers.

Kyle laughs. “Not exactly what I meant when I said ‘pamper.’”

“Mm, no, but it’s what I meant. Alex…”

“There probably is room for you under this desk,” Alex says, amusement in his voice, “But I don’t know why we’d ever need to know that information. Can you think of any reasons?” Instead of waiting for an answer, he sits back up and puts his hands back on the keyboard. Michael is pulled in with him by his arms still locked around Alex’s neck and he makes a complaining little noise as he’s left trying to get at the sensitive skin of Alex’s neck again.

Alex’s voice is capable of so may magical things, chief among them the uncanny ability he seems to have to code new fantasies directly into Kyle’s brain. He’s had this desk since he started med school and never once had a sexual thought involving it, but now that Alex says a single sentence in that smoky, promise-heavy voice, all he can think about is getting up on top of it and spreading his legs and getting that leverage to kiss Alex from above, feeling him push up against him…a little shiver dances down his spine.

“What do you think, Kyle?” he asks, “Is there any reason we should test if someone can fit underneath this desk?”

“Uh…” he swallows, “I do feel like there might be some…applications…”

“Mm. I agree. Too bad I’m just too busy to experiment right now. Have to get this project done, after all.”

He goes back to typing, even though he has a devilish grin on his face and Michael still hanging around his neck, tugging on his clothes, nibbling his ear. Ignoring him has always been a surefire way to rile Michael up, and it’s clearly working now, as he changes tactics from trying to pull Alex’s attention to giving Kyle a puppy-eyed, beseeching request for help.

Grinning to match Alex, Kyle pushes off from the door and makes his slow, sauntering way to Michael’s side. He sets the plate of food—gone cold again, probably, but that’s what ovens are for—down on the desk, well away from the computer, and comes right up to him. Bumping his hip, he says “Let go for a sec,” and even though it involves an awful lot of pouting, Michael complies, making sure to drag his hands all up Alex’s chest as he does it. As soon as Michael’s not in the way, Kyle grabs Alex’s chair and pulls him back, making enough space between his legs and the footwell of the desk for Michael to slip between them.

Alex locks his arms against the desk to make it a little tougher for Kyle to move him, but from his new vantage point Kyle can see that he’s just been typing into an empty document.

Ganging up on me? That’s cute, he types as Michael gets himself situated, and Kyle swallows the excess saliva in his mouth.

“Call it an intervention,” he says, letting go of the chair now that Michael is on his knees between Alex’s legs, looking up at them both with an eager spark in those honey-colored eyes.

Finally relenting, Alex gently strokes Michael’s hair off his forehead, the curls springing back into place as his fingers pass through. He looks down at him with hooded, heated eyes, and Kyle swallows again, drinking in the sight himself from over Alex’s shoulder. God, Michael always looks so good on his knees, with a dirty little smirk on his mouth and his hands curved around Alex thighs. He flutters his long eyelashes and pushes himself forward until his chest brushes the seat of the chair.

“Looks like I fit,” he says, drawing his nose in a line along Alex’s inseam until he reaches the juncture of his thighs.

“Somehow I just knew you’d be able to make room,” Alex replies with a little chuckle, running his fingers through Michael’s hair again.

“I’m talented like that.”

“I think it’s a different talent you’re looking to exercise at the moment.”

“Mm, guilty as charged.” Michael runs his hands in long sweeps up and down the outside of Alex’s legs, massaging as he goes, showing his teeth when Alex responds by tucking one leg over his shoulder, caging him in completely.

Itching to get his hands on Alex too, Kyle settles his hands on his shoulders, digging his thumbs into the muscle gone all tense from the hours he’s spent at the computer today, grinning and humming at the happy moan Alex makes, tipping his head forward to give Kyle more space to work.

“You two are the worst,” Alex says on another moan as Kyle digs deep into a particularly stubborn knot.

“You think national security can’t wait for you to get your dick sucked?” Michael laughs.

“I don’t think they have quite the same priorities as you do.”

“Well maybe they should work on changing that.”

Alex laughs and shakes his head. Ever since Michael inserted himself between his legs, Alex’s hand has been in constant motion, petting him, rubbing his thumb in little circles at his temple, scraping his fingers against the stubble on his jaw. He brings his other hand up, reverent, to cup both sides of his face.

“Well, if I’m taking some personal time,” Alex says, “Let’s not waste it. Shouldn’t you be getting to work?”

“Mm, I thought you’d never ask.”

Without hesitating any longer, Michael unbuttons Alex’s pants and shimmies them down his hips, Alex doing less than the bare minimum to help, barely lifting his ass off the chair let himself be undressed. Michael puts just the tip of his tongue between his teeth as he concentrates, and Kyle wants to get down there to kiss that fucking cute expression off his face. He settles for moving his massage down Alex’s back, searching for more spots to make him moan open-mouthed and full-throated.

“I dated a girl studying massage therapy for a little while,” Kyle comments, “And she taught me a little bit. Could get some oils or lotion and make a real spa day of it. I did say you deserve to be pampered.”

“Are you trying to distract me from the fact that Guerin is clearly cheating right now?”

Michael flutters his eyelashes innocently, but yeah, Alex is floating an inch or so in the air now, his pants around his knees.

“Not on purpose; you’re kind of just a mess back here.” He rolls his knuckles into the stubborn tension between Alex’s shoulder blades. “And it’d be hot as hell to get you to lay down on a real massage table and get to take my time better than I can right now. Help you relax.”

“I volunteer to be in charge of the happy ending,” Michael says.

“You’re getting your chance right now, no cutting in line for seconds.”

“I might be able to find some time in my schedule for a massage,” Alex says. The only indication he gives that he even heard Michael mouthing off is his hand sliding around to the back of his head and jerking him forward. At the show of force, Michael muffles a groan into Alex’s inner thigh, sucking that warm and fragile skin into his mouth.

“Wouldn’t want you to be in anything less than top shape. As a physician…”

“Oh, are we playing doctor now? I think Valenti should be the sexy nurse instead.”

“You were so eager to get down there; are you satisfied now? Because you’re being so chatty I start to think that you’re ready to come out.”

“Oh no, I’m good,” Michael says immediately, hugging on to Alex’s thighs like someone might try to pull him away.

“Then why don’t you do something about it?”

“Aye aye, Captain,” he purrs and, leaning farther forward, fixes his teeth on the waistband of Alex’s underwear and tugs and tugs it down, until Alex’s half-hard cock is free, and Michael moves in to lick and nuzzle at the base, hand moving slowly, humming happily.

Sighing with pleasure, Alex leans back into Kyle’s hands; Kyle got distracted somewhere along the line, his hands stalled to pet his sides. Michael really is so distracting, with the way his berry-red lips look open just enough to let the head of Alex’s cock pass through, the easy, eager way he bobs forward until his nose is buried in the trimmed hair at the base, the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows and swallows as much as he can until he has to pull back up to breathe—

Alex and Kyle are equally mesmerized. Guerin watches up through his lashes, eyes damp and glittering with triumph every time the hand on the back of his head grips tighter, until that hand lets go, slides around to rest against his throat, not squeezing, just leaving it there to feel. And the sight of it, there’s something intoxicating there, enough to have Kyle throbbing inside his jeans. Almost absentmindedly, he flicks open the button to relieve a little pressure, rubbing the heel of his hand against the rigid line of his cock as he watches Alex grind the pad of his thumb against the slick corner of Michael’s mouth.

“You love this, don’t you,” Alex croons, “love that feeling, that taste. You’d get on your knees anytime I wanted you to and love every second, wouldn’t you.”

Michael’s eyes fall shut, and he hums around Alex’s cock, a happy, agreeable little sound that has Alex hissing and clutching him closer again, forcing his cock all the way down his throat.

Keeping his voice level, Alex continues, “Don’t you think so, Kyle? That this is what Michael is made for?”

“He loves it,” Kyle agrees, considerably more hoarsely, “Just look at him. Still begging for more.”

“You’re right. He can’t be satisfied with just this much. Michael,” he strokes his cheek, grips his jaw, without moving his head forcing him to meet their eyes, “hurry up and make me come. You’re not done until you’ve used your mouth to get Kyle off as well. Maybe you’ll be satisfied then, hm?”

The noise Michael makes next is no teasing hum but a loud, hungry moan, and he redoubles his efforts, bobbing his head so that his curls bounce back and forth with the movement, working his hand roughly everywhere his mouth doesn’t touch, working his tongue as eagerly as he can, until Alex comes with a shout, holding him in place while he fills his mouth up, and Michael swallows, not letting go of a single drop.

Alex pulls out of his mouth while he’s still swallowing and misty-eyed and rolls the chair back. He goes to push himself up, saying, “your turn, Kyle,” but before he can get up, Kyle pushes him back down.

He says, “I think I’d rather, uh…” and rather than finish the sentence, he hops up on the desk and spreads his legs like he’s been wanting to since Alex first got that glint of promise in his eye.

Alex laughs and leans the chair back. “I like the way you think. Get out here, Michael.”

Michael needs a little help to unfurl himself from the footwell, using Kyle’s hand to stand up, and he stretches out each leg individually, then stretches his whole body with languid grace and a satisfied groan as joints pop back into place. Alex tugs him in by his belt loops, and he goes willingly, arching into it as Alex digs his fingers into the dimples right above his ass, reaching up to ruffle his hair as Alex kisses his sternum.

“Hmm.” Alex grinds the heel of his hand against Michael’s still-clothed cock. “Think you’ll be able to make it through another? I have my doubts.”

“Sounds like a challenge.”

Kyle shudders at the rasp sucking Alex has put into Michael’s voice, and he absentmindedly starts palming himself as he watches his boyfriends together.

“You could say that,” Alex says, interrupting himself to trail his mouth to the side and nip at Michael’s nipple, pinching the other cruelly, making Michael squirm, “Or I could say that if you come, no hands, while sucking Kyle, I’ll find some way to make you very happy later.”

“Fuck,” Kyle and Michael groan simultaneously, their eyes flicking up to meet each other’s, lust snapping so tight between them that Michael pulls away from Alex to stumble over and fall on his knees in front of Kyle’s spread legs. Kyle grabs him by the hair just on instinct, holding him tight as he licks his lips, looks fiercely up at Kyle through his lashes, and waits for the word go.

“Guerin,” Kyle moans, and that must be enough, because Michael dives in, swallows Kyle down in one long gulp, gags for just a second before fixing his angle and starting up a quick, brutal rhythm that has Kyle’s hips twitching up to meet him. Kyle holds on to  the desk so hard he can feel his nails biting into the underside, and it’s all, it’s all got an extra edge of filthiness underneath it, feeling the wood, hard and smooth and cool beneath him, the feeling of exposure from being up there, all adding an edge to the hottightwet sensation of Michael’s throat around his cock.

And then Alex’s hand is there, pushing Kyle’s out of the way so he can guide the motion of Michael’s head more firmly, pushing and pulling him exactly where he wants him and at what pace and Michael just melts, leaning on his hands to keep from falling over and losing Kyle’s cock from his mouth as he curls up around himself in pleasure. The vibration of Michael’s moan around him has Kyle’s hips jerking forward as he tips his head back and cries out and comes, every muscle of his lower body clenching all at once, his thighs around Michael’s head, his heels digging into his back, and before Kyle is done shaking or Michael is done swallowing, Alex yanks him off to kiss him and taste Kyle in his mouth. He lets go and lets Michael sprawl out on all fours, panting for breath and grinning all smug and messy and beautiful. Kyle would ask who won their little wager, but from the way Michael laughs, he already knows.

“You better get to thinking about that reward,” Michael says, as good as purring as he presses up into the hand still gripping him by the hair.

Later, though, after Alex has finally eaten and the three of them pile into Kyle’s king-sized bed (bought as a luxury when he bought the house, and even though he couldn’t have known the future, nothing feels as luxurious as Alex and Michael sleeping beside him), he thinks that just being able to be together like this is reward enough.

[mutantsrisingrpg]

Congratulations DEAN! You’ve been accepted as ARIEL.

Dean, you don’t know how overjoyed I am to have you and your take on Lenox back in my life! Lenox is one of my favorite skeletons and you just capture him so perfectly. For Lenox, the devil is literally in the details, since he has the ability to control how they’re perceived. I love everything about him, especially when I view him through the lens you crafted (or is it the lens he crafted, and I’m actually under the spell of his powers right now? my brain hurts)! I can’t wait to see the havoc you and Lenox unleash on this dash.

Welcome to Mutants Rising! Please read the checklist and submit your account within 24 hours.

its britney bitch

NAME/ALIAS: Dean

PRONOUNS: She/her

AGE: 22

TIMEZONE & ACTIVITY LEVEL: GMT, i’m fairly active bean and am always here to plot

In Character Information:

DESIRED ROLE: Lenox Syed

GENDER/PRONOUNS: Cismale, he/him

DETAILS & ANALYSIS: This is where you show us who the character is to you! The format of this doesn’t matter, whether it’s in bullet points or in para form, and can be as long as you’d like it to be. Feel free to get creative!

Lenox as a boy’s name is of Scottish and Gaelic origin, and the meaning of Lenox is “with many elm trees”.

Syed or Sayyid or Sayed (Arabic and Urdu: سيدعلی) is a family of Syeds in South Asia, notably India and Pakistan. Syeds are the direct descendants of the Islamic Prophet Muhammad.

Lenox is lost in his own fantasy world. Creating so many illusions for people each day that he has become lost in one of his own. With a lack of attention through his childhood, he craves the limelight and approval of everyone around him and will do pretty much anything to get it, even if it’s false or trickery.

He’s so painstakingly constructed, he’s his own work of art. Each detail of his personality and appearance delicately manipulated into something strikingly beautiful. Someone you can look at with awe just by the way they talk or move. It’s almost hard to realise there’s another man beneath the mask, someone raw and damaged. Like a bird with a broken wing.

BIO:

Tw: Drug mention

His mother is just fifteen when she gives birth to him, swaddled in a blue blanket and passed immediately to the arms of a doctor; she never held him, never looked at his freshly reddened face as his cries wailed down the corridors. It’s not because of his mutation, not because his birth family couldn’t bare to raise a being burdened with powers. She was a child herself, naivety leaving adoption as the only logical decision.  

A foster home decides to take him in, raising him from infancy without any awareness of any abnormality. It’s where he stays for the first nine years of his life, a cosy house in Oregon that housed five other children. But the dormancy of his powers didn’t stay concealed forever. It started with his foster siblings sleepwalking, Lenox’s dreams imprinting on them accidentally as they’d trample through the house enthralled by the vivid illusions of his fantasy worlds. Then it began intertwining into everyday life, emotional outbursts of temper alluding unsafe situations like fire or monsters that hid under the bed. Games became near impossible to differentiate between make believe and reality from the second he joined in.  

“You’re unsafe,” it’s a comment he’d gladly wear as a badge of honour once he’d matured. But to the little boy being dragged away from his foster family, betrayed by his caregivers and turned in for research, the words grazed his skin like stinging nettles.

The four plain walls of the room only further ignite an overly active imagination, a tool that was dangerous to have with a power like his own. The eleven years he spends there does the opposite of what society would have hoped, boredom allows for focus and practice, it sharpens his talents and he’s able to put them to good use. By the end of his stay the doctors had favoured him among the rest, because he wills it so. They go easy on him, carefully placed illusions write false notes on his reports. Detailed and intricate enough so that he doesn’t get caught out, handwriting remarkably identical to each nurse or scientist that take their turn testing on him. He starts to admire the way it feels, too chaotic to be part of society and embedded with more potential than anyone could have known.

It’s when that potential reaches a point where imagination can no longer be imprisoned by those four walls that he decided enough was enough. The process of discharging himself was a meticulous operation. Theatrically staged and miraculously timed with an annual cell collecting test. Before he can be sedated he’s enticed the nurses into an imaginary induced coma, deep enough into his intoxication that he can use the poisoned needle on them. The theater only has the two women on the floor when the doctor enters, sly projections manipulating each person he’d bumped into on his way to the exit into that same sleep, a psychedelic world of kaleidoscope landscapes and stained glass colours, once awakening they would never see this boy again.

“You’re unsafe,” the same words, just a different context. An ally ushers him to leave Oregon and head to Chicago. A place where policies were loosened and his own kind somewhat tolerated.

The new city put Lenox’s own fresh start in full swing.

Fragile reality was a vehicle for his reinvention, so easily malleable that to change it was simpler and more natural to him than breathing. He’s masterful in the way it’s applied, diminishing a past life of shame and grit in place of high strung worth and superiority. He’d created himself with utter royalty, his own nobility evident by the way in which he moved, regally eloquent and unmistakably ethereal to anyone who crossed his path.

He builds his career on the sins he knows other’s desire. Selling crushed up aspirin as a party drug in the underbelly of the city’s night clubbing scene, using his power to make it seem as if it were the legitimate stuff and not something that cost him a couple bucks from the convenience store across the street. Lenox could make them see whatever he wanted, turn their evenings into a production of his own design and leave with none of the being any wiser. It’s how Benjamin Granger catches word of him, a supposed mutant that was living life as if he were a king. He’s the first person to ever acknowledge his capability, strikes him up an offer he couldn’t refuse. Drawn like a moth to a flame after the slightest suggestion of power and the infatuation that he was finally wanted by someone and to belong to something.

EXPANDED CONNECTIONS:

Chance Matthews: He’s the face he can’t erase from his mind, the curve of his lips engraved in deep fixations when he couldn’t fall asleep on a Sunday night. Perhaps it’s the fact that he shouldn’t do it that makes it more enticing, a lust to ignite underlying passion to unearth exactly what they had both been burying.

Jordan Rojas: Jordan is somewhat of a curiosity for Lenox to unpick. A closed book that is intriguing because of their close association together. Always keen to show his worth, to prove himself to those around him, perhaps it’s a dangerous combination should Jordan utalise the other’s naivety in combination of his powers in the way that Benjamin does.

Jack Mizuno: He likes that he can get so deep into their head, that he can have full control of a world that wasn’t Jack’s domain. It’s all to do with power and annoyance, a deep craving to see exactly how far he can push people before they hit their breaking point. Even then, it’s fun to flip that breaking point into a place of pure bliss and drop it again just when his subject is at ease. He’s like a lab rat, someone he tries his tricks on before taking them to the main show.

EXTRA: 

https://www.pinterest.co.uk/dean_ie/ariel/

Lenox spends a lot of his spare time writing and doodling. It’s all extremely sketchy, there’s never any sort of final draft. It helps his imagination, which is a much exercised tool in his life.

He is probably more invested in mental health than most. Meditation and yoga being a crucial part of his daily routine after a bowl full of sugar packed cereal.

He’s naive and eager to please anyone that might create a bond with him, he craves companionship after never really understanding it due to the absence of it in his life.

Lenox works as a part-time artist and painter, he’s guilty of using illusions to get clients to buy his art by playing into their preferences .

He also works as a drug dealer, never selling legitimate stuff but using over the counter medicines with the combination of his powers to masquerade as the real stuff.

He has an unruly sweet tooth. He keeps lollipops in his back pocket and will order dessert off a menu at a restaurant instead of a main meal. His favourite thing on the planet is warm cookie dough and ice cream.

He listens exclusively to Grunge music. Celebrity Skin by Hole is his absolute jam and he only ever sings Are You Gonna Be My Girl by Jet is his go to karaoke song.

Lenox is openly proud of his sexuality as a homosexual, though he’ll flirt with anyone and anything for the fun of it.

He prefers tea over coffee.

He’s a bit of a poetry dork, he collects first edition poetry books and his most prized possession is a first edition of Howl and Other Poems by Allen Ginsberg.

He’s very judgemental of how others present themselves and will tell you if your new shirt is ugly.

Lenox lives in a small apartment, anyone that enters he’s carefully to make them see it as 3 times bigger than it actually is with far more light.

He has a fear of heights.

[migleefulmoments]

“Precious little d. Either embarrrssed about talking about sex or it had been quite some time, and if it had been a long time, that seems quite inconsistent with the PR story that was starting to ramp up as this was not long before confirmation day and the I’m a straight man with a gf tour.” Gawd is she serious lols. Darren loves a naughty pun so why would be embarrassed to talk about sex. And seeing as Abby has probably never had sex she should probs keeps quiet.

Darren embarrassed to talk about sex? HE WROTE “ME AND MY DICK”!!!!!! He has a bar called Tramp Stamp Grannies which serves drinks called boob soup...there is no way in hell he was embarrassed.  Like who the hell is she thinking about when she says that? Herself? Kurt with his “because of the layers” conversation? Certainly not Darren Criss.  

The clip is here (X) so you don't have to watch the entire episode.

He says ‘who me” and takes a heart beat to answer - Kathy makes another joke and he says “IDK...IDK, yesterday?” to which Kathy says “because I would think playing a gay guy but being a hot straight guy, you must get a ton of pussy” and he says “Well I mean, well I mean, I don’t want to embarrass Lily...” In fact Darren says “yeah, yeah” while Kathy is saying this.  He wasn’t silent and trembling in the corner while Lily saved him.  IDK what video you were watching.  Kathy wasn’t outing him she was making a joke about how much pussy he gets being straight and hot but playing a gay guy. How do the ccers get everything so wrong? Oh right- they cut the clip, slow it down, make a gif which Abbys calls 

““Little bonus:”

Keep reading some high-end nonsense-I commented on some of the nonsense but I only made the comments regarding this video “bold”. 

Anonymous asked:

For some reason KGriffin has been on my mind today. Her infamous interview asking D about vaginal sex. Dude looked like he was going to come out of his skin. Another thing as close as C is with her I’ve seen a lot of pics with him at her house at parties without the boyfriend.

Oh you mean this classic moment? An interview just a few short months after the woman he had been betrothed to since birth moved to LA and you’d think the answer would be frequent and all time and not something that would completely fluster him. So much so that L/ily had to step in and save him.(Yes, because everyone wants to say “frequently and all the time” about their girlfriend who just moved to town. Classy. Lily didn’t “step in and save him”. You should have watched the video again before you write about it.)

You can always see his brain spinning, thinking “can I say 3 years ago before I became Co/lfersexual? Oh wait my beard lives here now. Surely if it were real it would be all the time. Should I just refer to the last time I had sex with C? They don’t need to know there was no vagina involved…..” (Yes, that is exactly what a sane person would think in the heartbeat it takes him to answer. Watch the video again- NOT THE GIF...your fantasy has changed the facts-you sound like Trump “he ran int other tunnel and died crying and screaming and whimpering like a dog”)  

He was so obviously struggling and thankfully L/ily, an openly gay woman, made it into a joke to spare him. (what joke does L/ily tell that saves him? I’m curious because when I watch the video that part must be mute) 

Precious little d. Either embarrrssed about talking about sex or it had been quite some time, and if it had been a long time, that seems quite inconsistent with the PR story that was starting to ramp up as this was not long before confirmation day and the I’m a straight man with a gf tour. (But look at that, it IS consistent with YOUR story of a fragile but powerful gay man who realized he loved his costar the moment they met but woefully that love is forbidden for reasons that make no sense whatsoever but involve Ryan Murphy and a contract, a contract he signed with wide-eyed innocence at 23. He just wanted to share his talents with the world and the lure of fame dazzled him but he soon found out he signed the deal with the devil. It’s the story of a man who chose the wrong beard and is still paying for that a decade later just as he still pays for signing that contract as a naive 23 yo. A man who, as you say “likes cock”, but it stuck spending most of his time with his “wife”, a woman he detests. This fragile but strong man who wrote “me and My Dick” and mimicked masturbation while standing in front of the paparazzi pen on a red carpet is   is TERRIFIED of talking about sex...duh!)

*****************************************************************************************

rougedraconteur asked:

Just want to say that I could not be happier about most of the Halloween costumes and parties this year. But, I do think it needs to be said that Kathy and Chris were friends before this. By this interview with D, she and Chris had been pals for years. I know she was on Glee, as a judge of one of their many competitions. And she also held a fake marriage ceremony with him on stage somewhere, with Chris as her groom. She’s like Jane, a mom sub. C was on K’s show, then D, same as Jane’s.

And yes, Kathy knew. She always has, same as Jane. They are insiders, people to be trusted with the truth. She just loves to put people on the spot, even those she cares about. All of these folks on the show that day, knew the truth, whatever it was at that time.(She’s his mother figure? but his mother was alive when this was shot. I love how they “know” this stuff-everyone know but nobody thought to help Darren or stop working with Ryan Murphy out of solidarity and support- hell even Darren didn’t support Darren by icing Ryan Murphy out of his life. Also nobody has leaked on bit of information ...ever...in 10 years. That impressive AF. )

***********************************************************************

This Halloween was like Christmas, it was fabulous and no matter what they try, they cannot undo it.  And I am confident D&C were fully aware of what was happening on Thursday night with the pictures. They have been playing this game for years, they know how not to be in the background of photos. They wanted those pics circulated.(more confirmation bias)  So my question is, why now and who allowed those pics to be published?  We all know the content is generally very controlled.  And I would imagine EP has full control over the pics that are released from his party, I always question his involvement and well he was responsible for the only formal pic to date of CC, albeit a group photo.

C killed Halloween with his 2 costume choices. They were amazing. And I love that both he and D wee in drag last Saturday.  

As for M/iarren, while the costumes themselves were not that great (kind of cheap and poorly executed though D as a dalmatian was adorable). I would say she spent more time and effort on the pics with her “squad’), i loved both of them. The villain and the victim. And in both cases, the D character won.  And costume one was a blatant nod to C and his amazing books. Proving she is obsessed with us and what we say and trying to one up C.

Sad for her, she lost Halloween this year and CC triumphed and caused an absolute riot (a riot caused by Chris, Darren, Will and Mia speaking together at a party.. it has come to this#SAD!).  

On K/athy thanks for the insight. I guess i cannot imagine asking such a direct question if I knew the truth. I guess what she failed to realize is that D is a terrible liar, especially back then. (why would Kathy, a great friend to Chris, do something so painful and difficult for Darren in front of a video camera let alone on a comedy show.  Outing someone is a serious matter and not something concussive a rapid-fire comedy show.  Your theory makes no sense whatsoever). His face told a million stories and none of them were of a straight man with a gf that just moves across the country to be with him (yes Abby, his face gave him away because his words sure as hell didn’t, never have and never will. It’s absurd but you continue to believe you know his truth based solely on facial expresses-which you have proven you cannot read accurately-, t-shirt graphics, song lyrics and Instagram “likes” but sadly, that is where we are at).  

No doubt both L/ily and JTF knew.  I think JTF has actually been a role model to D.  And he and JM have been, from what i can see, really amazing to both our guys.(Vomit- random gay men in Hollywood are not “supporting Darren” through his 10 years of closeting, denial and marriage to a women-they have their own lives.) And L/ily would never have jumped in that way if she thought for one second that d was capable of handling it himself (Oh FFS, Darren made the joke about him and Lily having vaginal sex, Lily didn’t jump in, she cracked up and after he milked the joke for all he could get out of it- then she made a joke riffed off his. Your fantasy has overtaken the truth once again. Luckily we have video proof). But since D could not muster an answer, she answered for him and then he was able to collect himself and go with the joke. (that isn’t true at all-it’s a complete a lie).

Intereting side note, when that video originally aired, i still believed the PR story and I remember thinking about how odd his answer was and how uncomfortable he was. And i wasn’t looking for anything as I didn’t think there was a reason for him to lie.  

I love this interview. And example of something team shit would dream about if only d could answer convincingly and instead it completely shined a light on the fact that D is queer and prefers the company of men, at least at that point in his life (Not making a statement on his past and sexuality) (OMG really? You're not? All you do is make statements about his sexuality. Let’s pretend you are right with this theory- For all the help that Jesse Tyler Ferguson, Ricky Martin, Ryan Murphy, and all the other gay men in Hollywood are providing ccDarren, this video showing how team shit failed again was broadcast 6 1/2 years ago (3/13) and Darren is still saying he’s straight, he’s still not spending time with Chris -well of course except the Halloween moment caught on the camera-they still lead entirely different lives and Darren married Mia sooo I’m not sure how they are team “shit”. Sounds like “team perfect” since everything is going their way.  They even got Darren to cuddle Mia for a photo as “punishment” for that little moment with Chris...Team Shit for the Win....again!) 

[ficsrus]

fic recs: bts

this one’s a bit lengthy folks. have fun reading. make sure to give kudos and comments and lots of love to the authors!

namjin—

*prudence in the face of adversity: rated E, 7k

“But we’re not a girl group, hyung, there’s like…” Namjoon waves his hands in the air as he explains, “identity issues and gender issues and how are we supposed to dance with b—our bodies in this condition,” he finishes weakly. “And we can’t do publicity like this, or rehearse, and I don’t want to call the president and Seokjin-hyung is bleeding and I don’t know how to pick these things out from the store so could Hobi and I please just take a bit of money to the store to get things for Jin-hyung because he’s crying…”

[In which the entirety of Bangtan wakes up as women, and Namjoon is confused and put-upon.]

ch4otick gayz: rated T, 17k [includes vhopemin & yoonkook]

[EM0 CRAKHED]

jeon can't kook: jfc,,

jeon can't kook: sorry guys i took care of it,

jeon can't kook: i gave him like 3 tablets of Benadryl he's out

hobi-wan kenobi: kook, you're supposed to only take 1

jeon can't kook: ......

jeon can't kook: ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ guess he'll die.

yoonmin—

hands down: rated T, 43k

Hoseok wouldn’t stop talking about him. It was Jimin this, Jimin that, Jimin was so cute, Jimin was so talented, Jimin danced so well and he was so nice- Yoongi had to control the impulse to roll his eyes the minute his name came out of Hoseok’s mouth.

So, yeah, maybe Yoongi was already predisposed towards disliking Park Jimin for some very valid reasons but this? This took the fucking cake.

the songbird and the sea: rated M, 256k [minor taekook and namjin]

In a world where dominance of the sea is an endless battle between pirates and mariners, Park Jimin is content living in his little village on a small, uninteresting island by the eastern mainland. He wants nothing to do with the bloodshed of good and evil, the heartless killing of both innocents and condemned, the constant establishment and disruption of order. What he wants is peace, to live his life in the same town he was born in, to spend his days in the beautiful forest, and to use the powers of his Blessed Rune to nurture the home he loves so dearly.

But when his island is attacked by pirates, Jimin will have no other choice than to do as they command and leave all thoughts of peace behind in favor of boarding the Agust, a pirate ship captained by the infamous Min Yoongi, Black Fox of the East.

*flashflood: rated E, 15k

A handjob a week is not much for Jimin to live off of.

Jimin thinks it’s sort of like the equivalent of feeding someone nothing but peas for all three meals of the day: sure, peas are all well and good, but eating peas and only peas for any extended period of time is going to result in some serious vitamin deficiencies. And probably some other bad stuff, although Jimin doesn’t actually know all that much about it.

composure: rated E, 131k

Everyone has secrets.

Everything in Jimin's life changed the day he presented as an Omega. It's as though the world were grabbed out from under him, launching him into a special hell not meant for someone with as much fire and potential as him.

This is why when Jimin is given the opportunity to stop being an Omega, he takes it.

What Jimin hadn't anticipated, is meeting his roommate, Yoongi, or realizing his entire cover will be blown if he can't stop going so crazy over that cinnamon and mint scent he has.

Too bad that is the least of his worries...

*(This is a story containing serious and dark themes with disturbing elements which become more prevelant as the story progresses.)

jikook—

*On Patrol: rated M, 130k [includes yoonseok & namjin; read the sequel here]

Officer Jeon has his eyes on Mr. Adorable.

Officer Min has a strange neighbor he can't seem to keep out of his life.

Captain Kim finds comfort in his son's homeroom teacher.

Well, cops need some loving too, right?

under the mistletoe (with you): rated G, 5k

Jimin and Jungkook try to get Yoongi and Hoseok together during the holidays but it doesn't really go as planned.

The White Wolf’s Shadow: rated T, 41k [includes yoonseok, namjin, & taekook]

Jeongguk, a powerful Alpha in line for his father’s throne, needs a mate to wear the crown. When Jimin, an alluring Omega and foreign Prince, comes to re-cement their alliance everything seems to fall into place… against their wishes. Jeongguk, forced to decide what's more important, his own happiness or his people; and Jimin whose carrying deadly secrets that place the fate of everyone on his shoulders, are forced to come together. With enemies on all sides will they be able to overcome their struggles and do what has to be done?

Or

Jeongguk and Jimin’s wolves have liked each other from the start, but when they are forced into an arranged marriage both parties are unhappy about it for various reasons. Neither wants to admit it, but both find themselves falling for the other as time goes on.

yoonjin—

heists and hearts: rated T, 95k [minor jihope and vmon]

"Give me a number,” Yoongi says when Namjoon finally turns around in his computer chair. Namjoon looks at him and sighs.

"One."

It's not the first time he's stumped with one plan. Namjoon looks at Yoongi, eyes trained on him like a hawk. “One?” Yoongi asks, voice low. “One,” Namjoon repeats, “and you’re not going to like it.”

There’s a hint of curiosity in Yoongi’s eyes and a question attempts to come out from his lips. But instead, Namjoon hears the order from his partner.

“Call them in.”

a little water clears us of this deed: rated T, 4k

All Yoongi wanted was to read Macbeth and pass his Literature class in peace, not catch the attention of Kim Seokjin.

*best served cold: rated E, 16k

[They say when you / embark on a journey / of revenge, dig two graves. They underestimate me. (mr state trooper. please don’t stop me. please don’t stop me.)]

After Yoongi's parents get killed by the mob, Yoongi sets out to avenge them. No matter what it takes.

he’ll come back for the honey and you: rated E, 18k

“Cooking is attractive. Like playing guitar, it demonstrates your prowess with your hands, your sophisticated knowledge of an art form... But it goes deeper than that. Cooking is a shared experience, a way to express yourself to someone you care about.”

Or: Seokjin is no stranger to a little sugar. However, Yoongi is the sweetest thing he’s come across in a long time, and there's no recipe telling him exactly what he should do next.

a ballad for you: rated T, 3k

tumblr prompt from anon: "Hi, do you take requests that aren't smut? I'd like to see YoonJin where Jin mistakes Yoongi for his blind date."

[At this point, Seokjin only has one thing to say about his date; he needs to show the hell up.]

everything i need: rated M, 12k

“Sorry I’m late, babe. Traffic was awful,” the man is saying. He flashes a bright, gummy smile at Seokjin and nods apologetically at the waitress. “I’m sorry. Can we have five more minutes to look at the menu?”

He waits until she is gone before he leans across the table and says in a low voice. “I’m Yoongi. Just play along okay? Whoever didn’t bother to show up is a dick.”

Or, the one where Seokjin is a single dad. His son is in love with the music their first floor neighbour plays on the piano, and the last thing Seokjin expects is to fall for the man behind the music.

déjà-brew : rated T, 7k

according to his employees, seokjin has a crush on the cute guy that comes around and orders an americano every single day. what they don’t know, and what seokjin hasn’t told them yet, is that they’re actually married. (he has his reasons, okay?)

yoonseok—

same damn hunger: rated E, 40k

When it comes to fucking around with his best friend, Yoongi follows two rules:

1. They must be inebriated.

2. They must not kiss.

the daily grind: rated E, 8k

hoesock87: I refuse to believe that u didn’t just google “cute asian twink” to get that selfie

yoongay: i am a cute asian twink. r u tryna fuck me or no

(or: yoonseok meet on grindr)

and one musn’t tell lies: rated M, 46k

Yoongi wants to fly so bad he's ready to break the rules for that. Jung Hoseok is the worst collateral damage possible. (Stop lying).

*days to weeks to months: rated M, 10k

Yoongi’s just trying to date the possible love of his life, Jung Hoseok. But the package deal includes five asshole friends and a theoretically infinite number of disasters.

Basically: a series of moments where Yoongi wonders why his friends and also god hate him.

see, i’ve got plans (to get to you): rated T, 11k

Yoongi and Hoseok have a game plan.

(Or: The one where Yoongi takes three tries to propose to Hoseok.)

single pringle: rated T, 7k [includes jikook and namjin]

Where Yoongi owns a restaurant that is a date hot-spot and he is single and salty at all the couples streaming into his restaurant on a daily basis. Not only that, but somewhere along the way he's gotten himself a couple of gay regulars who won't go away. And maybe someone who makes him a little less salty at the end too.

**halcyon: rated M, 27k [includes minjoon]

The only explanation for how two demons have found themselves on Earth is a simple one: Jung Hoseok loves to gamble and Min Yoongi can't resist a good game.

junghope—

blue flame special: rated E, 106k [minor vmin]

hoseok just got dumped and now a clearly under aged bartender is refusing to serve him a much needed round of shots.

("can you do this teenage angst thing some other time? my ex just walked in with his new boyfriend and i could really use some liquid cowardice."

the kid narrows his eyes in the direction hoseok had nodded toward. "seokjin hyung's your ex?")

hoseok nods. "you know him?"

"yeah," jeongguk glares at hoseok and begins stepping away, definitely refusing to serve him any drink at all. "he dumped me for you.")

yoonjihope [?? essentially yoongi/hoseok/jimin]—

**good things always belonged to everyone: rated E, 9k

Yoongi is trying to accept his part as the beta in a polyamorous relationship with an alpha and an omega. Little by little he notices just how unfitting that role is.

yoonkook—

soft melodies and softer touches: rated E, 11k

[22:39; I see the way you look at me, hyung.]

Yoongi's world stands still, and in that moment, he wants nothing more than to wring Jimin's neck. It's Jeongguk, it has to be Jeongguk, who else would it be? Yoongi knows many dancers--unfortunately Jimin's one of them--but there's only one that he's on close terms with, and whose number he doesn't have.

Jeongguk. It's Jeongguk. It's fucking Jeongguk.

(OR: Jeongguk's a contemporary dancer, and Yoongi is his academy's pianist).

take me out (the date way or the assassination way): rated T, 7k

jin [8:01] theres a mysterious hot guy on campus that yoongi keeps running into like a damn romantic drama but every time they meet he ends up nearly killing yoongi

tae [8:01] kinky

with a bang (stunted plants can bloom): rated M, 24k

what not to do when you find yourself falling for the guy you almost slept with but then didn’t because he turned out to be your friends’ roommate: a guide by min yoongi

flower boys: not rated, 3k

“it was pretty,” namjoon protests, trying to defend himself. “and it was a gift from a fan. wouldn’t she have been troubled to have to take it home?”

“and you brought it back to let it die?” yoongi interjects, dry as sand. he rises to his feet, dusting off his jeans. “you gonna take care of it, namjoonie?”

“how hard can it be,” namjoon says, but he sounds hesitant, like he knows his own annihilatory powers will trump his determination. “it’s a small plant. it needs water, sunlight, and air. we can provide all of those. piece of cake.”

(yoongi and jungkook take care of a plant together.)

i know i’ll fall in love with you, baby: rated T, 31k

The soulmate/soulbond au where Yoongi is part of a famous rap duo and Jungkook is his diligent fanboy, they meet at a fansign and things escalate from there

(alt. Yoongi didn’t sign up for this)

i blow up buildings (but i’d blow you): rated T, 8k

“Yoongi,” says Namjoon, his tone allowing no argument. He holds the boy an arms length in front of him and smiles painfully. “Meet Jeongguk. He’s your new bodyguard.”

Yoongi sputters and decides to argue anyway, because fuck no. “I said I don’t need a bodyguard, Namjoon.”

(Or, the AU where Yoongi has been receiving death threats from an enemy organisation known as Skeletal, and Jeon Jeongguk is the lucky bastard brought in to be his bodyguard. Yoongi tries to hate him. He really does.)

all the light we cannot see: rated T, 64k

“i’m not your servant!”

“you are on my ship now, and anyone on my ship does what i say,” snaps yoongi, and when he takes a step closer to jeongguk, jeongguk realizes that he’s actually taller than yoongi. strangely, he hadn’t noticed it before, because yoongi doesn’t seem like a small man. especially now, with that fiery look on his face, he seems larger than life—but jeongguk refuses to back down. it’s a bad idea to argue, he knows, but jeongguk has never been very good at stopping himself from doing something he’ll regret.

(or: when jeongguk finally gets his chance to sail the cosmos, it’s onboard the ship of an aggravating man named min yoongi. he thinks it’ll be extraordinarily dull—but the universe, and the legend of treasure planet, have other plans.)

gusto d’italia: rated E, 64k

Jungkook turned towards the kitchen - and walked straight into the icy glare of Min Yoongi.

“Are you always this late?”

Jungkook tried to bite his tongue. “I was talking to – ”

“I don’t care who you were talking to,” Yoongi snapped. He had both arms crossed firmly over his chest as he continued to berate Jungkook in front of the rest of the staff. “How am I supposed to trust you to get my food out on time if you can’t follow a simple direction that I gave less than five minutes ago?”

Jungkook stared at his feet. “It won’t happen again, chef.”

“Better fucking not.”

-----

[Jungkook always dreamed of becoming a chef in the future. When Yoongi, a culinary genius with unusual social skills, shows up in the kitchen of Gusto d'Italia, Jungkook becomes awestruck.]

taegi—

the less i know the better: rated E, 41k

Yoongi shifts uncomfortably in his seat, avoiding making eye contact.

"I might’ve… invented a boyfriend," he finally mumbles to the glass in front of him

i want to believe: rated G, k

Taehyung starts an astronomy club.

my heart flutters from the sugar high: rated M, 6k

Yoongi and Taehyung sneak around together, cheating on their diets. The group? They've drawn different conclusions.

over the winter lake: rated E, 9k

There’s a small alcove along the outskirts of Daegu, not too deep in the woods, that lead to a lake of still waters and peaceful surroundings. Yoongi isn’t entirely fond of it—the body of water itself being named Death Lake by locals who’ve lived there long enough to tell the tales of the disturbing amount of murders, suicides, and disappearances that are linked with it.

Yoongi sees something in the water. Something inhuman.

abracadon’t: rated M, 7k

"i don't understand why you hate taehyung," hoseok always asks.

yoongi doesn't really understand either. but he's just so...hate-able.

or, taehyung never learned that annoying the fuck out of someone isn't actually a healthy way to show you like them.

namgi—

you could give it all (but it’s never enough): rated E, 46k

yoongi imprints with an alpha he's an alpha too

again again again: rated T, 8k

Yoongi takes a deep breath. Runs through the facts. 1. Namjoon is really fuckin drunk. 2. They made that dumbass pact well over ten years ago when they were both sad and weird and lonely. 3. His heart definitely did not seize up a little bit at the thought of marrying his best friend. It just didn’t.

vmin—

it’s not about reciprocation (it’s just all about me): rated E, 34k

“Taehyung and Jimin broke up.”

“It’s bullshit—”

“We were all rooting for them.”

“It’s complete bullshit—”

“Everyone actually thought they had a chance, you know?”

(Alternatively: Taehyung’s a problematic idiot who fell in love with the right person at the wrong time.)

jinkook—

*knowingly, i drank from the poisoned chalice: rated m, 22k

In captivity, Seokjin learns that you cannot have both love and life without sacrificing something important.

namgikook (namjoon/yoongi/jungkook)—

*the kinky encounter at the auto-erotic asphyxiation house: rated E, 6k

"The last owner of this house died too.”

“How?”

Jeongguk looks over his shoulder at them, his front teeth poking into his bottom lip as his nose scrunches and the corners of his eyes crinkle in a delighted grin. “Auto-erotic asphyxiation! Honestly, what a way to fucking go. Do you think he came before he died?”

“Christ, Jeongguk.”

Namjoon drops his head into his hands, letting out a long-suffering sigh as Jeongguk elbows him playfully.

“It’s a valid question!” Jeongguk snickers as both Namjoon and Yoongi give him a painfully withered look. “We can only hope his last moment was a pleasurable one.”

taekook—

**fading brilliance, fire on silk: rated E, 26k

Jungkook spent his life studying angels and demons, but none of his imaginary portrayals of them can even come close to Taehyung’s mystical, almost poetic beauty: sun-kissed skin and full lips, lashes so long that Jungkook feels the brush of it on his skin when Taehyung leans in to dip his tongue in the hollow of his throat.

Jungkook wonders if he’s already too far gone. The guilt doesn’t eat him up anymore, the shame only serving to heighten his arousal instead of extinguish it. Jungkook has no hope of salvation now, and he doesn’t even care, not when damnation tastes this fucking good.

[madefate-a]

i will show you something different from your shadow. 

a few moments, over a lifetime. 

o1. she sits alone on a chair outside the office. Dad’s voice is muffled but she doesn’t need to know what he’s saying to the principal to understand the point of it all. her hands still throb, and little shadowy constellations of bruises are blooming across over over-small knuckles. she pointedly and determinedly watches her hands when the door opens and Dad comes out and tells her let’s go home. she watches them instead of looking up at the principal, instead of looking at dad in the car, instead of saying a word. dad doesn’t say anything either. 

not until they’re back home and he stops in the living room. he could yell at her. he should yell at her. that would be okay -- she just hit someone. again. but then he turns to her and lowers himself to one knee and takes both of her small hands into both of his large ones. 

please, Cami, he says. you can’t do this. 

it’s so soft and so tired and in that moment she wishes with her whole, whole body that Mom was there to hug him. but she’s not and all Cami can do is give into the burning in the back of her throat. ( her willpower is strong, but she is still only six. ) she cries and it’s so scary and so confusing when she says, 

I don’t know how. 

o2. but you hate heights, Jaime says. 

Cami doesn’t look up from her textbook. it’s not all about heights, she tells him. 

literally it’s a school for going to space. 

and who do you think gets people into space? 

so you’re saying that if they told you to go to space, you’d just say no? and that’d be cool? 

he’s starting to sound a little too smug. so Cami reaches over for a piece of her scrap paper, crumples it into a ball, and hits him square in the head without looking up from the page is on. when he squawks, she lets her lips curl into a grin. 

they’ll have to listen to me, she says, lighting up when she finally arrives at the answer and scribbles it down. I’ll be the best. 

or you can tell them about the time you climbed a tree and got stuck and cried, Jaime says, nursing his forehead. 

o3. she hates it. everyone is so stiff and the jacket is so itchy and it’s all yessir, nosir, and she has to learn so much about flying even though she’s never going to really actually fly. every group drill is derailed when she loses altitude and freezes the simulation. one night she slams the door of her dormitory closed, grabs all the covers off her bed, and drags them into her closet. she shuts that door too, fumbles for a moment with her phone until it casts a shaky, strangely piercing light all over her face. 

her thumb hovers over Jaime’s name but then she stops and thinks about what it would take to form the words. to say I can’t do this, to say everything sucks, to say I’m failing. Jaime is her friend -- Jaime won’t be mean. she knows this. but the words get stuck in the back of her throat like so much bile and she winds up throwing the phone onto the floor and burying her face in the blankets in her lap and pretending that because it muffles the sound, she’s not really crying. 

o4. love, love, love, it’s love. spring is in the air, and it’s brought love. spring might be the death of her. Cami needs to watch the engine but how can she watch the engine when Moira is right there ? with her soft voice and her soft hair and the way she’s so quiet but so steady behind the wheel ? so much better than Cami ever accomplished even after she got herself together and passed her first semester. what a cosmic joke, to make Moira so pretty and nice and then confine Cami in an eight by eight fake cockpit with her. 

but when Moira gives the order to fix the wiring, Cami does it. hormones are not going be the reason she’s not the best, thanks. they will, though, cause her to walk right into the door on the way out and play it off like she’d meant to do that -- ha, a paragon of physical comedy. 

honestly, the endless void of space is less terrifying than this. 

o5. they walk together like they’d been practicing it, even though it’s only been a few runs together, barely a few weeks. even though Iverson levels a look at them that holds the lecture he can’t rattle off when their scores are just that good. and it could sit under her skin, because she knows that it wasn’t just her that’s put them leagues in front of the rest of the class. she knows that in this case, she isn’t the best. 

wow, Flyboy, she says, pressing her elbow against Shiro’s side as they make their way to the commissary. the grin at her lips is nothing more than the subtlest pulling to the side and the motion, perhaps, is a little sharper than it could be. I’ve never seen Iverson speechless before. 

is that really the name you’re going with? the lilting whine in his voice almost startles a laugh out of her. 

you can veto it, she replies diplomatically, but only once. 

don’t do it, Lucas says from her other side, voice dry. good, Cami thinks. no matter how short a time it’s been, she’s never known Shiro to back down from a challenge. 

and he doesn’t disappoint. veto, he says. Cami smiles, and watches the nerves flicker across his expression. 

ok, Big Guy, she fires off. then laughs properly at the strangled sound Shiro makes. but he keeps pace with her all the way to the commissary and sits next to her and gesticulates enthusiastically when he talks. and he does the same every time he sees her -- the both of them do. 

later, when she elbows him in the side, it’s gentle. 

o6. the first time she sees Adam sitting with them at lunch, Cami spends most of the break watching him. she’s not nearly as stupid as the big guy seems to be -- there is nothing more painfully obvious than the infatuation in his gaze and his voice as he spends most of the hour filling every silence with stories, ideas, questions. anything, she supposes, to make things less -- awkward. or maybe he’s simply caught in the tide of his feelings. maybe he can’t see how stiff everyone is, now that their balance ( the balance the three of them have, easy as breathing, something she knows how to work with ) has been thrown off. 

maybe he doesn’t see the way Adam looks wary and not nearly as fun, talented, awesome as Shiro has been describing him the past few weeks. 

at one point, Adam makes some comment about the homework Cami has in front of her and she can’t help it. when she snorts she feels Lucas sigh next to her and sees Shiro glance at her with wide eyes. 

oh please, she says, like I’d trust anyone else’s math. 

--- then Adam snorts, too, and he says, you might change your mind when the numbers start disappearing. 

she’s rising to the challenge before she notices the glint in his gaze, I never change my mind. I’m always right. 

but then she recognizes it, the way his lips pull up a little at the side, when her own do the same. 

o7. they don’t talk about it, but they come close. the three of them ( somewhere along the way they must have recalibrated for Adam -- the balance feels wrong, now, when it is only them ) curled up on the couch as they watch mindless television until dawn breaks. Shiro only ever says one thing, and even though she wants to cry at the doubt and the hurt she hears in his voice -- unmasked in a way she is unfamiliar with -- all she does is place her hand on the side of his face until he falls asleep. they don’t say anything more. 

o8. she wants to be mad at him, but she never stands a chance. it only takes a single strike for her words to find a crack that she then watches spiderweb over Adam’s expression -- hurt and angry and frustrated, and that’s all it is. all it is is her friend in pain so she sits beside him -- a little bit of silence, a little bit of broken off conversation, a few impasses that they can’t clear because feelings are hard, dreams are hard, wanting is hard. everything is hard. she covers his hand with hers, and hopes that hers is warm enough. 

months later they get the news and she’s numb enough that she doesn’t feel her tears. she only sees him that evening, and his voice is cracked all the way through when he tells her, I guess the universe doesn’t care what I want. 

I’m sorry, Ace. she throws her arms around his neck. whether it’s for his sake or her own she can’t say. and even though she doesn’t regret any of the advice she’d ever given him, she says it again. I’m so sorry. 

months after that, she shows up at his door at six hundred hours, red faced and crying and tells him that Keith slipped away again but he came back. what she doesn’t say is that it’s so confusing -- the elation of seeing him, the stabbing of her own failure to keep track of him slicing right through her gut. wrongs and rights and so much grief and relief she’s dizzy with it. but she doesn’t need to say it -- whether or not he understands, he lets her hang onto him. 

o9. these fucking purple aliens are not going to be the death of her, thanks. they should have given up this particular tunnel system ages ago, she knows that. but neither she nor Reiner could bring themselves to agree -- not when they’d manage to pick up more people from this nearby camp than they had at any other. they can’t -- they can’t do nothing when they’re already doing something. 

Reiner sees it first, and everything happens all at once. it’s: his arms around her, picking her up to throw her as far as he can across this length of the tunnel. it’s: the sound, first, that doesn’t actually sound like anything until it roars and rips through her bones and digs claws into her heart. it’s: then the fury, heat that chokes her, fire that sinks its fangs into her thigh and laces up and down her calf, her hip, like so much lightning. it’s: she’s slick with something, with blood probably, but for a delirious moment she imagines holding the sun in her hands like burning, liquid gold. 

it’s: the smell of burning flesh and she knows, instantly, even as her ears ring what happens to a body that falls on a landmine. and she knows, instantly, that the choice is to go back for his remains or run. 

something is embedded in her thigh and she is crawling more than anything, but she goes. with her heart in her throat, with ash in her mouth, with blood on her hands. deeper into the warren of offshoots, blindly searching out the turns, consumed with a pulse that seeps into her bones, her marrow, the soft flesh of her lips, go, go, go. 

go, go, go, she tells the rest of the group when she gets there. I can’t -- I can’t walk. you need to go. 

no, Angelique says, taking her by the arm. all of us. that’s the point. 

they’re going to be coming! you need to run! 

no. 

please, Cami says. she doesn’t feel her tears. you won’t make it with me, just go. 

let’s try. 

in the end, none of them are doctors. they are whoever the fuck they are -- some ragtag crew running from purple aliens in a war they never signed up to fight in. they pull the -- whatever the shrapnel’s made of out of her thigh and they try to cauterize it, but it’s just one more burn on top of another on top of another. still, though, when they leave, they leave together. 

and they make it to the end. 

1o. what’s injured, she asks him, brokering no argument. but Shiro is Shiro, so he tries. 

Cami, I’m fine. 

I didn’t ask that. 

he sighs, but his lips are set softly. chest and shoulder. 

head’s good? 

head’s good. 

so she pulls him to bend down and knocks the flat of her palm against against the back of his skull. it’s harder than a gentle swipe, but he huffs a laugh. and then she throws her arm around his neck. 

no note, cadets gone, she says roughly, and they both sort-of laugh. 

I know, he says. 

fuck, Big Guy, she says. 

I know. 

with Keith she is gentler, pressing his face between her hands, mourning how much taller he’s gotten. the biting, guilty, mourning voice of failure that has howled in the back of her mind for years quiets. 

when she sees Adam, she marches over to him with no warning and no fanfare and wraps her arms around him. 

god, Ace, she says, that was fuckin’ crazy. 

in the days and weeks that come she sets up shop in one of the offices and throws herself into the refugee efforts, scanning through lists and lists and lists of the missing, trying to reunite any family members that the Garrison has registered. it is one drop in the midst of a vast and stormy ocean. 

but she knows how to do it, one step at a time. 

[quentinsquill]

The Magicians: “Midway Between Gods and Beasts” (Fic)

Midway Between Gods and Beasts

Author: Lexalicious70 (all-hale-eliot)

Fandom: The Magicians

Genre: AU, some canon events included

Word Count: 20,868

Warnings: Possible triggers for mental health treatment, some mention of sexual assault

Summary: Successful hedge witch Eliot Waugh finds his comfortable life in Chelsea with his best friend Margo unexpectedly interrupted when young, untrained magician Quentin Coldwater comes into his life, pursued by those who believe he is mentally ill and by a terrible beast from another world who wants to use Quentin as an unwilling pawn in its takeover of a magical world.

Author’s Notes: This is for the Welter’s Challenge Trials Big Bang, Tier 2! I don’t own The Magicians, this is just for fun and to pass the time until my next therapy session. Thanks to @kings-of-fillory, @justcallmeasmodeus, and @highqueenbambiwaugh for advice and inspiration!  Comments and kudos are magic! Enjoy, and thanks for reading.

Midway Between Gods and Beasts

By Lexalicious70

 CHAPTER ONE

 Spring in Chelsea didn’t arrive all at once.

 It wasn’t like the arrival of winter, which often came with the suddenness of a busload of tourists tumbling off a trendy, double-decker Gray Line. Spring was an ambling, wayward urban explorer more intent on finding hidden architectural gems than visiting tired tourist traps. As the last piles of dirty snow retreated under shade trees, park benches, and store alleyways, where they finally melted away, sun-warm breezes made their way into the neighborhood that promised its trees, shrubs, and flower boxes would be rioting by May, now only four weeks away.

 They were, in fact, the kind of breezes that almost made one not as sorry he had ever been conceived.

 “Christ, Eliot, close that window! It’s April, not July!”

 Eliot glanced up from the window seat and the cigarette he was enjoying to see his roommate and best friend Margo standing in front of her bedroom door in a sunflower-yellow robe, her long brown hair damp and tousled. She put her hands on her hips.

 “Come on, seriously, I just took a shower and that air feels freezing!”

 “So use a warming spell or dry your hair. You know I don’t like to smoke in here with the windows closed.” Eliot replied. His fellow hedge witch narrowed her dark eyes for a moment before crossing the high-gloss hardwood floors of the loft they shared. A slim metal carafe sat on the counter in the roomy kitchenette, and Margo filled a mug with the blonde roast they both preferred.

 “You’re lucky you’re the only person on this whole planet I can stand to be around for more than five seconds.” She groused, sipping the coffee before adding a packet of natural sweetener.

 “I’m so very flattered.”

 “You should be.” Margo took her coffee into the living room and sat on the couch, her feet tucked up under her thighs as she reached for a leather-bound notebook. Inside, dates and names were inscribed in Eliot’s slanted, elegant scrawl. “Are we seeing anyone today?”

 “Mmmh.” Eliot nodded as he crushed out his cigarette and flicked the butt out the window and into a ceramic urn that sat on the fire escape. “Two hedges from Soho. Low level and looking for introductory thermogenic spells.” He got to his feet and stretched, his tall, thin frame elegant instead of gangly, as many tall men appear to be. A glance at the window dropped it closed, but not before a final warm breeze ruffled Eliot’s dark, curly hair. He went to the kitchen and took a coffee mug down, the hem of his open satin robe flapping around the black silk lounge pants he wore. His chest was bare, but he and Margo had lived together for more than two years now, and he knew it would bother her no more than occasional glimpses of her bare breasts or panty-clad ass disturbed him.

 “Thermogenic spells.” Margo sipped her coffee. “Are we sure we want to sell those to newbies? They might accidentally set themselves on fire.”

 “You know our disclaimer. Magic is likely to maim or kill you, cast at your own risk, et cetera. We’re here to provide a service, not wet nurse a bunch of inexperienced hedges.”

 “Hey, we used to be inexperienced hedges.”

 Eliot tapped a bit of sweetener into his coffee and frowned at her.

 “Correction, Margo darling. We chose to be inexperienced hedges. One semester at Brakebills was enough to show us that learning magic formally is bullshit and that it’s much more profitable and fun to discover spells and hone our skills on our own.” He went to sit next to her and she leaned against him.

 “The cottage was all right.” She allowed, and Eliot nodded.

 “Though not terribly private.”

 “El, you entertained a different guy every night.” Margo pointed out, and Eliot glanced down at her.

 “So did you. Sometimes we both entertained the same one on the same night.” Eliot sipped his coffee. “I used to hate it when they’d gone to you first . . . smelling your perfume on them always made me flaccid.” He ducked the throw pillow Margo swung at him almost before he finished speaking, covering the rim of his mug with one hand so it didn’t spill. Margo narrowed her eyes at him.

 “A, you better go get ready to meet these hedges and B, eat me!”

 “Oh, Bambi.” Eliot sighed as he got to his feet and dropped an affectionate kiss on top of her head. “I won’t even look at sliced cold cuts at the 8th Avenue Gourmet Deli.”

 The throw pillow connected solidly with his ass as he walked toward his room and he gave a token yelp of protest before hopping up the four steps that led to his room, which was quartered off from the rest of the loft with hand-painted flexible wooden panels. The door was connected to a curved archway and featured ten rectangular frosted panels, etched with delicate Japanese cherry blossoms. Eliot shut the door behind him and shed his robe before slipping out of his lounge pants. He was under the hot spray of the glassed-in shower a moment later, letting the water and goat’s milk sandalwood soap wash away the smell of tobacco and the musk of deep sleep.

 Of course, Margo hadn’t been wrong in her estimation of how many young men he’d entertained in his room at Brakebills, the school for magical pedagogy, during their time there. His telekinesis and ability to throw a party had made him popular on campus, but as far as Eliot was concerned, he’d had his fill of rigidity and rules growing up in rural Indiana under the thumb of his father, a religious fanatic who had no patience for a son who was nothing like him.

 When Eliot’s telekinetic ability announced itself by allowing him to force-push his bully in front of an oncoming bus at the age of fourteen, his mother had packed him off to a cousin in Ohio, where he’d attended high school. A month after graduation, a dressing room in a local department store had opened up into the world of Brakebills, where he’d passed the introductory exam easily and met Margo. While they were both highly adept at learning magic, the formality of the school had urged them to strike out on their own as self-taught casters, which formally-trained magicians called hedge witches.

 Now, two years later, he and Margo were both successful, high-level hedges, and their talents were sought out by others like them, as well as Brakebills students who wanted spells that were forbidden to them by the school. Eliot’s loft, which was on the top floor of a building inhabited entirely by magical adepts under the watchful eye of their stern landlord, Henry Fogg, was the young hedge’s domain and he held meetings the way a king might hold sway over his court. He was unforgiving when he had to be, fiercely protective of Margo, and feared in the underground magical community for his power and reputation, mostly spread by those who had crossed or severely annoyed him.

 Learning what magic is and isn’t on your own has taught me more than I ever could have learned at Brakebills, Eliot thought to himself as he rinsed his hair and turned off the shower. A wall of mirrored cabinets faced the shower door, and Eliot glanced at himself as he reached for a towel. The insides of his long arms were covered with star-shaped tattoos, and each of them contained a number in its center. The ink ambled up his skin in clusters, petered out at the elbow, then regrouped on the back of his neck and shoulders. The final tattoo, resting between Eliot’s shoulder blades, was slightly larger than the rest and read a single number in stylized, wine-colored ink:

 300

 “Top bitch in Chelsea—maybe even the whole city. Why anyone would waste their time at Brakebills, I’ll never know.” Eliot murmured to himself as he went to his closet to choose an outfit. Outside the door, he could hear the soft babble of voices as Margo let the Soho hedge witches in. He dressed quickly and straightened his paisley tangerine tie. New hedges meant spending the afternoon drinking good wine, a stimulating barter session, and money in his pocket.

 All in all, it wasn’t bad way for a Brakebills dropout and a former farmer’s son to pass the time.

 CHAPTER TWO

 Dolborough Mental Health Facility

Queens Village, Queens, N.Y.

 “Quentin? Quentin, are you listening to me?”

 Quentin Coldwater glanced up across the wide wooden expanse of the desk his doctor sat behind. The pudgy man, who had thinning blond hair and wore steel-rimmed glasses, frowned at him.

 “You know deflecting my questions and trying to deliberately sabotage these therapy sessions with silence won’t help you.”

 “I do know that.” Quentin nodded, pushing back his lank, tawny hair with one hand. The roots were dark with oil—he hadn’t bothered showering that morning. Or the morning before that. “Because nothing you’ve done in the nine fucking months I’ve been here has helped me at all.”

 “Quentin, you’re eighteen. You’re quite brilliant, from what your father tells us, and you could have a happy and productive life outside these walls, but you have to want it!”

 “Happy?” Quentin’s fingers slipped into the kangaroo pocket of his grey hoodie, which was almost two sizes too big for his skinny frame. “Do you want to define that for me? Is it a set of objectives everyone should work toward, or is happiness for me different than happiness for you? And if that’s so, then how can you define what it is or isn’t for me? I think happiness is the illusion and how I feel every day, that’s the reality, Dr. Beekman.”

 “That’s the reality if you choose it to be!” Dr. Beekman pulled a prescription bottle from his desk drawer. “Now. We’re going to start you on these this evening, since the previous medications we’ve tried haven’t been very successful. They should start to elevate your mood. Once we accomplish that, these therapy sessions should become more effective.”

 Quentin gazed at the transparent orange bottle, the inside stuffed with pink and grey capsules.

 “I don’t want to take them.”

 “Quentin, your father is quite concerned that you haven’t made much progress since you’ve been here. I’m concerned as well.”

 “You should be concerned about how the meds are for shit . . . and they won’t keep Him away forever.”

 “Him—your father?”

 “No.” Quentin’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “Capital Him.”

 Silence spun out for a few moments and Dr. Beekman folded his hands on the desk’s faded blotter.

 “I thought we agreed that He didn’t exist.”

 “No. I told you He did and you decided He didn’t. I think the drugs have made it harder for Him to track me, but He’s going to find me. Soon.”

 “That’s the medication working, Quentin. The more you allow us to help you, the less He will be a presence in your psyche!” The doctor’s pale blue eyes dropped to Quentin’s wrists, which became briefly visible as Quentin shifted in the chair. Vertical scars ran from the base of his palms to just past his wrists. “You will come to understand that this—this—”

 “Beast.” Quentin supplied, tugging the sleeves of his hoodie back down until only the tips of his fingers showed.

 “That this Beast you believe is pursuing you is a hallucination, brought on by anxiety, paranoia, and depression! Once you embrace your treatment fully, you may able to transition to outpatient status. Until then, it’s time for you to return to your room. I’ll inform the night nurse about the addition of the new medication.” The doctor rose and opened the door. “Gordon will escort you back.”

 Quentin stood as he eyed the long shadow of the orderly who stood just outside the door. He came into view as Dr. Beekman spoke, a beefy twentysomething with a football player’s neck and squinty green eyes. He wore a military crewcut but the front had been left slightly longer and spiked with gel, making his carrot-colored hair look like the teeth of a rusty saw. Quentin stepped into the hall and the taller man wrapped his hand around Quentin’s left bicep.

 “Come along then, Quenny.” The orderly cajoled him, and Quentin scowled without looking at him.

 “It’s Quentin.”

 “See you soon, Quentin!” Dr. Beekman called as if they’d been having tea, and the office to his door swung shut. Pain radiated up Quentin’s arm as Gordon Kozak tightened his grip.

 “Your name is what I say it is, you little sack of shit.” The orderly murmured through clenched teeth, nodding at doctors and nurses as he passed them. “Maybe you need another reminder?”

 Quentin looked away from the sweaty-smelling orderly to glance into patient rooms as they passed by. Some were open and contained a single human, either confined to a bed or drooling in a wheelchair. Others, Quentin knew, were locked all the time, like his own door. Kozak marched him into the elevator at the end of the hallway and jabbed the up button with a thick finger. The doors parted, and they stepped into together. The moment the doors slid closed, Kozak’s hand moved from Quentin’s upper arm to the back of his neck, where it squeezed until Quentin gasped.

 “What’s your name? Huh? Answer me, Pisswater!”

 “Quenny.” Quentin ground out as the man’s big fingers dug into the sides of his neck. Kozak rounded him, his hand slipping around to grip Quentin’s throat. Quentin kept his eyes on the elevator’s floor indicator lights, counting them off as the elevator rose to the 25th floor.

 4, 5, 6 . . .

 “Wrong!” Kozak’s other hand dropped down between Quentin’s legs, where it gripped him. Quentin tried to bring his legs together.

 12, 13 14 . . .

 “Try again!” Both hands tightened. Quentin could feel his Adam’s apple bob against Kozak’s big hand.

 “My name is whatever you say it is.” Quentin murmured, and the hands fell away.

 “That’s a good boy.” Kozak nodded, leaning in toward Quentin. A moment later Quentin found himself losing half his air as Kozak shoved him against the back of the elevator wall. It jerked to a stop, and Kozak yanked him forward and out. The hallway was deserted and the orderly half-dragged Quentin down to room 2505, unlocked the door, and shoved him inside. Quentin stumbled and caught himself on the metal footrest of his bed as he looked over his shoulder to see whether Kozak was going to come after him. The big man filled the doorway, his expression filled with disgust.

 “Take a fucking shower, Pisswater. You stink.”

 The door slammed shut and Kozak’s keys jingled briefly as he locked Quentin in. Relief flooded through Quentin; sometimes Kozak locked the door from the other side and gave Quentin one of his lessons, the kind that left his knees bruised and his jaw aching. He gave the door a single, sullen look, pushing down his disgust and anger as he crawled into bed and pulled the rough grey wool blanket over his head, ignoring the stale odor of his unwashed skin. The flat, thin mattress, spartan bathroom, barred windows, and the room’s single decorative item, a tattered poster of a sunrise framed with flexible material and shatter-proof plexiglass inscribed with the caption, “EVERY DAY IS A NEW BEGINNING,” were a far cry from the comfortable home he’d shared with his father since he was nine and his parents had divorced, and light years away from Yale with his best friends James and Julia, where he should be sharing a dorm room with James and squabbling boyishly over wall outlets and closet space and the best lighting.

 Instead I’m here, Quentin thought as he brought his knees to his chest.

 It had started with the dreams. At first, they seemed like common nightmares where Quentin was pursued down a garden path by a monster he couldn’t see, yet knew was there. From there, they became night terrors, and Quentin would scream himself and his father awake, thrashing in his sheets, his lap a sodden mess of hot urine. Ted Coldwater, who had always been a bit puzzled by his introverted but brilliant son, took him to a therapist. Quentin and his father left the office ninety minutes later with a Prazosin prescription and on the way home, Ted spoke up after ten minutes of silence.

 “It was the divorce, wasn’t it.”

 “The divorce?”

 “That made you this way. That caused your—your strangeness.”

 “You think I’m strange?” Quentin asked, and Ted shook his head a little.

 “I don’t know what else to call it. You’re seventeen, but you’ve never had a girlfriend or even shown an interest, you never picked up a sport, you’re obsessed with magic tricks and those damn Fillory books—and don’t think I don’t know that you still play pretend when you vanish for hours on the weekends! Imagining you’re Martin Chatwand and I don’t know what else!”

 “It’s Chatwin. And—and there’s nothing wrong with imagination, dad. It helps me cope.”

 “If you ask me, it’s hurting more than it’s helping, and it’s high time you stopped. Or do you want to go into Yale with the mindset of a schoolboy?”

 So Quentin had stopped—at least when it came to reading Fillory books in front of his father or sneaking off to cosplay with Julia, when he could talk her into it. For him, the land of Fillory and its questing, magical Chatwin children that had ruled the land and protected its magical creatures in a series of five books, had always felt more real to him than his own life in Brooklyn. Quentin’s own urban quests were mostly the last of his boyish urges to wander, but in the back of his mind, he was always hoping he’d find a way to Fillory, just as the Chatwin children did in each of the books. Then one day, while Quentin was out on his own, he’d followed a path into a community garden that led him into thick foliage and where the slant of sunlight seemed to change. A single moth, electric blue and larger than any Quentin had ever seen, appeared out of the foliage, and then another and another until the air was thick with them. A man had stepped onto the path then, his face obscured by more of the fluttering moths, their scent musty, like old clothes that had been stored away unwashed.

 “Quentin Coldwater.” This creature, this beast, had purred. “There you are!”

 Quentin had stood frozen, his throat thick with the awful smell, and a strong hand with multiple, seeking fingers had closed over his mouth, making him breathe through his nose in panicked snorts. What might have happened if a nearby factory whistle hadn’t gone off down the block and startled the thing into retreating, Quentin didn’t know, but since that day, he had felt the thing’s presence close by, malicious and deadly. It pursued him through his dreams and he caught glimpses of it wherever he went. When Quentin had tried to escape on a more permanent basis by opening up his wrists with a razor blade, mental health services had convinced his father that Dolborough was the best place for him.

 Except He’s going to find me here, sooner or later, and I won’t be able to get away from Him if He does, Quentin thought to himself. I have to find a way to get out of here.

 A muffled thump out in the hallway caught Quentin’s attention and he emerged from his blanket burrow to sit up. Footsteps sounded back and forth past his door and he crept over to peek out through the thick mesh of the small window. Orderlies were carrying large cardboard boxes and stacking them at the end of the hallway, next to Quentin’s door. He could see that they were filled with coils of computer cable, old, dusty monitors, clunky-looking 90’s-era keyboards, and hard drive towers. Some of the boxes were overstuffed and hung open, and others had been shut with their flaps folded. Quentin knew there was a storage room at the opposite end of the hallway, and the orderlies must have been recruited to clean it out.

 They’re stacking that stuff by the elevator, which means it’s probably all getting donated or chucked out. Quentin plucked at his lower lip with a thumb and forefinger for a few moments before he turned back toward his bed. A large button printed with the outline of a nurse’s cap hung from a white cord, and he thumbed it several times before throwing himself onto the floor in front of the bed. He heard the door unlock and swing open a few moments later as the young floor nurse, a pretty brunette named Monica, came to answer the call button.

 “Mr. Cold—” Quentin heard her stop just a few inches away as he began to fake a seizure, letting his limbs flail and spit run out of the corner of his mouth. Her hand touched his chest, then his face, before Quentin heard her footsteps rapping away down the hall as she went for help. Quentin knew the duty desk was out of sight of his door and that he only had a minute at best to escape. He cracked an eye open and then crept to the open door before bolting for the abandoned pile of computer equipment near the elevator. One of the boxes was larger than a coffin and about four feet deep. It contained an old monitor and a pile of cables, but the other side was empty. Quentin dove into it, hastily shoving the monitor aside before he pulled the flaps shut. He curled up, drawing his knees to his chest, his heart hammering in his ears. The elevator dinged a moment later and Quentin held his breath as the two disgruntled orderlies stacked the boxes inside.

 “Fuckall, some of these are heavy!” One of them groused, and Quentin squeezed his eyes shut as he heard footsteps approach in a hurried way from the other end of the hall. The elevator doors rumbled shut, and Quentin gave a tiny sigh of relief as he felt himself carried away from the 25th floor. It was impossible to tell how far down they were traveling, but when the car bumped to a stop and the doors opened, Quentin heard the muffled sounds of street traffic. The steady, pulsing beep of a large truck backing up rang out a moment later, and one of the orderlies spoke.

 “All of this is going to the Bowery Mission!”

 The box shook and Quentin tried not to grunt as the monitor thumped and banged against his back. The thick scent of truck exhaust filtered into the box for a moment before it settled, and then a door slammed shut. The truck lurched briefly before pulling out of the alley and Quentin clapped both hands over his mouth as he felt it carry him away from Dolborough. Tears spurted from his eyes.

 Away. I’m away!

 As the truck headed away from Queens, the motion lulled Quentin into a doze where he plunged through a darkness filled with the white noise of a thousand musty, fluttering wings.

 CHAPTER THREE

 Eliot used his telekinesis to yank down the wooden grate of his building’s converted freight elevator, a bag full of trash dangling from each hand. He rode the elevator down to the ground floor and carried the bags down the short hallway, where he hip-bumped the rear door open. A steady rain darkened the pavement and pattered against the large dumpster the residents of his building used. He hunched his shoulders against the fat drops of rain as he tossed the bags into the open side of the deep unit, where they tumbled down inside. Wine bottles clinked together, the chiming muffled, and as they settled, Eliot heard another sound, almost like the mewl of a newborn animal. He paused, his head cocked to one side, and the sound floated up from the inside of the dumpster again.

 “Oh, what fresh hell is this?” Eliot sighed to himself. The alley was a private one, so Eliot cast a spell that allowed him to levitate above the unit. Another murmured spell caused light to spill from his fingertips, and he pointed them downward.

 From the innards of the dumpster, empty all but for two discarded pizza boxes and the two bags he’d just tossed inside, a skinny teenager peered up at him in mild awe. The grey hoodie and checkered lounge pants he wore were smeared with muck and grease, his ankles dark with dirt. Worn leather slippers covered his feet. The kid pressed himself into the corner, his dark eyes hollow and hunted. Eliot used his telekinesis to open the opposite lid and close the other so he could crouch on it and look down at the kid at the same time.

 “Hello.” He said at last. The kid brought his knees to his chest as rain started to pelt into the dumpster, but he didn’t respond. Eliot frowned. “You do realize this is a private trash receptacle?”

 “M’sorry.” The kid murmured at last, and in the grey light of the rainy morning, Eliot could see that he was shaking. “Saw the pizza boxes. Climbed in but then couldn’t get out.”

 Eliot sighed. It was Tuesday, which meant it was trash day and the trucks would come to empty the dumpster no matter what was in it. And pizza boxes? Was the kid going to eat out of the dumpster? Eliot’s stomach lurched at the thought. Two blocks over, a garbage truck’s engine droned and the boom of a dumpster being lifted and emptied echoed in the alley. Eliot could almost sense tiny devil and angel versions of himself appear on each shoulder as it began to rain harder.

 Leave the kid where he is. It’s not your business or your fault he’s down there.

 You could be where he is if not for a few strokes of luck and good fortune. Give the kid a hand.

 “Karma better pay me back for this in spades.” Eliot muttered after a moment as he gazed at the kid and lifted him out of the dumpster with his telekinesis. The kid didn’t seem surprised that he was rising into the air and when Eliot set him on his feet, his legs folded under him like a wounded deer and he thumped down onto the concrete. Eliot judged that he was maybe two or three years his junior. He was also thin, filthy, and obviously a drug addict.

 “Thank you.” The kid said in a raw, croaky whisper, and Eliot nodded.

 “Sure. You better move along now, though.” He said, although he made no move to turn back toward the building’s back door. Rain dripped off the ends of the kid’s hair, which looked like it had been washed back around last Halloween or so. “You can, can’t you?”

 “If I could just sit in your doorway a minute? Then I’ll go, I swear.”

 “All right.” Eliot allowed. The kid managed to get to his feet, but even taking the few steps to the doorway seemed to exhaust him. He sat down and pulled up the filthy hood of his pullover hoodie. Eliot stepped around him. “Take care.”

 The kid sniffled in reply and Eliot let the door shut behind him. He got halfway down the hall when muffled sobbing made him pause. He shook his head, took three more steps, then stopped again.

 “You’re going to regret this. You know you will. Idiot!” He said to himself before turning back to the rear door. He opened it to the sight of the kid’s shoulders shaking, the grey hoodie dark with rain.

 “Hey.” Eliot said, and the boy’s head jerked around, the dark eyes startled.

 “I—I’m sorry. I’ll go. I’ll go.” He struggled to his feet and Eliot held the door open wider.

 “Wait. I thought maybe you might be hungry. I have plenty of leftovers . . . I cook as sort of a hobby, you see. I could heat something up for you.” He rolled his eyes as the kid’s gaze turned wary. “Please. If I wanted to harm you, I would have done so when I pulled you out of that dumpster. Well?” He asked after a moment of silence. “I’m not going to stand here all day.”

 The kid stood with difficulty and mopped his face with his sleeve. It did nothing to improve his appearance.

 “Thanks.” He murmured as Eliot ushered him into the hallway and walked him down to the elevator. The kid walked like a drunk with a serious case of DTs and he reeked like month-old pot roast, but there was something about how he had trusted Eliot when he’d freed him from the dumpster that roused curiosity in the hedge witch. Most people would have run screaming at such a display of magic, but the kid didn’t seem to be afraid of him.

 And Eliot was used to being feared.

 “Where are we?” The kid asked as Eliot pulled the elevator door down and it began to rise.

 “The building doesn’t have a name, but we are almost precisely in the center of Chelsea, on the west side of the glorious borough of Manhattan.”

 “What day is it?”

 “Tuesday. April 9thth.” Eliot added as an afterthought. The elevator reached his floor and Eliot opened the door as he pulled his key out. Magical wards protected the apartment, but Eliot preferred the security of a solid steel deadbolt as well. He unlocked the door and crooked a finger at the kid.

 “Come in. What’s your name?”

 “Oh. Uhm—Martin. It’s Martin.”

 “I’m Eliot.”

 “Hi.” Martin’s eyes darted around the loft. “This is yours?”

 “Mmm.” Eliot nodded, wondering if it would to do spread a towel over one of the kitchen nook chairs to keep the damp, dirty seat of Martin’s lounge pants from soiling it. His pants weren’t the only issue, though. Margo’s bathroom had a tub, maybe—

 Sure. Then you can comb out his hair and watch him shake himself off to sleep. And if Margo catches you at this, you’ll be the one taking a bath—in the toilet, when she dunks your head in it for bringing a junkie into the house!

 A thump brought Eliot out of his thoughts to see that Martin had fallen again. He looked up at Eliot as he got to his hands and knees.

 “I’m sorry. I—I haven’t eaten in a long time. I’m sorry.” He barely got the last word out before he passed out at Eliot’s feet, his cheek pressed against the hardwood floor.

 Eliot closed his eyes a moment as he weighed his growing empathy for this kid against the odds of death by Margo.

 “She can only kill me once, right?” Eliot muttered to himself as he visualized the bathtub taps turning. As the tub began to fill, Eliot force-tugged Martin to his feet and floated him toward Margo’s room. He cast a spell to mask the sound of his movements and held his breath as they passed Margo, asleep on the other side of the room. The tub was nearly full and Eliot used a simple tutting spell to strip the kid’s filthy clothes off him before settling him into the water. The jut of his ribs was visible under pale skin as Eliot propped him up. Thick scars on his wrists stood out under the bathroom’s lights.

 Kid looks like a refrigerated turkey carcass, Eliot thought to himself as he rolled up his sleeves and set down a folded towel next to the tub to kneel on. Using a bar of soap he’d collected from one of his many hotel stays, Eliot lathered up a sponge glove and washed the unconscious teen the best he could, staying well above the waist. As he lifted Martin’s right arm, Eliot noticed a sturdy white plastic bracelet on his skinny, scarred wrist, the kind you wore during a hospital stay. Eliot lifted Martin’s arm to examine it more closely. It contained three typed lines, in all caps, with a bar code underneath:

 DOLBOROUGH M.H.F.

COLDWATER, QUENTIN  SEX: M

DOB: 07/20/92

 “Dolborough?” Eliot looked down at the boy. “And not Martin, either. Kid, what the hell have you—”

 “A-HEM!”

 Eliot flinched at the sound and looked over his shoulder to see Margo in the doorway, wearing her yellow satin pajama set and fuzzy pink slippers. Her small stature made her gaze no less imperious. Eliot gave her what he thought of as his most charming smile.

 “Good morning . . .?”

 Margo put her hands on her hips as her dark eyes narrowed. Eliot read the promise of hellfire there.

 “Rub-a-dub-duck, what the actual fuck!”

 CHAPTER FOUR

 “You need to get rid of him.”

 Eliot focused on the cranberry spritzer he was making at the kitchen bar, which ran along a cherry wood counter on the far side of the sink. Bottles gleamed in a glassed-in cabinet above the shelf, and an open cabinet filled with tumblers and built-in wine glass holders sat below it.

 “Eliot!”

 “Mmm?”

 Margo’s eyes narrowed.

 “Now!” She commanded, pointing one lacquer-tipped nail at the kid sleeping on the couch. He was cleaner now, his hair more dark blond than brown once Eliot had shampooed it several times. He wore a tee shirt that Eliot found in the back of his closet, one of those garish “I ♥ New York” souvenirs, left at the apartment by one of Eliot’s guests. It had a red wine stain at the hem but it fit the kid otherwise. The sweats were much too big on him, as he was about nine inches shorter than Eliot himself, but Eliot had burned those awful lounge pants and gross slippers to ashes out on the fire escape.

 “Margo, be reasonable. It’s pouring outside and he’s obviously starved. I know we’re supposed to be arch and haughty and look down on most people, but there’s not much sport in doing that to something this pathetic!”

 “You can’t start taking in strays!” Margo glanced over at the kid. “Even if they might be somewhat reasonably cute. I don’t want the responsibility, and if word gets out, we’re going to have them on our doorstep every day! Not only that, but what do you plan to do with him? Did you even think about that before you brought him up here?”

 Eliot began to reply when a rapid pounding sounded out on the other side of the apartment’s main door. He sighed, sipped his drink, and pulled the door open to reveal the perpetually scowling face of his downstairs neighbor, Penny Adiyodi. Eliot groaned inwardly. Penny was young, handsome, and reminded Eliot of a rebel monk turned punk, but he was also touchier than a badger with punctured scrotum. He was a talented magical adept, like most people in Eliot’s building, and his ability to read minds, astral project, and travel would have made him highly attractive to Eliot if he wasn’t so Goddamned pissy all the time. And straight. And had a temperamental girlfriend who specialized in battle magic.

 “Yes, Penny?” He asked the scowling psychic, who shouldered his way into the room. “Won’t you come in?” Eliot drawled, trying not to spill his drink. Penny turned.

 “You do realize that I can hear everything you say when you start arguing like that? I don’t even have to read your minds.”

 “That’s fucking rude.” Margo pointed out.

 “What’s rude is ignoring the rules Mr. Fogg set for us when he opened this building to give magical adepts a safe place to live! You’re going to get us all kicked out!” He glanced around. “So where is it? Because if you’re not gonna get rid of it, I will!”

 “Where’s what?”

 “Don’t give me that Jack Tripper shit! I heard you! You brought a stray animal in here! It’s against the rules and I’m not gonna get kicked out because of some bleeding heart hedge! Now I’m gonna ask you one more time before I start punching you in the throat! Where is it?”

 Eliot lifted one shoulder and gestured behind Penny’s shoulder to the couch. Penny turned and his scowl melted into confusion.

 “The fuck . . . that’s a kid!”

 “Well spotted, Inspector Lestrade.”

 “Just—the way you were talking, it sounded like you were hiding some starving dog up here or something.”

 “Not that it’s any of your business, but he was trapped in the downstairs dumpster.”

 Penny watched Quentin shake in his sleep.

 “Kid’s an addict. He’s gonna rob you blind.”

 “And how would he hold us up, exactly, seeing as how he can’t even hold up his own head?”

 Penny fell silent before his usual scowl showed itself again.

 “Whatever, man.” He stared at the kid for a minute and then backed off, his eyes widening. “Whoever he is, he’s got some fucked up dreams. Shit.” Penny headed for the door. Eliot sipped his spritzer.

 “Always a pleasure!” He called as Penny left without shutting the door. Eliot stepped over to pull it closed. “Twat.”

 “Twat or not, he’s not exactly wrong about this kid being an addict, El.” Margo folded her arms across her chest. “We can’t have him here.”

 “Wait—just let me show you something.” Eliot picked up the hospital bracelet from where he’d left in on the counter. “I found this on him.”

 “Quentin Coldwater? My God, with a name like that, I’d take drugs too.”

 “When I got him out of the dumpster, he told me his name was Martin. Do you know what the Dolborough facility is?”

 “Yeah. It’s a mental health place in Queens. Mostly inpatients who have gone permanently off the deep end. What about it?”

 “That’s where this kid was, and I have a hunch that they don’t know he’s gone. Why else would he give me a fake name?”

 “Um—because he’s a nut job?” Margo replied, sounding out her words slowly, as if speaking to a simpleton. Eliot frowned and went over to a glassed-in bookshelf, crooking his fingers and muttering a spell to unlock the wards that protected it. The five shelves were filled with spellbooks, and Eliot ran his fingers over the spine of each until he pulled one out. “What are you doing now, when you should be tossing this kid out?”

 “I’m pretty sure whatever he’s addicted to, it’s prescription. Dolborough is known for its use of serious psychotropic drugs.” Eliot’s long fingers flipped pages.

 “So what are you looking for?”

 “A spell that will heal him . . . get all that negative shit out of his system.”

 “In case you’ve forgotten? We make a living off casting and selling spells. And we didn’t get to where we are now by doing it for free.” Margo tapped her fingers on the countertop.

 “I haven’t forgotten any of that. But, well . . . sometimes you have to work pro bono.”

 “I’ve known you for almost four years and I’ve never seen you do anything pro bono.”

 “Excuse you!”

 “Okay, fine.” Margo held up a hand in supplication. “Almost nothing. My point is, Eliot, why do you care about some dorky-looking kid who probably ran away from home or cut himself when daddy took away his X-Box?”

 Eliot flipped another page and tapped it before glancing up at Margo.

 “For one thing, I think he’s a magical adept.”

 Margo blinked over at the skinny kid, still fast asleep and sweating under the blanket Eliot had thrown over him.

 “You think—that?” She pointed. “Is like us?”

 “I do. Except he might not know it.” Eliot went to the cabinet where he and Margo kept their spell ingredients.

 “Exactly how do you know this? And even if he is, didn’t you say just the other day that it’s not our job to wet nurse newbie hedges?”

 “He’s not a hedge, Margo. He’s not anything, he’s like—like a spell with one ingredient missing.” He held up a glass jar with a handful of dried herbs in it. “And the telekinesis gives me kind of a sixth sense about other people’s magical abilities. It’s like . . . well, almost like a shiver. And I feel it with this kid. He’s capable of something, but he’s missing one thing that makes magic work.” He sat down next to the kid with an armload of ingredients. “Are you going to help me?”

 “No. I have to go scrub out my tub for the next eight weeks for which, by the way, you. So. Owe. Me.” Margo replied.

 “Put it on my tab.” Eliot bent over the spellbook and Margo stormed back toward her room, muttering about putting tabs where they usually didn’t go and how she was going to insert them sideways. Already focused on his task, Eliot placed one big, elegant hand on Quentin’s thin chest and began to cast.

 CHAPTER FIVE

 The first thing that lured Quentin toward consciousness was the smell of frying bacon.

 It was an insistent scent, growing stronger with every passing moment, and Quentin used it as an anchor as he crawled up from a darkness that was blessedly free from dreams. He forced his eyelids open and they felt sticky, like they’d been closed with a weak glue. The surface underneath him was soft, and a high ceiling with vaulted beams met his muddled gaze.

 Not Dolborough, He thought to himself. His memory of the four days since he’d escaped the facility were fragmented, like a jigsaw puzzle with some sections missing. He’d hid much of the time after sneaking out of the truck at the Bowery Mission, fearful they would send people to look for him. Begging for change had netted him about $1.50, which bought him a plain burger at the local McDonalds the same day he’d escaped. He remembered wandering, being hungry, an empty dumpster, and—

 Quentin sat up all at once, ignoring how it caused his head to spin. The smell of bacon made his stomach clench with a powerful hunger pang. He turned his head to see someone he thought he’d dreamed: the tall stranger with the wild, dark curls and eyes like sunlit amber. He was plating the bacon next to a pile of fluffy scrambled eggs that made Quentin struggle not to drool.

 Eliot. That’s what he said his name was.

 The taller boy glanced up as the couch creaked. Quentin met his eyes for the space of a heartbeat and then lowered them to stare at his hands more out of habit than actual shyness—meeting anyone’s gaze at Dolborough was usually perceived as a challenge.

 “Well, you’re awake.” Eliot brought the plate over, along with a cup of something steaming that smelled rich and sweet. “How do you feel?”

 “Uhm . . .”

 “Weak? A little washed out?”

 “Yeah. How did you know?”

 “I’ll explain that in a moment.” He set the plate in Quentin’s lap. “Try to eat some of that.”

 Quentin stared down at the food. The bacon was delicately crisped and the eggs had tiny cubes of fresh tomato mixed in. It was light years away from what he’d been eating at Dolborough, which was mostly powdered eggs, tough biscuits, and lumpy, bland oatmeal. He picked up a slice of the bacon and took a bite, and his stomach responded with an eager gurgle. Under another circumstance Quentin might have been embarrassed, but the bacon was filling his senses and before he knew it, he was eating two and three pieces at a time.

 “Hey! Easy . . . I don’t want to have clean vomit off my suede couch!” Eliot offered the mug, and Quentin sipped from it. Caramel, whipped into something frothy and topped with cinnamon. Bliss.

 “Do you remember me?” Eliot asked as he offered Quentin a napkin. Quentin took it and wiped bacon grease from lips and chin.

 “I think so. Eliot, right?”

 “That’s right. And this is my place. Which, by the way, you passed out in the middle of almost exactly 24 hours ago.”

 “I—I’ve been asleep for a day?” Quentin asked, and Eliot reached one hand toward the kitchen. A second steaming mug of latte floated into his hand and he sipped it.

 “Asleep, unconscious . . . whichever you’d prefer. Do you remember me getting you out of that dumpster?”

 Quentin took a few bites of egg.

 “Yeah.”

 “You didn’t seem frightened.”

 “I guess I was pretty out of it, but—can I ask you something?”

 “As long as it’s not personal or professional.” Eliot replied. “That’s a joke.” He added when Quentin avoided eye contact for over thirty seconds.

 “Oh. So—are you a hedge witch?” He asked, and Eliot drew back a bit.

 “I am. And how did you know that?”

 Quentin looked down at his plate.

 “I know this is going to sound stupid, but . . . I’m really into, uhm, magic. Or I used to be. I taught myself card and coin tricks, and there’s lots of magic shops in Brooklyn—that’s where I’m from—and I used to hear things. Rumors about real magic and people who knew real spells. That’s what I heard them called. Hedge witches.”

 “Before you went into Dolborough?” Eliot asked, and this time it was Quentin’s turn to flinch.

 “Dolborough?”

 Eliot opened his hand and Quentin’s ID bracelet fluttered into it. Quentin frowned.

 “Where did you get—”

 “Off your right wrist when I cleaned you up . . . Quentin Coldwater.”

 “Oh. Oh shit.”

 Eliot waved a dismissive hand.

 “Relax. I haven’t called the police, no men in white coats are on their way here. What were you in for?”

 “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

 “Kid, you’d be surprised at what I’d believe.” He watched Quentin lick bacon grease off his fingers and handed him another napkin. Quentin set the empty plate aside.

 “This is pretty crazy, even for what a hedge witch might believe.”

 “Try me.” Eliot replied, and Quentin closed his eyes a moment before he opened them again to look out the window, where rain was still falling in a steady mid-April patter.

 “I used to be normal. I mean . . . as normal as a sixth grader who had to have his math classes outsourced to the local college could be. They always told me I was smart, but I never really felt smart, if that makes sense. My best friend Julia and I never really cared that much about all the academic things. We mostly hid out in the park or at her house and read the Fillory and Further books. I don’t know if you know them.” Quentin said, the tips of his ears going red. Eliot nodded.

 “From a very long time ago.”

 “I started studying magic because of them. Not real magic, I didn’t know it actually existed. But card and coin tricks, like I told you. Julia got over the books by the time we started high school, but I never really did. They always felt so real to me, so tangible. And they helped me cope during high school.” He pushed a lock of tawny hair behind one ear. “I know how stupid this must all sound to you.”

 “People cope with their shit in different ways.” Eliot lifted a shoulder. “Go on?”

 “I started having dreams last year. Bad dreams. At first I thought they were just stress dreams . . . you know, like the ones you have about being naked in school or having to take a test on a subject you know nothing about. But in them, something was chasing me. I never saw it, but I could feel how bad it was. Then, one day when I was—I was out walking, something happened.” As much as Quentin wanted to trust the man who had probably saved his life, there was no way he could admit that he’d been cosplaying alone as Martin Chatwin that day. “I followed this path into a community garden a few blocks from my house. I don’t know what happened. It was like the path just got longer and longer and then I saw—” Quentin paused and wiped a hand over his mouth. Eliot waited.

 “I don’t even know what I saw, really.” Quentin continued. “It was some kind of—well—monster, I guess. Like a man, but his face was obscured by these huge moths. They were blue and bigger than my hand, and they had this musty smell. But this thing, he called me by my name and put a hand over my mouth, like he wanted to smother me or maybe even break my neck. One of the warehouse whistles went off and it must have startled him because he bolted and vanished back down the path.” Quentin looked away from the window to Eliot to find the hedge listening, no trace of amusement or disbelief on his face. He paused. “You believe me.”

 “This is one world among many, Quentin. Just because people don’t or can’t believe that doesn’t mean it isn’t true. What happened after?”

 “I ran home. I didn’t tell my dad . . . I couldn’t. My mom left us when I was nine and after the divorce, he worried about me all the time. But I felt this thing’s presence all the time after that. My dreams got worse, and it was like that smell followed me wherever I went. It got really bad one night . . . I was alone in the house, uhm . . . my dad had gone to his bowling league. But it was like this thing—this Beast, it was all around me.” Quentin slid his hands up under his arms. “I tried to get away the only way I could think of.”

 Eliot thought of the thick scars he’d seen on Quentin’s wrists when he’d bathed him.

 “You tried to kill yourself.” He said, and Quentin nodded.

 “And that’s how I ended up at Dolborough. It’s funny . . . if my dad hadn’t forgotten his bowling shoes and come back for them, I’d be six feet under.” Quentin’s gaze slid away from Eliot’s again. “I’m still not sure I’m better off.”

 “How long were you at Dolborough?” Eliot asked.

 “Almost ten months. I managed to escape by getting out of my room and hiding in a cardboard box stacked with a bunch of old computer equipment that they were donating to the Bowery Mission.”

 “Clever!” Eliot nodded as he rose and gathered the empty plate and cup. “But once you got out, you had a hard time finding food, I’d assume.” He set the plates in the sink and waved a hand at them. The sink turned on and Quentin watched, round-eyed, as the dishes washed and stacked themselves in the nearby drainer.

 “Uhm, y-yeah, pretty much. The drugs they gave me at Dolborough, I think they threw the Beast off track for awhile, but He was going to find me there and I would’ve been trapped! I had to get away.”

 Eliot crossed the room to his bookshelf and pulled down two spellbooks, which he brought to the couch.

 “I performed a detox cleansing spell on you—you were coming down too hard. But don’t worry, this building is well warded, and there’s no way this Beast can get in without me knowing. Now . . . you know what I told you before, about there being more than world out there?”

 “Sure.”

 “Sometimes we open doors to them without even realizing it. You said the Fillory books always felt more real to you than your own reality and that everyone thought you were crazy because of it. But I don’t think you’re crazy at all, kid. I think you might be a magical adept and opened a door to a world that was making itself visible to you.”

 “What—what are you saying . . . that Fillory is real? And that’s where this Beast is from?”

 “Some mythical worlds have their basis in fact.” Eliot opened one of the books.

 “Fact, but—wait, did you say I’m a magical adept? What does that mean?”

 “It means you might have natural magical ability, and that’s why this creature is pursuing you. If it’s crossed over, it might be looking to gather power from whoever it can. Most of us protect ourselves with magical wards, but if you’re not aware of what you can do, you’re vulnerable.” Eliot’s long finger traced down a page and then tapped an ink sketch as he showed it to Quentin. “Look.”

 Quentin leaned over to look at the drawing and his heart leapt into his throat, where it crouched and trembled for the pace of half a dozen heartbeats before he swallowed hard. The drawing of the electric blue moth was too realistic, like it might leap off the page and flutter into his face, filling his senses with that dead, dry scent. He pointed.

 “That . . . that’s what I saw. The moths that cover the Beast’s face! Does it say what it is?” Quentin glanced at the text below and frowned when he discovered it wasn’t in English. “Does it say what this thing is or why it’s after me?”

 “It’s not like an instruction manual, Quentin. It doesn’t offer specific details.” Eliot turned a page. “You mentioned how much you love the Fillory books . . . have you collected any original memorabilia?”

 “A few things. A couple of posters, I have a collection of first edition books, and a button I bought from this guy near my favorite magic shop. He’s a homeless guy, I think, and he’s got this cart full of odds and ends. He knows how much I like Fillory and told me it was the same button that the seafaring rabbits gave Jane Chatwin so she could travel to Fillory whenever she wanted to.”

 “Did you believe that?”

 “No, of course not, but I felt sorry for the guy. I gave him fifty bucks for it.”

 “When did you buy it?”

 “About two weeks before what happened in the garden.”

 “Where is it now?” Eliot asked he closed the book.

 “It’s hidden in my room. I put away all my Fillory things because of my dad.”

 “So it’s still in your house?”

 “Yeah . . . unless my dad found it all and tossed it out.”

 “Right.” Eliot crooked a finger at him. “Come on, can you get up?”

 Quentin threw the blanket aside and got to his feet, one hand hitching at Eliot’s too-big sweats.

 “Yeah, I feel stronger. Where are we going?”

 “To play a hunch.”

 “Where?”

 “At your house. Either that button you bought was a very expensive piece of plastic, or the man you bought it from is working for whatever is chasing you.”

 “You mean, he wanted me to have it?”

 “Precisely. I think Fillory could be very real, and that this button is the key to its door.”

 CHAPTER SIX

 “So. Quentin Coldwater, hmm?” Margo watched from her bedroom doorway as Quentin tugged on the hunter-green sweater Eliot had bought him from the discount clothing store on the corner. It was no fashion statement, but better than the stained tee. “He’s not that cute.”

 “Shh!” Eliot hushed her as he tugged her back into her room and closed the door to give Quentin privacy: he’d bought a pair of serviceable jeans, a pair of clean boxers, and sneakers to go along with the sweater so the kid—who it turned out was only two years his junior, wouldn’t have to go out in those droopy sweats. “Christ, he’ll hear you!”

 “I thought you wanted me to be down with this?” Margo asked, her dark eyes tipping up to Eliot’s, the corners of her mouth quirking up. Eliot sighed; the introduction between Margo and Quentin had gone better than he’d expected, but he’d forgotten how damn perceptive her natural abilities made her.

 “I do want you to be—down—” Eliot frowned at the expression. “Because I need your help with this and so does Quentin. But you don’t have to get into my head, all right?”

 Margo reached out and squeezed his hand.

 “Don’t worry, El. Your secret is safe with me.”

 Eliot cleared his throat as he turned from the doorway to check his appearance in Margo’s full-length mirror.

 “There is no secret. So I find him attractive. So what? It means nothing.” He adjusted his shirt collar. “Are you going to help us?”

 “God knows someone has to come along on this fucking quest-cum-break in.” Margo rolled her eyes.

 “Quentin lives there, Margo! How do you break into your own home?”

 “He hasn’t lived there for almost a year. You do realize you could get arrested?”

 “I’m trying to help him. This Beast is real and it’s after him for some reason! I need to get a look at this button.”

 “Fine. But if you get us arrested, I’m making you my prison wife!”

 “That’s my Bambi.” Eliot bent down to kiss her cheek. “Always thinking about my welfare. Come on.”

 _______________________________

 The Coldwater home turned out to be a modest but stately three-story affair in a suburb about thirty minutes from downtown Brooklyn. The low-trimmed yew hedges were starting to green, dripping with rain, and Quentin stood between Eliot and Margo as they loitered on the opposite corner, looking up at the house.

 “I can make a portal. Or if you know away around back, I can float up to your bedroom window and we can get in that way. We could also use a teleportation spell, but it’s cooperative and—” Eliot broke off as he realized Margo was tugging at his sleeve and that Quentin was no longer standing next to him.

 “Where—?”

 Margo jerked her chin at the house, where Quentin was jogging up the front walk. He stopped at the front door, bent down, and retrieved a spare key from under a realistic-looking rock nestled in a nearby flowerbed. He unlocked the front door and looked over his shoulder as Margo and Eliot caught up with him.

 “You guys better stay out here. I know where everything is and I can grab it all quick, all right? Try to stay out of sight, we have a neighborhood watch here.” Quentin slipped inside before Eliot could protest. Margo glanced down the street.

 “There’s a bus stop shelter at the corner, we can watch from there. Come on.” She took Eliot’s arm and hurried him away as Eliot looked over his shoulder.

 “Are you sure we should have let him go in there alone?”

 “It’s his house, I’m sure he knows what he’s doing! Come on, we need to look inconspicuous.”

 Inside the silent house, Quentin climbed the stairs to his room. He felt like time had slipped backwards and he’d been doing nothing more than whiling away a few hours at the downtown library. He paused at his father’s closed bedroom door a moment: his father would be at work, editing the latest issue of some district textbook. He moved down the hall and opened the door diagonal from his father’s.

 The room looked like it hadn’t been touched in the nearly ten months since Quentin had been away. His bed was made, the blue quilt he’d had for years pulled up over the pillows. The closet door was closed but Quentin knew his father probably hadn’t gotten rid of anything, hoping his son could be cured enough to return home. A few high school pennants were still tacked over his bed, and a shelf across from the bed contained an impressive collection of academic trophies and ribbons. Quentin barely glanced at them as he crossed the room and moved aside an end table to reveal a small door. It was locked with a hook-and-eye combo, which Quentin pried open before he yanked the rectangular door open to reveal a crawl space. Inside were his rolled-up Fillory posters, his vintage messenger bag (identical to the one Martin Chatwin carried to Fillory with him in The World in the Walls,) his first editions of the Fillory books, carefully bagged, and the small velvet bag containing the button the homeless vendor had sold him. Quentin slipped the button into the messenger bag, along with all his Fillory books, then opened the closet to add a few shirts and several pairs of jeans in as well. He tugged open his bedroom window and lowered the bag as much as he could, dropping it into the bushes below. It shimmered and vanished a moment later—Eliot’s handiwork—and Quentin grinned.

 If Eliot is right and I am a magical adept, he can teach me what he knows! Magic . . . real magic, just like I always—

 “Hello, Curly-Q.”

 Quentin turned, his heart giving a startled thwack at the words. His father stood in the bedroom doorway, his expression somehow sad and angry at the same time.

 “Dad.”

 “I knew you’d come back here eventually.” Ted Coldwater stepped into the room. Quentin glanced around, sudden anxiety crowding his chest.

 “You—you’re supposed to—I mean, I thought you’d be at work.”

 “I took some time off when you went missing from Dolborough.” He held up both hands and approached Quentin. “Don’t you worry, son. Everything’s going to be all right. You don’t need to be scared . . . no one’s angry that you left the hospital. We’ve all been worried, that’s all. Very worried.”

 “We?”

 “Yes, son. Myself, Dr. Beekman, everyone at Dolborough. But you don’t need to worry. Once we get you back there, we’re going to try some new treatments that—”

 “No! I’m not going back there! Ever! I’m eighteen now dad, and—and I met people after I left there! Friends who are going to help me!”

 “Quentin. Ever since you harmed yourself, I’ve had power of attorney. You can’t make decisions on your own, you have no idea what’s best for you!”

 Outside, from the other end of the block, sirens began to sound. The wails grew closer, and Quentin stared at his father.

 “What did you do?”

 “What’s best for you, Curly-Q. I called them the moment I saw you downstairs. They’re here to help you and so am I—”

 Quentin bolted, pushing his father aside as he raced out the door and down the hallway. He took the steps two at a time, hit the landing, and yanked open the door to find Dr. Beekman and half a dozen policeman standing there. Dr. Beekman smiled, but it never touched the man’s eyes.

 “Quentin. We’re very glad to see you safe, very glad indeed.” He nodded to the policemen, who seized Quentin by the front of his sweater and dragged him from the doorway. Quentin fought them as they carried him bodily over to the ambulance, followed by Dr. Beekman and Quentin’s father.

 “Please, don’t hurt him, not if you can help it, he doesn’t understand what he’s doing!” Ted said, and Quentin looked around wildly.

 “Eliot!” He cried.

 At the end of the block, Margo had Quentin’s messenger bag slung across her chest as she used both hands to hang onto Eliot’s arm. Eliot was struggling in her grip as he watched the cops heft Quentin off his feet and carry him to the ambulance.

 “Eliot, don’t! You can’t just charge over there tossing battle magic around and you know that! Not only will that get you arrested, it might possibly get you dissected at the nearest government facility once they see what you can do! Damn it, El, stop!” Margo felt her grip slipping.

 “Kinnimear, a’thane azu!” She chanted it three times, in rapid succession, and felt the magic shudder down her arms and through her fingertips, freezing Eliot where he stood. Only his eyes moved, and she rounded him so he could see her. Despite his locked expression, she could see the fury there.

 “I’m sorry. Don’t hate me, El, but I’m not letting you get arrested and God knows what else because of some kid you’ve known two days! We can help him, but not like this!” Margo said, hardening her heart as Quentin called Eliot’s name, then hers.

 “Let me go! Get off me! Eliot! Margo!” Quentin shrieked as the cops hauled him into the ambulance and many strong hands buckled him into a stretcher. Thick leather restraints snaked around his wrists and ankles and he lifted his head to see his father standing by the open doors, watching. Tears stood on his unshaven cheeks.

 “It’s gonna be all right, Curly-Q. They’ll take care of you. I’ll come see you when they say I can.”

 “No! Dad please, don’t let them do this! He’ll find me there, we need to open the door before He does, you don’t understand! You have to let me—owwwww, no, please!” Quentin cried as Dr. Beekman rucked up his sweater sleeve and slipped a needle tip into his inner elbow. Quentin felt the warm sensation of liquid sedative entering his vein there and it spread rapidly, making his extremities numb and his thoughts lose their cohesion. He tried to speak, but his lips felt like as useless as those of a dying fish, gasping out its last pointless breaths at the bottom of a trawler. The sound of the siren chased him down into unconsciousness as the ambulance pulled away from the curb and headed east, toward Queens.

 CHAPTER SEVEN

 “It seems that Quentin’s issues go far beyond depression and hallucinations, Ted.”

 The words echoed in a bubbly quality that Quentin almost couldn’t make out. The faces of his father and Dr. Beekman seemed to float high above him, like untethered helium balloons. He could sense that his wrists and ankles were restrained to the bed, the same one he’d slept in for the past ten months.

 Since being returned to Dolborough, Dr. Beekman ordered that Quentin be kept moderately sedated and under physical restraint. In the 24 hours since, Quentin had done his best to keep Eliot’s face in his mind. Despite his efforts, the drugs made it fade and blur, and with every moment he didn’t show, Quentin’s certainty that he’d been abandoned by his new friend grew.

 “Is there anything that can be done?” Ted asked as he looked down at his addled son, and Dr. Beekman nodded.

 “I believe the answer is an anterior cingulotomy.”

 “What does that involve?”

 “It’s a psychosurgical treatment for schizophrenia, depression, and certain types of OCD. We place bilateral lesions in the anterior cingulate, which slows or stops certain impulses to the cingulum bundle. It should eliminate Quentin’s hallucinations about this Beast creature and ease most of his depression symptoms.”

 “What are the risks?”

 “Possible hemorrhaging, seizures . . . but those are usually rare. He might experience headaches, nausea, some vision problems, but those should fade with time. Ted . . . I know that brain surgery isn’t what you wanted for your son, but I believe it’s the best option for him. We have a surgeon over at John Hopkins that works with our facility that could perform the procedure—Quentin would be in good hands.”

 Ted reached down and touched Quentin’s face.

 “If you really think it’s the only answer.”

 “I do. Come with me to my office. I’ll make some calls and have you sign some papers.” Dr. Beekman led Ted out the door, leaving Quentin to struggle with his opium-soaked thoughts.

 Gonna crack open my skull, he realized as he moved through a fading consciousness that was filled with shifting lights and the slow mental thunder of cognitive impairment. Can’t stop them. Eliot, where . . .

 Darkness rushed up to envelop him, and Quentin fell headlong into its embrace.

 ________________________________

 “Are you ever going to talk to me again?”

 Eliot glanced up from the bar, where he was mixing a drink with more force than was probably necessary. Margo watched him from the couch, her feet tucked up under her thighs.

 “Eliot. Come on. I know what I did was wrong—”

 “Wrong?” Eliot slammed the lid down on his stainless steel ice bucket. “It was more than wrong, Margo! You used restraint magic on me! In the three and a half years we’ve known each other, you’ve never cast on me like that!”

 “I know.” Margo stood up and went to him. His slender frame stiffened but he didn’t retreat, as he’d been doing since she’d released him from the spell at the bus stop near Quentin’s house. “Because up until yesterday, I didn’t have to. You know damn well what would have happened if I’d let you go over there and blast the cops with battle magic! They would have shot you into so much big eye swiss cheese and then played Operation with your corpse at the nearest morgue! It wasn’t the answer, and the only one who would have been regretting it is me, because you’d be way too fucking dead to reconsider your poor choice!”

 “He was calling for us and we just stood there and let it happen. We let those bastards take Quentin back to that hell hole of a psycho ward! Do you know what he must be thinking, if they’re letting him think at all?” Eliot glared at her. “Do you even care about him?”

 “He’s your pet project! I didn’t realize I was required to care!”

 “You—” Eliot began in a sharp, rising tone when a knock on the front door interrupted him. His amber eyes flashed. “If it’s that menu boy from Pei Wei again, I’m going to turn him into a fucking human potsticker!” He yanked the door back. Penny stood there, along with his lover Kady, a temperamental high-level hedge with flashing eyes and wild brunette curls. Eliot scowled. “Oh, marvelous. Punch and Judgey. What?” He asked, and Penny returned the scowl in equal measure.

 “For one thing, your mental wards need serious repair. And for another? We can hear you right through the fucking ceiling! Will you just fuck or kill each other or whatever the problem is so Kady and I can get some peace?”

 “And will you mind your own business for once?”

 “Who’s this Quentin?” Kady asked, shouldering her way into the apartment. Penny followed her and Eliot’s fists clenched at the intrusion. Margo sighed.

 “Just tell her, Eliot.” Her gaze slid over to Penny. “Maybe they can help us.”

 “And why would they do that?”

 “Look.” Penny interrupted. “If what you said is true and that skinny nerd you had here really is like us, we can’t let a bunch of head peepers keep him locked up. Way too many of our kind are dying because no one helps them understand what they are, and those that do find out end up smoking themselves trying spells they aren’t ready for!”

 “That’s not the only issue. Quentin unlocked a door to another world and now some kind of Beast is chasing him. It’s how he ended up at Dolborough in the first place, because no one believes him! They think he’s hallucinating.” Eliot adjusted the collar of his shirt. “If you really want to help one of our own, then help Margo and me break Quentin out of that place before it’s too late.”

 Penny and Kady traded glances and Eliot could almost see the silent, telepathic conversation that took place before Penny nodded.

 “Fine. You’ve got a deal, Schmendrick . . . if you make me a drink before we talk about it.”

 __________________________________________

  “This sounds like a bunch of nerdy fanboy shit.”

 Eliot rubbed the bridge of his nose with two fingers as Penny leaned over the spellbook and peered at the image of the moth Quentin had identified. They were four whiskey sours into their meeting, and Eliot had gone over Quentin’s story twice now.

 “I know what it sounds like, but you know as well as we do that what Quentin saw was real. But no one at the hospital is going to believe it, and now that he escaped, they might Randle McMurphy him to make sure he doesn’t cause any more trouble!”

 “That’s their answer for anything they can’t explain away.” Margo sipped her drink. “And the kid doesn’t deserve this . . . he’s eighteen and he hasn’t even had the chance to become a magician.”

 “The only way we’re going to get into Dolborough is by acting like we belong there.” Eliot said, and Kady shook back her curls.

 “You mean pose as patients?”

 “No. According to their website, Dolborough partners with a few medical universities in the city, and it’s a teaching hospital twice a week. With some scrubs and illusion work, we can pose as medical students and get to Quentin that way. We find his floor, Penny travels into his room to unlock it from the inside, and we portal our asses out before anyone knows we’re even there!”

 Penny knocked back the rest of his drink and grimaced at the excited light in Eliot’s amber eyes.

 “I’m gonna hate this.”

 CHAPTER EIGHT

 “Right this way, move along please, follow me.”

 Eliot, Kady, and Margo marched along with the two dozen or so other med students from Queens University, led by an attending physician and dressed in blue scrubs and dark shoes like the rest of them. The hedges each wore a lanyard with a laminated ID card clipped to it; Eliot had picked them up at a souvenir stand near Central Park and had changed the photos of the Statue of Liberty into student IDs with a bit of illusion work. They had left Penny in the lobby, shielded from sight with an invisibility spell, until they could find Quentin’s room number. It had been simple enough to slip into the crowd of students as they had gathered in the lobby: in their identical scrubs, they blended in, and the attending physician had barely glanced back since gathering them.

 “Did you bring it?” Margo asked Eliot from the corner of her mouth as they were led along, and Eliot nodded as he slipped one hand into his pocket and closed his fingers around Quentin’s plastic ID bracelet.

 “We need to get to a nurse’s station where we can scan it.” He replied quietly as the attending slid his ID card through a security pad and opened the doors to a restricted area.

 “Move quickly now!” He barked, and Eliot straightened his spine as he scanned the area beyond the door. There was a small lobby, two vending machines, and diagonal from that, a semi-circular nurse’s station. Two older women stood behind the counter, glancing at charts and murmuring to each other. Eliot cut a glance at Margo and Kady.

 “That’s where I need to be.” He hissed. “Create a diversion!”

 “What do we—”

 Crack! Kady’s open palm snapped against Margo’s cheek, cutting off her words and making the shorter hedge stagger back a few steps. Eliot stared at Kady, his mouth falling open. Kady’s green eyes glittered with challenge, and Margo recovered.

 “You bitch!” She was on Kady a moment later, her hands twisted into Kady’s curls, and the two of them went to the floor in a barrage of curses and flashing, painted nails. The other students, the attending, and the station nurses rushed over to separate them, and Eliot ducked down to slip past them and behind the counter. A scanner sat to one side of the station monitor, and Eliot pulled the bracelet from his pocket. A red light reflected against the shiny plastic, and the small readout spat back Quentin’s information at him.

 “Room 2505.” Eliot murmured as he risked a peek over the counter. Margo and Kady were still in the middle of the knot of shouting, staring crowd as the nurses and attending tried to break the girls up. Eliot dropped his mental wards and let Penny in.

 2505. I’ll meet you there in five minutes!

 Eliot hurried toward the nearest elevator, knowing Margo and Kady could extract themselves from the melee and make themselves scarce before the others realized they wouldn’t be able to say for sure who had started the fight.

 ______________________________________

 Penny felt the familiar shiver in his nerves as he traveled from the lobby to Quentin’s room. He took a moment to glance around at the surroundings: a dresser, barred windows, and a metal-frame bed. The kid Penny had come to think of as the Nerdling was strapped to the bed with thick leather buckles, both hands and feet, and it roused a sick, angry feeling in the traveler. No one of his kind deserved this, even a dork like this. He dropped the invisibility shield and leaned over to pat the kid’s cheek.

 “Hey! Hey, come on, look at me! Yo! Nerdling! Snap out of it!”

 Quentin’s eyelids twitched and then blinked open. His dark gaze was muddled, his irises blown wide with prescription dope. Penny began to work the heavy buckles open.

 “I don’t wanna have to carry your skinny ass, so come on!” He slapped Quentin smartly on one cheek, and Quentin stared up at him.

 “The hell.” He mumbled, and Penny got his hands free.

 “Hell is what these people are gonna put you in unless you try and focus on what I’m saying!” He freed Quentin’s bare feet and shoved them into a pair of sneakers from the dresser. He pulled Quentin into a sitting position when a distorted chiming sound began behind him. Penny turned, his stomach clenching as the air wavered with dark magic. A hand stretched out from the tattered framed poster on the wall, one with many extra fingers. It gestured, stretching the frame into the size of a full-length mirror, as if it was made of taffy. A figure stepped out as the plexiglass wavered like a pool of still water that had been disturbed.  The creature, dressed in a natty grey suit and polished dress shoes, was whistling. His entire face was obscured by fluttering moths. The doorknob to the room rattled and Eliot’s voice rang in Penny’s head.

 Let me in!

 “Ah ah!” The Beast chided Penny as he stepped closer to the bed. “I believe that’s mine!” He shot a hand out, deformed with many extra fingers, and Penny gasped in pain and surprise as he was flung against the opposite wall. His head struck the dresser and dark spots bloomed in front of his eyes. Agony wracked his senses a moment later and he gave a breathless gasp as he turned his head toward the door. Eliot’s shadow loomed in the small square mesh-lined window.

 Penny! Open the fucking door!

 Penny lifted a hand toward it, but the spell died on his lips as the syllables fell into a meaningless jumble within his addled consciousness. The sound of the doorknob rattling took on an echoing quality as the Beast tugged Quentin from the bed by his arms and pulled him across the room. Quentin turned his head and stared at Penny, wide-eyed and helpless, as the creature whistled a happy little tune, dragged the teen through the poster frame, and vanished.

  Part Two: One World Among Many

 CHAPTER NINE

 “He’s dead, Margo.”

 Margo glanced up from the loft’s bar at Eliot’s words. Kady sat with Penny on the couch, dabbing at a swollen, red lump on the back of his head with a damp cloth. Margo brought them each a glass of brandy and frowned when she had to push the tumbler into Eliot’s hands before he would grip it.

 “We don’t know that. Yes, the Beast took him, but it has to be for a reason! If he’d wanted to kill Quentin, he would have painted that room with his brains with the flick of his hand!”

 Eliot closed his eyes and let his head fall against the back of the Eames chair. The four exhausted hedges had managed to portal themselves out of Dolborough before security reached Quentin’s room, with Kady and Eliot having to almost carry Penny. The traveler was stunned and had only just begun to come around as they’d regrouped at Eliot’s loft.

 “She’s right.” Penny nodded, his voice a bit stronger than it had been a half hour ago. “The Beast said, ‘I believe that’s mine’ right before he—fuck!” Penny flinched as Kady pressed a square of gauze to his head wound. “Right before he dragged your buddy off. How the hell did he find us, anyway?”

 “Quentin told me the drugs they were giving him at Dolbrough made it hard for the Beast to track him, but it was only a matter of time before the bastard found him! I warded him when he was with me, but once they took him back to Dolborough, he was vulnerable.” Eliot pushed his dark hair back with one hand. “The door Quentin opened had to be to Fillory. It’s the only thing that makes sense! Once he had that button, Fillory presented itself to him, only the Beast was guarding the entrance. Guarding it, and waiting for him.” Eliot rubbed a hand over his chin. “He told me it happened right in his own neighborhood, in Brooklyn, but I don’t know the exact location, and there’s no guarantee that the door will open for us, even if we find it.” He drained half the brandy from his glass. “We have to find another way.”

 Margo got to her feet and left the room. Kady taped the gauze to Penny’s head and squeezed his hand, and he allowed her to touch her forehead to his before resuming his usual stoic expression. Margo returned, Quentin’s messenger bag in one hand.

 “Fuck me if I didn’t forget we brought this from Quentin’s house the day they took him back to Dolborough!”

 “And what good will that do, exactly?” Eliot sighed. “I already looked inside, there’s nothing but clothes and those Fillory books.”

 Margo opened the bag’s clasp and up-ended it over the couch. The Fillory books slid out, each one encased in a protective plastic sheath, along with a small assortment of clothing. She frowned and pulled the bag open wide, dipping one hand in and feeling around. Her fingers slid along a thin mouth of fabric, and she tugged on it. A Velcro pocket opened and Margo smiled as she pulled out a small black velvet bag.

 “Oh yeah, smart guy? What do you call this?” She pulled the drawstring open and shook a clear plastic octagonal white box into her hand. It was about the size of a half dollar and contained an eggshell-white button. Eliot and the others stared at it.

 “Is that . . .?” Eliot asked, and Margo set the case on the table before popping the lid open. Penny leaned close.

 “Fuck me! Can you feel that? Like it’s practically leaking magic!”

 Kady reached out with both hands, her slim hands working in the air above the button.

 “Wherever that kid got this from, it’s the real deal.”

 “Quentin told me he bought it from a homeless vendor in his neighborhood. Whoever that was or is must have been working for the Beast . . . He wanted Quentin to be able to open that door.”

 “But if he didn’t know he has any magical ability, what good would that have done either of them?” Penny frowned. “That’s like giving someone a key to a car that has a fucked-up motor.”

 “Except that Quentin isn’t fucked up.” Eliot’s stomach turned as his quick mind began to make connections. “He’s untapped—what’s inside him is pure, and that’s what the Beast is after. For whatever reason, He’s taken Quentin to Fillory to gain access to Quentin’s magic.” His hand tightened around the forgotten tumbler in his hand. “To drain him.”

 __________________________________

 “Wakey Wakey!”

 Quentin struggled to consciousness at the sound of that voice, the one that had filled his dreams with terror and his bed with rank fear sweat and urine for months. He forced his eyes open and a pained, surprised whimper of pain escaped his throat as he realized tough steel manacles encircled his wrists, paired with thick iron chains that suspended him from a cold stone wall. He kicked his bare feet, only to find that they were secured as well. A cold, fetid dampness against his skin made him shiver, and he realized as he came fully conscious that he was naked—the blue-checked hospital gown he’d been wearing when the Beast claimed him was laying in a nearby corner in a sad heap. The Beast himself stood in front of him, his face still obscured with the large moths. Panic gnawed at Quentin’s nerves as that musty, dry smell assaulted his nostrils.

 “Quentin Coldwater.” The voice purred, laced with a posh British accent. “I’m so pleased to have you in my company! It’s been much too long since we last met, wouldn’t you agree?”

 “Who are you? How do you know my name?” Quentin asked, trying to arch his back away from the damp stone. It was impossible to see the man’s face, but amusement laced his tone.

 “Why, I’ve known it for years!” One multi-fingered hand reached out to stroke Quentin’s cheek. “My poor lad . . . you really have no idea who you are, do you.”

 “I’m—I’m just Quentin. Please, whoever you are, you’re making a terrible mistake!”

 “There’s no mistake, dear boy. The prophecy is at hand . . . the events that are destined to bring my reign and my life to an end!” The Beast’s voice rose in pitch, cracking with anger.

 “Your reign? Fillory . . .” Quentin glanced around the cold stone room. A Fillorian crest, faded but visible, covered much of the space on the wall opposite him. “Fillory is real.” He murmured, and the Beast chuckled.

 “Of course Fillory is real! And you’ve known it your whole life, Quentin. Even as you played your silly questing games with Julia, you always looked for a way in that went far beyond fantasy. The truth slept deep within you, and now it’s awake, but it slumbered too long, it seems! I was a wily fox, you see, and I gave you a way to unlock the door, only I was waiting there to trap you, at last!”

 “The button.” Quentin yanked at the manacles that pinched and rubbed against his skin. “Eliot was right! You gave that button to the vendor to sell to me!”

 The Beast’s open palm cracked across Quentin’s cheek.

 “He can’t help you, and he can’t help Fillory! The prophecy is at an end, my sweet boy, and once I drain you of your magic and make a tasty meal of your flesh, every door into Fillory will be mine to command!” A hand with extra, seeking fingers wrapped around his throat. “I’m going to devour you, and when your would-be magician king sees what I will leave of your corpse, it will drive him mad!”

 Quentin swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing against the creature’s hand.

 “I don’t understand.” He said in a strained voice. “Who are you?”

 “I rule all of Fillory, past, present, and now, the future!” The hand fell away from Quentin’s throat and he screamed in terror and sense memory as the moths engulfed him, their wings landing dust-filled kisses against every inch of his skin.

 CHAPTER TEN

 A late-April shower was moving through Chelsea, drenching empty sidewalks and dripping off storefront awnings in a steady patter. Thick rivulets of rain scrawled down the glass of Eliot’s loft windows, making shadows on its occupants’ faces like tribal tattoos. Eliot, Margo, Penny, and Kady stood in a circle around the coffee table, their hands joined. The button sat in its case there, the lid open.

 “So . . . if anyone wants to bow out of this little field trip, speak now and forever reveal your cowardice.” Eliot said as he slipped one of Quentin’s Fillory books into the pocket of his camel coat, his gaze flicking to each member of the party, one by one. Penny’s eyes narrowed.

 “Fuck you, like you’re not shitting dry peach pits?”

 “Have your pissing contest later, boys.” Margo squeezed Eliot’s hand. “I don’t think Quentin has the time.” She glanced at the book. “What’s that for?”

 “It has maps in it. I was thinking that might be of help to us.”

 “Are you sure this is even going to work? If Quentin had the button all this time, why didn’t it take him to Fillory when he touched it?” Kady asked.

 “Because he hasn’t accessed his magical abilities yet. He’s untapped . . . the button might have sensed his innate powers but couldn’t make the connection with him.” Eliot looked down at the button. “Are we ready?”

 “Ready.”

 “Yeah.”

 “Just fucking touch the stupid thing!”

 Eliot opened the hand that gripped Margo’s just enough to float the button into his palm. When he closed his fingers around it, the air in the loft seemed to implode with the sound of a pile of wet laundry hitting a tile floor. Eliot felt himself being drawn inward, as if he was turning liquid and being sucked up through a very long straw. He struggled to hang onto his consciousness as his inner ear spun like a risky carnival ride. His form then solidified again and he tumbled through crisp, sweet air before falling with a heavy splash into chilly water. He fought his way to the surface, gasping like a landed fish. The others popped up all around him, struggling to get air in their lungs as well, and Eliot realized they’d fallen into the waters of an ornate fountain. A granite statue of a centaur, three times Eliot’s height, graced the center of the round fountain, and water spurted from its mouth and from the tip of the gilded spear it held. Eliot half-paddled to the fountain’s edge, climbed out, and then pocketed the button before he helped Margo onto dry land as she coughed and shuddered.

 “Fuck!”

 “Are you okay, Bambi?” Eliot asked, pushing her sodden hair from her face, and she thumped him on the chest twice with her small fists.

 “No, I’m not okay! That fucking button turned me into a human enema and squirted me up the multiverse’s motherfucking colon!” She hit him again. “You dick!”

 “All right, okay!” He took hold of her wrists. “I know it wasn’t exactly first class on Jet Blue, but it worked. It’s pretty clear we aren’t on earth anymore.” He looked up at the fountain. Kady pushed her curls back and wrung water from them.

 “How can we be sure we’re in Fillory?”

 “Children of earth!”

 The party turned as one as the deep voice spoke. A towering male centaur, his coat a mix of silver and white, stood watching them. He held a spear in one hand. His curly hair, the same color as his coat and tail, fell well past his bare shoulders. His eyes were the color of wet slate. The group stared at him as he gave a graceful bow.

 “I welcome you all to Fillory.”

 Eliot cleared his throat as his heart tried to climb up into his trachea.

 “I think that’s a pretty telling clue.”

__________________________________________

 The centaur’s name was Clabbercloud. He worked as a sentry for the Northern Meadows clan, who worked mostly in weaving and textiles. As children of earth, Eliot and the others were welcomed with solemn but sincere respect by the clan and given dry clothing, hot black currant tea, and delicate oat cakes in Clabbercloud’s rangy tent. The interior ceiling was draped with gauzy silk squares of material in varying shades of red, giving the space an Arabian Nights pastiche.

 “Long have we awaited more children of Earth to visit Fillory. Many had given up hope you would ever arrive, and we would be forever ruled by the Many-Fingered King.”

 “The Many-Fingered King?” Penny frowned. “Hang on . . . that thing I saw in Quentin’s room at the hospital! It had a bunch of extra fingers! That’s the king of Fillory?”

 Clabbercloud snorted.

 “He is more a ruthless dictator than a king. We live in fear of him! But it was not always so . . . when he came to Fillory as a boy, he and his siblings ruled wisely, but over time, our king’s quest for power grew so that he began to study the dark magic, spells that twisted his heart and mind. He learned of the prophecy of the Light Bringer, and since then, he has worked to destroy the one who would dethrone him.”

 “Wait, hold up.” Margo held up a hand. “What’s the Light Bringer, what prophecy, and who was this Squidward-looking asshole before he was a king?”

 Clabbercloud moved over to a wooden chest filled with books, their covers thick and ornate. He chose one from the pile and brought it to the group, opening it to a marked page.

 “Look upon this.”

 Eliot took the book and settled it across his knees. The others leaned over his shoulders to see. The left page featured scrawled Fillorian text, and the other, which was torn away at the upper right corner so about a quarter of the page was missing, featured two figures ascending from a fountain. One was radiating with light and reaching for an open jade crown of many colors, which was surrounded by a cloud of what appeared to be butterflies or moths, but the other figure was mostly missing from the torn page. Only the legs and feet were visible.

 “The Light Bringer.” Kady glanced up at Clabbercloud. “And who’s this?” She pointed at the incomplete figure.

 The centaur shook himself.

 “There are many who believe he is little more than a guide. Others think he is something of a page to the Light Bringer.”

 “So where is this place?” Penny asked pointing to the drawing, and Clabbercloud cocked a hind leg as he worked through a plate of oat cakes.

 “The fountain is said to be the same that can be found at Coronation Beach, where all Fillorian rulers are crowned. It lies twenty miles south of our village.”

 “When I saw the Beast, he wasn’t wearing that crown.” Penny nodded to the drawing.

 “The Many-Fingered King wears no crown, Traveler. It is power and submission, not fame and attention, that he desires most. The crown lies in a chest at Coronation Beach, and none but the Light Bringer can open it.”

 “So you believe this Light Bringer is your next king?” Margo asked, and the centaur nodded.

 “Only Children of Earth can rule here.” He replied, and Margo glanced at Eliot.

 “So technically . . . any one of you boys—you or Penny or even Quentin—could be the king they’ve been waiting for.”

 “But we don’t know where Quentin is.” Eliot said, his fingers tightening around the cup he held. Clabbercloud turned his head to reply when another sentry approached the open tent flap, his spear jabbing at the back of what looked like an oversized ferret. The thing was walking on its hind legs and it had one deformed eye that made it bulge from its socket like an infected boil. It carried a miniature version of Quentin’s messenger bag and wore a red and black leather jerkin, but nothing else. The sentry goaded the creature inside.

 “This intruder says it has a message for the children of earth!”

 Eliot rose to his feet. Although the ferret barely came to his knees, the creature didn’t cower. It withdrew a velvet bag from its jerkin.

 “The High King of Fillory and Lord of All He Surveys and Beyond offers parley for the life of the human called Quentin Coldwater! He sends this, in the hopes that it will spur you to bargain quickly.”

 Eliot took the bag, pulled the top open and shook it out. A pinky finger tumbled out into his hand and he jerked back, color draining from his cheeks. While the digit bore no identifying marks, Eliot’s heightened senses and his familiarity with Quentin’s aura told him that it belonged to the younger magical adept. The skin and meat around the first knuckle had been gnawed. Cold arrows of dread punched into Eliot’s gut and spread before the tips burst into flame and replaced it with fury. His long fingers curled around the severed thing as Margo, Penny, and Kady stared with varying expressions of shock and disgust. The ferret bared its sharp teeth.

 “His Highness will bring Quentin Coldwater to Coronation Beach at sunrise and offer you his bargain there. If you refuse or do not show . . .” The ferret licked its lips suggestively. Eliot took a deep breath and turned his back on the creature.

 “Are you supposed to return to His Majesty with my answer?”

 “No, magician. Your presence or lack of it at sunrise tomorrow is your answer!”

 “Excellent.” Eliot spat the word out before he turned and shot out his left hand, the air around it shimmering with magic. The force push knocked the ferret off its feet, drove it through the air, and impaled it on the sentry’s spear by the back of its head. The force of the push popped the deformed eye from its socket, leaving it to drip thickly off the tip while the creature twitched the last of its life out on the shaft.

 “You literally killed the messenger.” Margo said after a few moments of silence, and Eliot slipped Quentin’s finger back into the velvet bag.

 “Pity it didn’t live long enough to appreciate the irony of the message I gave it in return. The bastard used Quentin’s finger as a fucking teething toy.” Eliot said as the sentry shook his spear and sent the dead mammal flopping to the ground. “Clabbercloud, which way is it to Coronation Beach?”

 “My sentries can take you as far as the Rainbow Bridge, but we cannot venture any further. Beyond our borders, child of earth, you and your companions must face the Many-Fingered King alone.”

 CHAPTER ELEVEN

 Coronation Beach was a stark study in negative contrast: soft black sand stretched for nearly ten miles against seawaters that were foamy white instead of blue. Dawn approached, wrapped in thick swatches of fog as Eliot and his companions reached the beach and stood near the fountain Clabbercloud had mentioned. In the center of the pool, a granite king stood with his sword at the ready. Eliot squinted into the near-darkness and frowned.

 “I wonder if the sun rises in the east here. Wasn’t there something in the books about a daily eclipse?” He paused and pulled the Fillory book from his coat to flip through it. “Quentin would know.” He said, almost to himself, and Margo peered off into the horizon.

 “We can’t even be sure Fillory operates the way it does in the books. At least I don’t remember a psycho moth man in any of them.”

 “Flattery will get you nowhere, dear girl!”

 Eliot turned at the words, his heart volleying up into his throat. The Beast was approaching from the opposite direction, dressed in the same fine suit Quentin had seen him in previously. He walked with a skip in his step, the moths swirling around his face in a noxious cloud. He dragged Quentin along behind him on a length of enchanted chain, the other end clipped to a black collar that seemed to writhe and shift against his skin like an agitated snake. Quentin stumbled across the sand, dressed in a pair of ragged linen breeches and nothing else. His right hand and arm were painted with blood, and in the low light, Eliot could see the ragged stump of the pinky finger. The Beast halted a few feet from the group and glanced at the rising sun.

 “How considerate of you to be punctual!”

 “Fuck your faux manners.” Eliot replied in conversational tone. “The talking rat you sent told me you wanted to meet here.”

 “My loyal servant, who you killed in cold blood. He was unarmed. Quite cowardly of you!”

 “About as cowardly as abusing a kid you gaslighted into a mental ward!” Margo snapped, and Eliot gave her an approving glance before he stepped forward.

 “And speaking of cowards, why don’t you show me your face before we make a deal? I’d like to know who I’m speaking to.” He flicked a glance at Quentin, whose wordless plea was clear.

 Be careful.

 “Very well. I don’t suppose I have any reason to conceal myself anymore, do I?” The Beast waved a hand and the moths dispersed, seeming to dissolve as they moved away from his face. Behind his living mask, Eliot saw a man with a rather bored countenance, a man with graying hair and a weak chin—a man you wouldn’t look twice at if you passed him on the street. Only his eyes gave a clue to his power, and they glittered as he met Eliot’s gaze.

 “Dude looks like a life insurance salesman.” Penny muttered, and the Beast chucked.

 “You clueless children. You have no idea who I truly am . . . although perhaps our dear Quentin here might tell you. I’m the once and future High King of Fillory, the missing sibling of a group of children who ruled here long ago. One who found a way to remain here always, to remain and rule, as I was always destined to!”

 Quentin stared at him.

 “Martin Chatwin.” He murmured, and the Beast nodded.

 “Precisely. Now.” He turned back toward Eliot. “As to the terms of my bargain. You give me back my button, agree to forsake the prophecy, and leave Fillory forever. In return, I will allow all of you to live.”

 Eliot tipped his eyes up to the dawning sky as he considered the terms. He thought of Clabbercloud, the story of the Beast’s complete rule over Fillory, his cruelty, and the good he and the others could bring to Fillory—if he could defeat the powerful magician in one-on-one battle.

 I learned magic for my own purposes and gain, Eliot thought to himself. But if what the centaur told us is true, I may have a destiny here. And what good is having all this power if I can’t outwit and out-cast this asshole? Top bitch in Chelsea . . . time to prove that to yourself and to everyone else.

 “Here’s my counter offer.” Eliot said, removing his long camel coat and undoing the buttons on the linen shirt the centaurs had loaned him. It was ill-fitting across his shoulders and down his arms, so he stripped it off, exposing his hedge tattoos. “We battle, one on one, for the crown. The winner gets control of Fillory, and the loser goes six feet under.”

 “Eliot, no!” Quentin spoke up, and the Beast yanked on the length of chain, choking off any further complaints. He stroked his goatee.

 “An interesting wager!” He eyed Eliot’s tattoos. “I see you’re a hedge witch . . .” He led Quentin to a nearby boulder and used magic to weld the end of the chain into it, trapping him there like a disobedient dog. “Isn’t it ironic that I learned magic in much the same way!” He glanced at Margo and the others. “You realize, of course, if you lose this battle, the lives of your friends, including this delicious little dish—” He nodded to Quentin— “are all forfeit as well.”

 “Then bring it.” Penny challenged, eliciting a nod from Kady. Marg scoffed.

 “If El goes down, which I doubt, then it’s three against one, Beast Boy.”

 “You’d battle me for table scraps?” The Beast asked, glancing at Quentin. “Courageous but idiotic.”

 “Do you agree to my offer or not?” Eliot asked, and the Beast nodded, looking almost jovial.

 “Agreed—let’s end this, shall we?” The older magician raised his hands before he finished speaking, a magic missile blasting from his palm. Eliot cursed and strengthened his wards with one move of his hand. The blast rocked him backward and he murmured in Arabic. A blue glowing rope of pure energy flowed from his fingertips and entangled the Beast. Eliot jerked the rope, adding a dose of telekinetic energy to it, and yanked his enemy’s face into his closed right fist. The Beast grunted as the cartilage in his nose shattered under the impact. Eliot then force-pushed him into the air and sent him flying across the beach, where he bounced off a cluster of rocks before swaying to his feet, bleeding from his nose and chuckling.

 “Impressive, hedge witch! Now let me show you what true power is!” He raised one hand, spread his thumb and index finger apart, then began to pinch them together slowly. Eliot gasped in surprise as his air supply was cut off, and he struggled to counter it. His lungs burned in panic and he fought the sensation, using his fading energy to summon his telekinesis. He envisioned the Beast’s fingers smoking, then glowing like banked embers, before bursting into flame. The ruling king of Fillory screamed in agony as those two fingers imploded in a flash of bright orange flame and then fell to the ground in ashes. Margo pumped a fist.

 “Yes!” She hissed, and Eliot took three gulps of air before moving his right hand in rapid circles, the fingers moving precisely in repetitive motions until glowing runes flowed from them. They hissed and crackled and Eliot drew that hand toward his chest before flinging the runes outward. They slammed into the Beast, burning away some of his suit and leaving deep, bleeding groves in his chest and arms. The older magician fell to his knees, stunned, and Eliot advanced on him, gearing up for another volley.

 Take him apart piece by piece if I need to . . .

 “It seems . . . I underestimated your abilities, hedge witch!” The Beast said, deep, glowing gashes visible in his torso, the edges charred. “But Fillory is mine, and who lives or dies is at my command! Perhaps you need proof!” He turned toward Quentin and raised both hands. A white-hot whip, made of pure energy, grew from both palms and twisted into a thick braid. Quentin watched, chained to the rock and helpless. The whip hissed and writhed like downed power line, and Eliot whispered a speed spell with his ebbing magical energy. He felt his wards flicker and fail as the spell allowed him to move at five times his normal speed. He reached Quentin, shielding the boy with his body, his bare arms stretched wide, and Quentin screamed as the whip sliced into Eliot’s left shoulder and cut diagonally across his body, opening him like a flayed trout. Quentin screamed as blood sprayed upward in a crimson arc.

 “ELIOT!”

 “EL!” Margo’s cry of agony echoed Quentin’s as Eliot dropped to his knees, his expression filled with the knowledge of his death but quietly triumphant as well. He fell to one side, his amber eyes half-open, blood staining the sand in a wide, spreading pool. The Beast watched, laughing.

 “The king is dead!” He shouted in a wounded but jovial tone. “Long live the king!” He threw his arms in the air. “And now . . .” He turned to Margo, doubled over as sobs wracked her frame. Penny dropped into a defensive crouch as he and Kady moved in front of her. The Beast grinned. “Oh children . . . you mustn’t even try, there’s no point in it, it will only make your deaths more painful!” He took two steps toward the group, his hands raised, when thunder rumbled over the water. The Beast looked up, frowning, as roiling black clouds, lined with lodes of molten gold, raced over the sky. They cast the beach into near darkness, eating up the dawn, before one of the glowing molten lines split open the clouds. Rays of pure white light shot out, lined with gossamer sheets of flickering, shifting colors. They engulfed Quentin and he stiffened, his dark eyes wide, his mouth dropping open in a sudden fit of awe and ecstasy. The enchanted chain and collar melted away like warm taffy and Quentin flung his arms outward as the rays lifted him into the air.

 The others watched, stunned, as Quentin’s injured hand seemed to light up from the inside and his pinky finger reformed before the rays turned him and another of the golden lines reached out from the clouds, more delicate than a jellyfish tentacle, and vanished into his bare back. Quentin stiffened, his lean form jerking, and then golden lines began to fill up his skin. The lines formed, then connected, until they formed a hedge star. The gold filament withdrew, but not before it formed a stylized Q in the center of the star. A kind of serenity filled Quentin’s expression, replacing his usual timid, anxious countenance, as the rays faded and he dropped to his feet on the beach. He faced the Beast, who scoffed.

 “How very dramatic, that! Pity it’s come too late!” The Beast raised both hands, firing off red bolts of energy from both palms. Quentin raised his own hands, batting the bolts away as if they were spitballs as he walked toward the Fillorian king. The Beast paused, scowled, then used his remaining fingers to squeeze the air from the young hedge. He watched, his expression shifting from triumph to disbelief as Quentin kept on approaching, his dark eyes ringed with molten gold. He seized the Beast’s hand as if to give it a vigorous shake and twisted the appendage off his wrist as if opening a stubborn pickle jar. The Beast gave a high-pitched, breathy scream of agony as Quentin tossed the hand over one shoulder and buried his right hand into the man’s hair, forcing him to his knees. The Beast stared up at him.

 “Quentin. Quentin, my dear boy, listen to me, please . . .”

 “I’m done listening to you. I’m done being afraid, and I’m done running.” His eyes blazed down at the king. “You killed Eliot. You killed the only person in the whole world—any world—who ever gave a shit about me.”

 “But you have no idea what I could offer you! Power, fortune . . . allow me to rule you, and you could have all that you ever dreamed of!” The Beast countered, and Quentin closed his eyes a moment.

 “I had what I dreamed of. I had someone who was like me. Someone who could have taught me who I really am . . . who might have loved me.” Quentin gave the Beast a somber stare. “You took that away.”

 “Quen—”

 The dark magician’s words were interrupted by the cracking of his own spinal cord as Quentin twisted his head around in a complete circle, then kept twisting until the Beast’s head separated from his body. A cloud of moths roiled from the neck’s stump and fell to the sand one by one, like a musty cloudburst, until the Beast’s headless body fell backward and landed, motionless, among the insects’ twitching corpses. Quentin threw the head in the dead man’s lap and raised one hand, casting a fire spell as if he’d been doing it for years. The head and body burst into flames and burned to ashes within moments. Quentin stared at the ashes, and then Penny approached him. Quentin turned, that gold glow in his eyes fading but still noticeable. Penny raised both hands slowly, palms out.

 “Yo. I’m on your side, remember?”

 Quentin nodded and Penny flicked a glance at the pile of ashes.

 “So what the fuck happened? What unlocked your magic, and why is it so crazy strong?”

 Quentin turned his head to look at Eliot, laying motionless on his side.

 “Eliot.” He murmured, padding across the sand. As Penny, Kady, and Margo gathered around them, Quentin sat cross-legged by the body and lifted Eliot’s head into his lap. Margo wiped a shaking hand across her mouth.

 “He stepped right in front of you. I felt his wards fail . . . he must have known what would happen.” She said, and Penny nodded.

 “He knew.” He said. “But protecting Quentin was all that mattered to him.”

 “You used my real name.” Quentin said, glancing up at Penny.

 “Yeah, well. Figure I owe you one for killing that asshole Beast.”

 “How did you even do that?” Kady asked. Quentin shook his head.

 “I don’t know.” He stroked Eliot’s face. “I don’t know, but it doesn’t matter, it’s all for nothing, it’s all for nothing!” He cried, the last words hitching on tears as he bent over and kissed Eliot’s rapidly-cooling lips. Several tears dripped onto Eliot’s long, pale throat and slid into the top of the terrible wound the Beast had made. A low thrumming sound bloomed from the gash, and it began to glow gold before a glittering sheer curtain of humming energy covered the open flesh. Quentin watched: the sound seemed to be coming from everywhere at once and contained an entire symphony of tiny chimes, all at different keys, as the gauzy netting of magic undulated over Eliot’s wound and left Eliot’s bare chest whole and unmarred.

 “Look.” Kady murmured after a few moments, pointing to Eliot’s face. Color was blooming back into the hedge witch’s high cheekbones and turning his pale blue lips pink. The chimes grew louder and then both Quentin and Eliot were rising into the air, ascending over the fountain.  Eliot’s eyes opened, his expression almost comically surprised. Out in the sea, the water began to bubble and hiss before a jade crown surfaced, its surface flashing in the sun. Golden shafts of light erupted from Quentin’s fingers, bathing Eliot in a radiant glow as the crown floated into his hands as if it belonged there. Margo, Penny, and Kady watched as the two magicians circled each other in midair before their lips met in a long, explorative kiss. They descended together a moment later, the crown in Eliot’s left hand.

 “Fuck.” Margo breathed. “The prophecy had it wrong the whole fucking time! The future king of Fillory isn’t the Light Bringer at all.”

 “Nope.” Penny sighed. “It’s Quentin.”

 CHAPTER TWELVE

 “So what Clabbercloud showed us in that old book didn’t tell us the whole story.”

 Penny paced around the area where Eliot had faced the Beast less than an hour earlier as he spoke.

 “The story of the prophecy was handed down orally. All the people had to go on was what they had been told, and that drawing.” Eliot replied. Since being resurrected, Quentin had helped him clean himself up in the water and brought him his coat. He wore it over bare skin, the centaur shirt having gone out with the tide. He stood flanked by Margo on one side and Quentin on the other, and the sensation was so comfortable he wanted to wear their presence like a second skin for the rest of his life.

 “They were wrong about the future king being the Light Bringer. And it wasn’t the crowning that unlocked Quentin’s magic . . . it was Eliot’s sacrifice.” Margo looked up at him and then he was doubling over as she elbowed him in the gut. “And that, by the way, is for getting your asshole self killed right in front of me!”

 “Noted!” Eliot wheezed, and Margo threw her arms around him.

 “You cock!” She whispered fiercely, and Eliot recovered enough to put his arms around her.

 “If you’re jealous, know that I would’ve done the same thing for you.” He said, lifting her chin and wiping away an errant tear from her left cheek. “Bambi.”

 “I don’t think you’d be standing here if you had.” She glanced over at Quentin. “Hey . . . Droopy.” She said, and Quentin glanced up, not quite meeting her imperious gaze, but then her features softened. “You did good.”

 “Thanks, Margo.” Quentin replied with a shy smile.

 “There’s still some shit that isn’t clear to me.” Penny said. “Like the Beast must have thought that Eliot was the Light Bringer, otherwise he would have killed Quentin a hell of a lot sooner. If he was so powerful, how did he get that wrong?”

 “He didn’t. He knew all along.”

 The group turned as one as the new voice spoke. By the edge of the fountain stood a young girl in what looked like a, English schoolgirl’s pinafore and skirt. A blue beret sat perched on her head. Quentin stared.

 “Holy shit.” He said, his voice cracking. “You’re . . .?”

 “Jane Chatwin.” The girl nodded. “And just as you always felt deep within your heart, Quentin, Fillory is very real and has existed for centuries.”

 “What do you mean, the Beast had it right the whole time?” Penny demanded, and Jane came closer.

 “My siblings and I once ruled Fillory. We understood that other children of earth would come eventually . . . all but Martin. That’s why he began to study dark magic. He wanted to live forever, and to rule forever. So when the seers of Whitespire foretold of the coming of a new king, it sent him into a paranoid rage. He made it his quest to find The Light Bringer and destroy him. It was my brother who ripped the page from the seer’s book.” She glanced at Eliot. “The book you carry in your coat . . . may I see it?”

“Book—oh! Forgot I had it.” He pulled the first edition book out and gave Quentin an apologetic glance. “If it’s damaged, I’ll buy you a new one. We thought it might come in handy.”

 “It’s okay.” Quentin nodded, watching as Jane opened the book. On the inside of the first page was an identical drawing of what the group had seen at Clabbercloud’s tent. Jane murmured a few words in Arabic and then teased the page open further, where it unfolded into a complete image of what they’d been unable to see before. The other figure was no page or guide—shafts of light were streaming from his fingers, surrounding the other in an ethereal glow.

 “Most people in Fillory knew about the prophecy, but thought the future king would be the one to bring the light. What they didn’t know is that the king would be brought to Fillory because of his love for the one my brother would steal from him.”

 “If your brother knew Quentin was The Light Bringer, why didn’t he just smoke him back at the looney bin?” Penny asked, and Jane smiled and shook her head.

 “My brother always had more than a touch of the theatrical to him. He loved cat-and-mouse games. He simply couldn’t resist playing one last time.” She glanced over at the pile of ash. “I always said it would be the death of him. Now . . . I think it’s time to crown the new kings and queen of Fillory.” She nodded as an ornate wood chest appeared at her feet and popped open, revealing two more crowns.

 “I call High Queen!” Margo announced, and Eliot gave her a warm, approving grin. Quentin took the crown from Eliot’s hand.

 “Kneel, Eliot Waugh.” He said, and Eliot’s smile widened. Quentin felt heat rise to his own cheeks.

 “Come on, it’ll just take a minute.”

 Eliot bowed his head. “As you wish, Light Bringer.” He said in a somber tone, but his amber eyes gleamed with humor. He knelt on the black sand, and Quentin stepped forward with the crown in his hands.

 “I know all of this was supposed to be spelled out in some kind of prophecy . . . but I think that destiny is bullshit when you’re a magician. Our futures, the kind of people we are, or turn out to be . . . it’s in our hands, no matter what the storybooks about us say.” His dark eyes filled with tears as he spoke, meeting Eliot’s bright gaze. “And I know that you are going to be a really, really good king. More than good. So—I, Quentin Coldwater, the Light Bringer, crown you High King Eliot, the Spectacular.” He placed the circlet of jade on Eliot’s head, and Eliot’s long dark lashes swept down in an expression that was close to ecstasy.

 “Thank you, Quentin.” He said after a moment. “I will do my best to live up to your expectations.” He offered his hands, and Quentin took them as he helped Eliot to his feet. Their gazes remained locked, and then Eliot leaned over to kiss the younger magician’s cheeks, then his lips. Surprise mixed with joy lit up Quentin’s face as Eliot pulled away. Margo glanced at Kady and Penny and shook her head, and Eliot grinned at them. “It’s good to be the king!” He turned to the chest and picked up a delicate crown made of gilded gold leaves. “Margo?”

 Margo went to him, her dark eyes tipping up to him.

 “I’m not kneeling.” She said in a jovial half-challenge, and Eliot nodded.

 “And I don’t expect you to.” He raised the crown and gently placed it on her head. “I hereby crown you High Queen Margo, the Destroyer.” He bent forward and cupped her face with his large, elegant hands. “I’ve known your worth since the day we met, Margo Hanson . . . and I wouldn’t want to rule Fillory without you by my side.” He said before kissing her cheeks, then her lips, as he had with Quentin, and Margo looked up at him.

 “We’re going to be legendary.” She said, and Eliot nodded.

 “And I thought being top bitch in Chelsea was a lofty position.” He picked up the last crown, silver shot through with delicate veins of gold, and turned to Quentin.

 “Kneel down, my Light Bringer.” He said, and Quentin went to one knee before him. “You bested the Beast, Quentin, but even before that, you were much braver than you ever believed, and you deserve to shape your own destiny. So, that being said, I hereby crown you King Quentin, the Courageous.” He set the crown on Quentin’s head and helped him stand. Quentin smiled.

 “No one’s ever called me courageous before.”

 “Except that you are. And not just because of what you did. You’ve been brave your whole life, Q . . . anyone else who lived the way you did without knowing they were a magician would have been dead a long time ago.”

 “Maybe.” Quentin looked up at the High King. “And if you’d allow me to be brave for a moment longer, I—I want to tell you that—uhm, I care about you, El. And you’re the only one who’s ever cared about me.” Quentin’s glance skittered away from Eliot’s as he finished speaking, and Eliot reached out to touch his chin with his thumb and index finger, stroking Quentin’s skin until the younger man looked up at him again. Eliot then claimed his lips as well as his gaze, their crowns creating a shining halo around them as their heads touched and the Fillorian sun bowed on the horizon for their joining.

 Epilogue

 Castle Whitespire

Six months later

 “Oh, My God . . . are you two at it again?”

 Eliot glanced up from the bed he, Quentin, and Margo shared. The mattress, stuffed with pegasi feathers, tilted as Quentin’s tousled head emerged from a mountain of blankets. His full, curved lips were shiny.

 “Oh! Uhmm—hey, Margo!”

 Margo sighed and put her hands on her hips.

 “The High King and the Bi King.” She drawled. Quentin sat up.

 “I guess I’m still getting used to this whole polyamorous marriage thing.” He admitted, and a small smile quirked up the corners of Margo’s mouth.

 “It’s fine, Q. I’ve actually admired your efforts over the past few months.” She took a few running steps and jumped into the roomy bed with them. Quentin slipped an arm around her as she leaned against Eliot’s shoulder, and Eliot smiled down at them both as the muted sounds of life at Whitespire went on as usual outside the walls of their castle sanctuary.

 In the months since the Beast’s defeat, Fillory had transformed from a fear-filled and dreary world to one of plenty and burgeoning joy. Eliot, Quentin, and Margo all ruled equally, and at Eliot’s suggestion, the three of them entered into a polyamorous trio that only strengthened the people’s trust in them. While Eliot and Margo remained close as ever, Eliot left the physical aspect of their relationship up to their husband, who was eager to explore his newfound sexuality with both his partners.

 “Any word from Kady and Penny today?” Eliot asked, and Margo settled in between them.

 “They’ve found over half a dozen doors into Fillory so far, not counting being able to travel with the button.” Margo glanced over at a nearby glassed-in shelf, protected with multiple wards, that held their magic button. “Kady is more than happy to act as our general and gatekeeper, just to make sure no nasties get in. She and Penny are still living at their loft, but they asked about maybe keeping a room here at the castle, too.”

 “Life with Penny. Just what I always wanted.” Quentin groaned, and Eliot chuckled as he reached over to stroke Quentin’s hair, which he was growing out.

 “Don’t worry, Q. As king, you can always decree that he not speak while he’s in the castle!”

 “Something tells me he’d find other ways to annoy me.” He slipped from the bed and pulled on a red and gold silk robe before going to the window. Outside, Fillorians bustled around the nearby village and along the roads, trading, working, building. Structures the Beast had destroyed were being rebuilt, and the stain of his terrible rule was slowly being wiped clean.

 “Q?” Eliot asked after a few moments. “What is it?”

 “I was just thinking about where I was six months ago . . . and where I am now. It’s everything I wanted, but nothing like I imagined. You know?” He asked, turning back to his partners, and Eliot nodded as he got out of bed and put on a robe.

 “It’s a far cry from Chelsea, but I don’t really miss it.” He went to Quentin and touched his face with both hands before slipping an arm around Margo as she followed him to the window. “For better or worse, Fillory is my home now. There’s a lot of good we can do here—at least as good as hedge witches can be.” Eliot picked up his crown from the purple velvet pillow it rested on while he slept and put it on, artfully arranging his dark curls around the glittering points of jade. As a few of Fillory’s residents spied Margo at the window and began to cheer, Eliot looked down at Quentin.

 “My Light Bringer.” He whispered, and leaned in to capture Quentin’s lips in a long, loving kiss. As the people outside continued to chant and cheer, Quentin pulled back and let all his fears, worries, and terrible memories of the past fall away into the promise in Eliot’s bright amber eyes as he reached up to touch his face.

 “Long live the king.”

 FIN

[ayahne]

i can’t write, i say as i write 8 pages on Word

I discussed this simple little idea i had with @adelmortescryche from 2AM to 5AM and now it’s not a little idea. A lot of ideas thrown mostly randomly together on the same fic idea i will never write cause i write baaaad.

I call it : EdRi!!! On Para-Ice

- When Yuuri arrives at Wayne State to major in buisness and become a pro skater, he meets the four people with who he's going to share lodging.

- Ling is his age, he's a Xingian diplomat son that want to keep it low-key, and he's majoring in political science. He's a funny, eccentric kind of guy, and he makes Lan Fan mad.

- Lan Fan is « totally not » his body guard, and she's majoring in chemistry. She's a strange blend of calm and hot-temper. He likes her.

- There's also Phichit, ; he's younger, but so nice and enthusiastic ; he wants to do photography. (he's Thai and doesn't speaks much english, but everyone helps him and stick colored notes cards to everything and he learns quickly).

- And there's Edward Curtis, who is half cyborg, hot tempered, foul mouthed and full of shit and loyalty. He's younger than him, but more advanced than him in his studies. (« He's a genius », explains Lan Fan.) They got on like a house on fire.

- Strangely, even if they're so different from each other, they share the apartment fine. Lan Fan and Ed go run in the mornings, Ling cooks, Yuuri and Phichit go to the ice ring... They fit.

- Ed is a bit hyperactive, and when Lan Fan is too occupied to spar with him, he gotta finds something to do. (« No Ed, you can't punch people in the face. ») He visits Yuuri and Phichit at the ice ring, and he tries a bit of skating ; it's challenging, he likes it.

- Yuuri starts to teach him simple figures : a single-toe-loop, a sit-spin... Ed spend his time falling on his face because the automails are destabilizing him, but he's tired and happy when he masters a new move. From there, you can't stop him. Skating becomes the escape to his problems, and the guilt he feels.

- He comes to every of Yuuri's event to cheer him on ; he manage the panic attacks like it's nobody's buisness, and Yuuri starts to feel more confident. It's great time, they have fun.

- But one day, there's an accident ; the huge score board fall on Yuuri that just finished his routine. They have to amputate his arm.

- Ed has lived this before, and acts quick. He's there through everything, the hospital ride, the hospital stay, the therapy. With the others, he persuades Yuuri to get an automail (« Hey, we match now. ») He never let him wallow in his depression, and he puts him back on his skates with his therapist acceptance.

- They fight, with all the others, through Yuuri's terror of the ice, and slowly, slowly, he finds back his love for the ice ; he starts to skate again, to being confident. Ed does it all with him, he's his crutch. (« I miss two limbs. If i can do it, you can do it better. » And Yuuri does.)

(beware of the cut)

- "dude you can fucking make a quint and fly on the ice " says Yuuri "dont care still jealous" answer Ed, and they laugh and Phichit posts it on instagram

- Yuuri's like, welp, if you can do it, I should at least try and everyone screams NO because he's older than Ed. Except Ed, who's rolling his eyes being like, he could totally do it, he's older than me and just as flexible.

- They're both ULTRA flexible

- Cue Ed teaching Yuuri how to make some of his fighting moves on ice

- Cue Yuuri teaching Ed more quads

- All those EdRi comments. The first few are just fujoshi slobbering over them and their bromance, then someone who actually knows something about skating figures out what they're seeing and they sCREAM.

- And the skating fandom has a meltdown.

- Phichit posting out of context photos, like warming up when they're in weird yoga poses, and it seems a bit more intimate than it is.

- With tags like '#MySmolSonsBeFlexi' '#MustNotLetEdSeeTagsHeWillSlayMe'

- Phichit and all the others being DEADLY TIRED than his frighteningly prodigious friends not getting recognition just because they've got automail.

- Doesn't people realise that automail makes it harder ?

- “It's easier with automail ?” * Ed proceeds to detach his own arm and dump it on the stupid fuck's lap who crumble under the weight. * “Try lifting something that weight more than yourself higher than your head, and even spin with something ressembling grace when you have a brick instead of an arm”.

- Pole dancing class as part of the automail recovery therapy. Yuuri smiles, and he's like, this was totally for medical reasons.

- The ports gets cold and hurt when they're too long in the ice ring, so for when they train Phichit knitted them horrible arm socks (and leg sock for Ed). Knitting is not Phichit forte, and the mitts are ridiculous at best.

- Yuuri's favorite is a kaki monstruosity with purple polka dots, orange stripes, and some brown squiggles that are supposed to be flowers.

- Ed's are one atomic pink with red hearts on it, and a blue one with barely recognisable hamsters.

- The photos of them with it become viral.

- He decides to go back to competing, and he slays the handisport section. He wins all of the gold medals in the juniors, and then in the seniors.

- He's got a new coach ; she's pretty, kind and maternal, attentive to his anxieties and the fact that Ed is basically is contra-phobic object ; she's perfect, and exactly what he needs. Her name is Gracia Hugues.

- For his galas, he always do something with Ed (and either they do funny shit things, either they some mind-numbing show of skills mixing Ed's talents in flying martial arts and Yuuri's adaptability- anyways they're breathtaking)

- There's a fanbase dedied to their bromance, and some people do RPF with them.

- Ed browsing deviantart and diying a little bit (but save the nice, bro, safe ones on his phone.)

- Yuuri reading fanfictions, selecting the crack fics and the AUs to laugh with Ed, Phichit and Lin. (and Lan Fan. She's there, silently laughing)

- They're so much more low key about the bromance than Phichit and Yuuri that people have a lot more opinions about their bromance. And are sure it's a romance.

- Yuuri obviously finds it hilarious.

- Ed and Yuuri doing shit like this on purpose.

- One day on tv, some jackass ask if he doesn't miss his limbs, and Ed answers "thats equivalent exchange" while looking at Yuuri. The shippers goes mad, Yuuri goes awww cause he knows Ed meant it very innocently

- They only pop up in Phichit, Ling, and Yuri social medias because they dont take vids themselves or photos and even less post them

-  One day, there's an hORRIBLE rant made by a dude that says that Ed and Yuuri are lucky to have found the other because who would want any of those disgusting cripples

- and they're a bit hurt but not much because they told themselves the same thing since they got their accidents

- But Phichit sees red. He takes THE photo.

- the one after the showers after practice, where you can see skin, soft scars, glinting metal, muscles and cloth making it SFW, and no comment under it like he use to.

- It broke twitter

- (Yuri totally roasted the guy that DARED insult his idol.)

- Roy Mustang is an ex-man-single prodigy. He was adored by the public. When he retired, he decided he wanted to go into Amestrian politics (ie, the Army).

- He's the one that presented his old buddy from the army, Maes, to Gracia. (people all around the world whined when they announced that it was Maes marrying Gracia and not him.)

- Roy isn't sure if he's happy for both his friends because Maes became 1000% more annoying after meeting Gracia. (That's a lie, he loves them both and is more than happy.)

- When he became a state alchemist, his fans where like “fire alchemy ??? U SURE ?”

- Yuri Plisetesky is a die-hard Yuuri Katsuki fan, and he finds it unfair that

    1. no same sex couple on the ice, and it sucks because those two could do some pretty awesome shit

    2. Ed doesn't compete because not enough money and he don't care much for the competition ; he's there for the fun and for Yuuri

    3. he'd love to skate on the same ice as Yuuri but, eh, handi sections and mainstream ones doesn't mix. He hates the federation so much.

    4. no one knows about the handi athletes apart of Yuri and Otabek (because he whines at him) and he finds it the most irritating thing in the world, it's a TRAVESTY.

- And just, one day, he goes to Yuuri's ice ring, and he watches him, film him for future reference and manage to catch on film a *quad axel*.

- And the regular skaters, they're like "wait what" when they see the video of the first quad axel in history

- "but we don't know that guy"

- and Yuri goes in a screaming rant about how they're all stupid, it's “FUCKING YUURI KATSUKI YOU HEATHENS HOW DARE YOU FORGET HIM HE COULD HAVE BEEN THE BEST RIVAL FOR GOLD IF NOT FOR THAT ACCIDENT HE HAD TO LEAVE MAINSTREAM SKATING AND NOW YOU DON'T EVEN REMEMBER HIM?!”

- And one day, Viktor, dense fridge that he is, find irl EdRi doing some figures in a public ice ring. He goes to Yuuri, says something like you skate nice, have you considered going pro, and ed punches him because the dunce doesn’t remember sharing the ice with Yuuri

- "I was too fucking kind i should have decked him with the metal one"

- Yuuri is nrgh between "he punched Viktor" and "am i that forgettable"

- Yuuri's also like Ed No Ed Stahp. While smiling happily because spiteful savage Yuuri. Who doesn't want Victor to get hurt, but he forgot.

- "We said no punching, Ed"

- ”Ed we talked about this.”

- ZE discussion they have all the time ; "Can i punch that dick in the dick" "No u cant"

- And he can only punch people if Yuuri is okay with it because everyone deem that if Yuuri thinks a dude deserve to be punched then he deserves it.

- If Yuuri thinks it's time to punch someone then it's time. Yuuri's everyone's moral compass. Except he isn't a good moral compass, because sometimes he's sassy and spiteful.

- Yuuri with really long hair after he stopped mainstream mens singles.

- First he was too depressed to cut it, then he realized it's easier for the automail. The hair gets stuck less in the joints and if they're long you can take them out easier.

- Phichit doing artistic© photos of tanned light hair Ed and pale dark hair Yuuri and destroying Instagram

- Al and Ed have been apart since they were 8 and 10 and they had the failed transmutation that left Al in a coma for 3 years with nearly no memories of his brother, and Ed without limbs.

- They went to different foster families ; Ed with Izumi and Sig, Al with the Rockbell. And Al doesn't remember Ed much, only what Pinako told him (he loved you more than anything, he was persuaded the accident is his fault)

- Olivia Armstrong is Ed social worker. The whole Briggs team work in social services.

- Ed refusing to search for his bro cause he's sure Al hates him, and, sure, Ed hates himself but not to the point of subjecting himself to that.

- Yuuri comforting him when he has nightmares about it, not saying a thing when Ed cries at night cause he misses Al.

- Phichit  stalking the whole internet to update Ed on how Al is doing.

- Al being so admirative of E.Curtis works in "Alchemy Actual". Pinako wince in the background.

- Al finds it hard to connect E. Curtis to his brother because E. Curtis is notoriously secretive. No one knows anything about him.

- Al doesn't watch ice-skating, and isn't much a fan of phichit-chu. And no matter how many times he falls on a video of Edward C. he can't connect either of them to his brother. Pinako's starting to wonder if he's ever going to realise Ed-on-screen and Ed-the-alchemist is Ed his brother. She shighs in exasperation and wonder why he's so dense.

- May being Ling's pint sized badass little sister (one of many but his favorite even if loves giving her shit)

- May is irritating and wonderful and god he wishes he could introduce her to Al.

- May find Al by herself and is like “... most beautiful boy i've ever seen in my entire life omg”

- She posts photo of her and him on insta, and Phichit send them to Ed, he becomes crazy.

- Al being in a perpetual state of “Wait what” concerning her.

- “Beautiful girl came out of no where to talk to me and flirt with me and take pictures with me what'

- She starts talking alkahestry and suddenly he doesn't register her pretty face anymore she's clever who cares about pretty I can talk about alchemy with her !!!

- May finds him adorable

- Cue budding romance while their big brothers are having aneurisms on the side. Yuuri, Phichit and Lan Fan finds it hilarious.

- And at LEAST Ling can interact with his sister and NOW AL but ED REFUSES and he is sad and frustrated so he goes skating cause he has too much energy and "you can't punch people for the lolz Ed"

- Yuuri just sighs and pats him on the back while Ed screams at the sky and goes throwing quads all over the place.

- So frustrated he tries a quint toe loop, but "not a quad axel, i'm stupid but not dumb, only quadsuki can do that"

- Ed having super nice automail that Yuuri offered him with the skating money ("look, we match !", he says, a twinkle in his eyes, echoeing what Ed told him a few years ago.)

- Since Ed doesn't want to see the Rockbell and has a « 0 interaction » policy, Yuuri found that guy that lives in a remote part of Australia that does incredible machinery. They go once a year with the gang.

- Ed considering himself « toxic » to those he loves. Lan Fan decked him in the gut, Ling rolled his eyes so hard it had to be inscribed in a book of records, and Phichit insulted him in Thai. He tried this bullshit with Yuuri exactly once and never did it again.

- Mari straight up hit him with a pan. She reminds Ed of Izumi.("My foster mom hits me with her pan, too.")

- Following that sentence, people start to be suspicious about his foster mom, until they figure out Izumi and Ed love each other. Their love is just... violently displayed. And filled with martial art montages.

- Izumi and Sig already have a biological son when they adopt Ed. Aoi is totaly enamored with his « big brother »

- They adopted another child, a little girl named Nina. Her dad tried to kill her, and as of such she's sick. Her and Al are the reason he started studying organic alchemy in more depth.

- Envy is Ed biological punk rock but so nice older half-brother. He's androgynous and loves confusing people. ("Are you a girl or a boy ?" "no.")

- Envy avoids Al cause he feels guilty too. He felt he shoud have been there for his two lil bro, no matter how angry with their dad he was.

- When Ed and Envy gloom together, Lin/Phichit/Yuuri/Lan Fan comes to hit them and like "no we love you yes we said love shut up, up, we going petting rabbits"

- Hiroko, Izumi and Minako being BFFs and drinking together. It terrifies everyone. They comiserate about their spawns.

- Izumi's kid is in awe of Mari (as he should)

- EdxAngst + Yuuri/coming-to-terms-with-his-anxiety

- "Where did your... special style of skating came from, Mister Curtis ? *behind, a video extract where Ed is doing a double backflip on the ice, before launching into some capoara moves while Yuuri smiles and just cartwheels for the lolz*"

- Roy calling Ed “a backflipping maniac”

- Cuts to Ed doing a triple back flip and a single hand cartwheel or something right after. Just to see the expression on Roy's face.

- Roy having ten cardiac arrest a day. Riza laugh in the distance. (She laughs at his pain all the time)

- "Curtis, when your in an ice ring you spend more time in the air than on the ice, it's not natural"

- One of Phichit most liked photos is one of Yuuri and Ed twirling Elicia around

- Even if Ed isn't an official competitor, he has die hard fans, that calls themselves « Ed's Homunculi », and they're led by 5 people that nicknamed themselves with the primary sins.

- Yuuri snickers at just their mention. Ed complains all the time. (« NO FUCK LET ME GO IM NOT EVEN A PRO DONT PuT YOUR BOOBS IN MY FACE DONT EAT MY HAIR WTF. Why are you all so DISTURBING »)

- Envy founded the fanclub because he finds this deadly funny, now he’s mostly in charge of the social medias.  Ed is horrified.

- Scar is married to Lust and follows her everywhere, to every competition sighing all the time.

- THE PRESIDENT OF HIS FANCLUB IS THE FUCKING FURHER OF AMESTRIS

- The idea of Amestris’s Furher being enamored enough with Ed's skating to give himself a stupid nickname kills all of his friends of laughter inside

- Aerugo is near greece

- Xing is in east asia

- Creta is near italia

- Drachma is between finland and sweden

- Amestris between germany and poland, and Ishval between poland and Austria

- Father couldn't arrange another full country array, and eventually decided to let it go.

- Envy's real name is Nichola Elric

- Lust is Veda Campos

- Wrath is King Bradley

- Pride is still Selim Bradley

- Gluttony is named Emilio Abatucci

- Scar is Luca Campos

- Izumi’s kid is named Aoi Curtis

[pepperzspace]

Sins

I never posted this, even though I wrote it almost two years ago now...but I’ve been meaning to share it for awhile so here you go.

Pride

                      Blue diamond steel

Frozen heart pushing people away but longing for the loneliness to end

                                   Wanting to show the world what they’ve done, casually putting their work out for everyone to see and copy-pasting the written comments to read them later

                                                                                                           When they’re feeling down

                      Despite this, nobody wants it.

You know more about them than you could EVER WANT

                      You wish you knew less: the intimate details of actions and gestures and touches

                      You want to know more: the inner dialogue, the future that they don’t expect to happen because everything they’ve made they’ve made for themselves and luck doesn’t play into it

                                   And they’ve run out of motivation

Has to be good

                      At Everything

When they’re not, they’ll stop trying. Because what’s the point in trying if you don’t succeed?

                                   But they still love themselves

 Sloth

                      Fuzzy orange hoodies

Soft and slow and warm, languid movements through seas of molasses

                      Words slurred “s”es stretching on forever, “o”s even longer

                                   Glued to your chair, shoulder blades sticking to the fake foam comfort, hair tangling in the protruding screw heads and arm rests, coat wrapped inside the wheels

                                               The walls seem to close in, but yet you want the safety of your own space where the walls are covered in YOUR OWN things, the faces and names of which you can recite by heart.

                      The pictures are taking over the wall. Soon there will be nothing else.

                                                           You’re running out of thumbtacks.

The easy way out

                      Ignoring it all. Staying inside.

                                   Trying to convince yourself it’s because you need to do work

                                                                                                                       But you don’t

                                                                       Don’t do it, or don’t need to?

                                                                                               Both.

Jumps from point A to point Z and wants no more explanation

                      Explanation is slow and boring, you feel a burning in your stomach and lungs that makes you want to scream, but instead your words just get short and hot

                      You hope they don’t notice

                                   You would rather spend your free time on your computer

                      Still makes the grade.

 Greed

                      Cold hard cash

                                   Christmas, not the mountains of gifts, but the colors themselves

                                               It’s the season of generosity after all

Sparkling blue sunglasses

                      Empty, endless black void so hollow that it feels like if you touch it, it will swallow you whole

                                   Black, pouring into your mouth and nose and eyes, sticky slimy and bitter

The flashing images of a house and the wide-open endless crystal blue prairie sky over the golden waves of dying grasses

                      The purple mountain majesties raising their shoulders above the plains and reaching towards the distant clouds they can never touch

A horse

                      Gold

Or grey

                      Or the odd mix of black and white skewbald that my beautiful baby Romeo was with a white star right on his forehead and a personality that scared even the hardiest of people

                                                                                   But I loved him

                      A world where there are no walls

Is it greedy to want to be free?

 Lust

                      Silky purple gloves

This is how to be a heartbreaker: cool skin and hot breath and words you’ve never felt but have read a hundred times over

                      Because you can’t touch them

                                               Do you wish you could?

                                   You’re not sure.

Black markings, matching on neck and ribs, tracing out in ink the depth of your sin

                      Not quite script but close enough that you think you could you could read it

                                                           If only you knew how.

There’s none of that here.

 Wrath

                      Crimson burning rage

KMFDM and Delain cranking up the volume until I can’t hear my own heart

                      I know all the words. I sing along

                                                           But I don’t want to listen to my voice.

                      The heat in my chest, in my lungs, tendrils

                                                                       Curling

                                   Into my throat and eyes, blinding me

                                                           Changing my words

I want to make them understand

                      But when I try to explain, their faces twist into disgust

                                   I’m not like them and they don’t understand why that upsets me

                                                                                   Why their condescension makes me feel

                                                                                               Like I’ll explode

Words left unsaid, waters left untested

                                   “Welcome to the Danger Zone” and I run like hell

                      I’ve felt the fire and it burns and burns until there’s nothing left in your soul

                                                           But ash and twisted hopes

Hands clenched into fists, nails digging crescent moons into my palms

                                   Being told “Relaxed people don’t do that”

                      Well no. I had no idea.

                                   I design my face with sarcasm.

The rage fuels my drive.

 Envy

                      Glowing green eyes

Watching the two of them together and wanting nothing more than what they have

                                   Not letting myself pray for it

                      But hoping

                                   With everything I have

                                   That they fall apart

                                               And see what I see.

                                                                                   When they do

                                                           Guilt creeps into my mind, unwanted and uninvited.

                                   But ever present.

The description my friend uses is “spinach brownie”

                      Cute and outgoing, smile designed to melt hearts

                                   Covering the dark, wrenching, grasping, covetous sin within

Sitting in the dark, writing words

                                               Black ants on a white screen

                                   And wishing I had the strength to live them

                                                           Or the talent. Or the magic.

                                               Or the deeply secret backstory pitted with loneliness.

                       Don’t I have that already?

                                   I don’t say anything.

But I never stop hoping.

 Gluttony

                      Pink sweet sugar

“Deliciously saccharine, aromatic, fragrant, sensuously sweet”

                                               Pastel cupcakes and plates stacked high with desserts

                       Made by hand with loving care, and slightly less measurement

                                                                       Than I should probably have.

Straw to my berry sundaes

                                   Piled high with multi-colored sprinkles

                       No you shouldn’t eat my sprinkles, they’re just cosmetic.

Perfect two: they were made for each other

                                                           Destined to be apart

                       At least for now.

                                   But when they’re near each other, their smiles tell the story

                                                                                   That their words are too shy to relate.

Staring at my one

                      Single

                                   Plate

                                               Because I can’t eat more than that at one sitting.

                      And so I eat chocolate later

                                                           To compensate.

                                   Drawers filled to bursting with cookies and lollipops and wrapped

                                               Mint Hershey kisses

                       But all I want to eat is an infinite amount of Lindor truffles.

I have a weird relationship with gluttony.

[esamastation]

slow and abrupt change, 3

Newt keeps his pace slow as he walks next to Graves.

The man's walking has gotten a little slower and little more laborious as they've been going and a while Newt has wanted to suggest apparating, just to save the man the strain he's putting on his no doubt still badly injured knee. But he doesn't.

It's not his shadows they're facing after all. Graves would probably do better facing them his own terms.

"It's a nice sort of neighbourhood," Newt comments, though he really can't tell one way or the other. He doesn't know that much about New  York really.

"It's quiet," Graves says, and through his gritted teeth it comes out less like statement and more like accusation. "Usually anyway."

Newt nods, shifting his fingers on the handle of his suitcase before glancing at the man. Bead of sweat on his brow, a vein slightly throbbing at his neck, a sort of pinched, pale tint to his skin – but he keeps going. Idly Newt wonders if it would be too much to suggest…

"I have murtlap essence," he offers. "For – for the knee, I mean. When strained fresh, it can help with deep tissue aches. It might…"

Graves swallows and closes his eyes and then he lets out an impatient sigh. "Thank you," he says. "I'd appreciate it."

Newt nods and looks down. It's awkward, watching someone put themselves through such pain and not being able to do much about it. Maybe that was what Theseus felt, that time Belgium – no wonder he'd been so awkward. It doesn't seem like there is anything he can say either, out of fear of distracting man from the effort he's putting into the whole ordeal.

"I'm fine," Graves grinds out at him. "Stop fidgeting, Mr. Scamander, I'm not about to drop down and die."

"Yes, I mean, no, of course not," Newt says and glances at him. The Auror's cheek twitches – grinding his teeth together now. "Are you sure we can't apparate?" he finally asks, rather plaintive.

"No need," Graves says and nods ahead. "We're here."

Almost there turns out to be a two story house at the end of the dimly lit street, with black metal fence around it and elaborate gate in front of it. As newt watches Graves runs his fingers over the gate, running his thumb slowly over the lock, and it clicks open.

Beyond it there is a lawn that looks like it used to be well maintained, with decorative bushes and even some flowers under the window sills, but which has been allowed to grow out in the last couple of months. Grindelwald apparently hadn't bothered with doing Graves' gardening, Newt muses and looks at the house itself.

It's a fairly normal sort of house, not so different from the other houses on the street. White with black door and window frames, black tiles for the roof, curtains on all the windows. It looks nice, even.

Graves hesitates at the steps of the porch and because Newt is looking for it he can easily discern the slight shake of the man's hand. Looking between him and the house, Newt makes a face. He can't imagine what it might be like. Something like when Grindelwald took his case, but instead of getting it back relatively unharmed he would've found it ransacked, maybe.

"Do you want me to go in first?" Newt offers.

"No," Graves says, startling out of his stupor and then, grimly determined, he steps closer. A touch unlocks the door and Graves pulls it open, his shoulders tight and tense.

Inside the house is dark and somewhat cold, the shadows deep and what few light screens through windows is stark and cold. Newt looks around the forayer and then, tentative, presses his hand on Graves' back.

The man gasps a breath. "It's my own fucking house – why is this so hard?" he asks, sounding furious.

Because it's been violated and turned into a prison, because this is where he hurt you, Newt thinks but doesn't say it. He runs an awkward hand over the man's shaking shoulder and then peers into the dark house. "Maybe we should light the place up a little."

Graves shakes his head and in the end Newt's the one who goes around, at first checking if Graves has electric lighting at all and when it turns out he doesn't, lighting the gas lamps and candles instead. It gives him the chance to snoop around a bit, while Graves leans against the hall wall and just breathes, trying to gather himself.

The house is nice. Newt had thought Tina and Queenie had a nice house, and they did sure, but Graves' house has been decorated with obvious intent and theme. Everything is old, dark wood and gold, and the carpets are all match both with their colour and their simple, elegant richness. Newt had always gotten the impression that Graves wasn't exactly in dire straits when money was concerned, but the house just… fine.

It's also clean to the point of ridiculousness, every bit of metal polished, not a hint of dust in sight.

Newt lights the candles in the living room chandelier and then heads back to hall, where Graves has his eyes closed and is just breathing, slow and methodical, through whatever is going on in his head. Newt hesitates for a moment and then steps closer. "Your coat?" he asks tentatively.

Not opening his eyes Graves eases the sling off and then moves to shrug off his long coat. With his bad arm it seems bit of a task, so Newt steps in to take the coat by the collar and ease it over his shoulders, wincing a little at the slightly pained breath the man lets out.

"Thank you – just put it over there," Graves says and Newt takes out a hanger from the near by closet to hang it properly. He does the same for his coat, wincing a little when he noticed that he has bit of dirt on the coat hem – he's probably been tracking dirt all over Graves' fine house.

Newt turns to Graves, wondering if he should maybe apologise, to find the man watching him. Newt stops, awkwardly tugging at his waist coat, wondering if he looks rumbled – he probably does, he always looks a bit rumbled. He certainly doesn't look like he belongs in this place.

"I suppose I should offer you a drink?" Graves says, frowning a little as he eases the sling back on, resting his arm on it with a slight sigh.

"If you'd like, it's… really not necessary," Newt says and looks down awkwardly. Now that they're here he's not entirely sure what he's doing. He'd wanted to help and Graves had given him the opportunity – which he undoubtedly did not give to many. But now…

Graves turns and looks at the house. He frowns and hesitates for another split of a second before stepping forward. Newt quickly takes his suitcase in hand, and follows him.

"It's a nice house," Newt offers, because that's what people did, wasn't it, offer compliments for other people's houses.

"I suppose," Graves says, leading him slowly to the living room. It is the nicest room in the house as far as newt has seen – with comfortable couches, a big fireplace and glass cabinets full of all sorts of interesting looking knickknacks. There is also a cabinet there which Newt soon realises is where Graves keeps his spirits – because that's the one the man goes for, all the while wandlessly summoning a pair of glasses from the kitchen. They float over just as the man opens the liquor cabinet.

"What's your poison, Mr. Scamander?"

Newt hesitates and then sets his case down on the floor beside one of the cabinets. "Whiskey – fire whiskey if you have it," he then says.

"I have Dragon Fire," Graves offers.

"That sounds wonderful, thank you."

Graves pours the liquor and then floats it over, letting Newt catch the glass from the air. The man himself hesitates for a moment before reaching out a hand. Handful of logs float out of a case by the fireplace, and into it. They light up in flames at snap of Graves' fingers.

"You're very talented with wandless magic," Newt comments, watching the fire quickly take.

"Levitation and the occasional bit of pyrotechnics," Graves says, his lips twitching into something wry that's not quite a smile. "Most of it's just cheap trickery. Handy, though, when you only got the one functioning arm."

Newt nods slowly, watching him, as Graves turns to him with a glass in hand. "To your health?" the man offers, lifting his glass.

Newt smiles awkwardly and lifts his glass in answer before taking a sip, just enough to feel the heat spread across his tongue. Graves drinks almost all of his in one go, blowing out a small breath of smoke after swallowing.

"I made a conscious effort not to drink when I was trapped here," the man comments, eyeing the glass. "This is only the second drink I've had here since then"

"That was probably very wise," Newt comments and then glances over the man.

Graves shakes his head at that and then walks over. Newt tenses uncertainly, but the man is aiming for the couch instead, sitting down slowly and carefully before straightening out his bad leg with a sigh. "It was stubbornness. If I had spend the time drunk, it might've passed quicker," he muses and sips his drink, glaring at his knee.

"Maybe, but that's hardly healthy," Newt says, fiddling with his glass for a moment before setting it down. "I – could get the murtlap essence, if you'd like?"

Graves frowns and glances up at him. "If you wouldn't mind," he says then.

Newt nods, grateful to have something to do, and quickly turns to his suitcase, setting it down. He feels Graves' eyes on him the whole time as he opens the case, to reveal the top of the ladder. "I'll be back in a moment," Newt says and Graves salutes him with his whiskey glass as Newt hurries down.

It's weirdly guilty feeling, to go down into the suitcase in such situation. His home remains his sanctuary, for him and all of his creatures, but Graves home isn't anything of the sort to him. While checking his phials and looking for the most resent clippings of murtlap tentacles, Newt wonders if Graves would end up moving. Probably.

Easing his tie open and pushing his sleeves up, Newt quickly minces the tentacle clippings before getting out a strainer. With bit of gentle pressure, he has ounce or two of the essence strained into a phial, a bit of aloe vera and peppermint mixed in for a nice cooling effect. Quickly Newt tests the mixture on couple of his own wounds – the ragged edge of scales at his hip which cuts a little into the soft skin of his belly and his left calf which always aches a little bit – and it works perfectly well.

Before heading back up, Newt checks to see that the shed door is properly locked and no sneaky mufflers are about to get out, before turning back to the ladder. With phial clutched in hand, he quickly climbs up, hoping he hasn't taken too long.

Graves is still sitting in the same spot as before, but now he's leaning forward, his forehead resting on his palm, his shoulders even tenser than before.

"Graves?" Newt asks worriedly.

The man draws a breath that rattles a little in his nose and looks up. "All done then?" he asks and reaches a shaking hand for the glass – which he has refilled, judging by the looks of the bottle now sitting on the table.

"Yes, I have the essence – are you…" Newt starts to ask and then stops. Of course the man isn't alright, what is he even thinking. "I have the essence," he says again and hops up the last couple of steps, closing the case behind him. "It might do some good to your arm too, if you'd like…"

Graves takes a drink and nods. "I wouldn't mind it," he says, taking a breath and setting the glass down again.

As Newt watches, feeling weirdly anxious, Graves opens his shift cuff on his bad hand and then eases the arm off the sling again. Slowly he eases the sleeve back, and bit by bit the damage is revealed. The skin is more or less intact – but it's swollen and discoloured, splotches of black and blue and sickly yellow in place of healthy pink.

Newt cautiously sits beside him while Graves eases the sleeve as far up as it will go – the terrible, terrible bruises cover his entire arm and elbow all the way up to his upper arm. No wonder he needs a sling – and yet, using the sling must hurt too, Newt thinks desperately, while taking out his handkerchief and pouring some of the essence on it.

He doesn't think twice about applying the salve himself, and Graves doesn't stop him, watching him spread it gently over the discoloured skin in soft, careful circles.

"I'm not sure if I made enough," Newt admits worriedly.

"It's fine – that's… that's already better," Graves says, taking hold of his own wrist to keep his injured arm up for Newt to apply the salve to. "Just, save some for my knee."

Newt nods and carefully covers every bruise with the salve, trying desperately to not apply too much pressure. The man's arm is almost completely hairless, he notes absently. They must've removed all hair while fixing it.

"Um, your knee – can you…?" Newt hesitates, glancing down.

Graves takes a breath, considering it and then shakes his head and shifting forward and easing his shoes off. Then he stands up. Newt stares at first, weirdly breathless and then quickly looks away – Graves is undoing his belt now, easing open the buttons of his trousers.

Then Newt sees the mans knee.

"You shouldn't be walking at all, should you?" he whispers

Graves falls to sit with a grunt and eases the bad leg out of his trousers, stretching it out with a wince, resting his ankle on the table. "Probably not," he admits. "But they didn't tell me I couldn't, and it does hold my weight… most of the time."

Newt shakes his head and then applies the murtlap essence directly onto the gruesome amount of bruising. He wants to ask what on earth happened to it, what had Grindelwald done – jumped on it? But he doesn't dare, and instead just makes sure to get the essence as thickly over the damage as he can manage, running his fingers gently over the swollen, hot skin of the man's knee. Then he dips his fingers around the man's knee, to apply the salve behind the knee as well, rubbing it in with circling motions until Graves sighs.

He's on his knees between Graves' legs and the table by the time he's finished, something he realises only after he's spend good five minutes there.

"Um," Newt says, awkwardly withdrawing his hands.

"Thank you," Graves says, watching him with dark eyes. "That feels much better, thank you."

Newt swallows and nods, looking down – except then he is staring at the man's crotch, covered only by a set of underwear now, and has to quickly look away again. "I'll just - " he mumbles and quickly gets up. Graves keeps staring at him darkly and Newt awkwardly twiddles with his hands – except they're slick and a little numb with the murtlap essence.

Awkwardly he takes his hanky and tries to clean his fingers with it without meeting Graves' eyes. The man keeps staring at him.

"Mr. Scamander," Graves says quietly, his voice low. "Why did you come here?"

Newt pauses between picking salve from under his fingernails. "Because… I want to help?" he offers. "And it's Newt, please."

"Newt," Graves says slowly. "You don't even know me."

Newt shrugs. "Nobody knows anybody until they do," he says. And lately he's figured out just how easy it is to get to know people, really. All you really have to do is put effort to it, something he's never dared to do, before Jacob and Tina an Queenie…

He looks at Graves – at his bruised arm and near waist coat, the scorpion collar pins… the still stiff propriety somehow clinging to the man even as he sits there with no trousers. "And I think I'm learning to know you, a little," newt says with awkward smile.

Graves watches him silently for a while and then looks down at newt's hands. He reaches his good hand out and uncertain Newt takes it in his.

"Newt," the man says and pulls him in, to sit down beside him. "Tell me about yourself."

"There's not that much to know, really," Newt murmurs awkwardly, not sure where to look. Graves is still staring at him. He thinks it might be that the man is distracting himself from the house around them, concentrating onto him instead but does it have to involve so much eye contact? "And – and you have my file, I think."

"The file only tells the overall story and little of the details," Graves says. "And I think the impression of a Hogwarts drop-out is entirely wrong in your case. You still have your wand too – which I understand they snap, when you are expelled."

Newt coughs. "Yes, well – they did," he admits and takes his wand out, desperate for something to distract him from Graves. He turns the worm eaten, scratched, beaten bit of wood in his hand and fondly runs his fingers over the seam. "Right here," he says and shows it. "I got it a new handle and fixed it – took me several months, but…"

Graves frowns and finally looks away. "You… fixed it?"

"Mm-hm," Newt agrees. "Resin, bit of coral, and lot of patience – and bit of mother of pearl here at the base, to stabilise the result. It was an effort, and I had some mishaps, but yes… I fixed it."

Graves blinks at him and then holds out his hand. "May I?"

Newt sets the wand on his palm and watches the man examine it curiously. "This is one… well worn wand," Graves comments rather diplomatically, examining the pores left behind by woodworms. Newt had switched over to woodlice for bowtruckles after that particular incident – they weren't as keen on wand wood as the larvae of some beetles.

"Barely a wand according to some, but I think it suits me," Newt smiles at the wand proudly. "It works better for me now than it did before as well."

Graves shakes his head, examining the pit of mother of pearl at the end of the wand. Then he hands it back. "You, sir, are a mess," he comments with a sort of wondering disapproval. "Most people would just buy a new one."

"Why? There was nothing wrong with the old wand," Newt says with a little grin, giving it a fond twirl before pushing it back to it's holster. "All it needed was a little healing and then it was perfectly good for me."

Graves looks at him at that, searching his face. Newt meets his eyes for as long as he can manage but it's ever so awkward, meeting people's eyes – soon he has to look away, at Graves' collar instead. The scorpions are interesting, he muses, and opens his mouth to ask about them.

Then he feels Graves' hand on his cheek, fingers dipping under his chin to lift it up slightly. Newt's eyes snap open wide and he meets Graves' gaze with surprise. Graves looks at him darkly for a moment, eyes searching for something and Newt hasn't the foggiest what, but Graves seems to find it because the corner of his lips curls a little, maybe with displeasure, Newt doesn't know but it makes his heart suddenly beat at double pace.

And then Graves kisses him.

- - - 

Goddamn it. this whole fic I’ve been trying to make Newt Thirsty but I failed.