#Forget the tenses! They’re nonexistent

[orchidsncrake]

and watch them fall

chapter 1, 2

pairing: joe goldberg/rhys montrose

rating: explicit (preemptive)

tags: au - canon divergence, s4 rewrite, obsession, strangers to lovers, POV Joe Goldberg, murder, bookstore owner Joe Goldberg, Rhys Montrose is a real person, developing relationship, slow build, eventual relationship, eventual smut, tags to be updated

word count: 5,332

chapter 3/?

ao3 link and fic under the cut :)

The door chimes as a short, bright figure rushes in. A long, yellow coat hitting midcalf obscures their body and face, the neckline like plumage. All Joe can see besides the blindingly bright statement outerwear are black tights, almost entirely opaque, and black kitten heels. The figure spins around, and Joe almost recoils at the brightness of their – her – smile, realization dawning on her face. Joe’s ashamed to admit it’s one-sided. She’s pretty, with a sharp, hooked nose and curved lips painted with a light nude stain. When Joe doesn’t move from his place beside the counter, she shimmies over. The walk is a bit ridiculous because she’s moving as if her knees are tied together, little heels clicking quickly against the floor. She smells of CK Eternity when she plants herself before Joe, extending a bony hand. Joe glances at her rings. All gemstones and gold. They must be worth as much as a public education. An American one, at that.

“Joe!” She chimes, then retracts her hand to quickly unbutton her coat, revealing an amber dress – a sheath one, Joe remembers; Dottie had owned a few. Brushing her coat to her sides, she thrusts it forward again. Her spirit, instead of being invigorating, is making him nervous. Too much quick movement. “It’s Irene! It’s such a pleasure to meet you in person. I must thank you again, and properly, for accepting our last-minute invitation. It’s most appreciated, and I must say, the Yelp photos of this little place do not do it justice!” Joe shakes her hand mechanically, eyes already threatening to glaze over. He doesn’t have time to go through all the gilded insults in that one rant, so he decides to forget them entirely. 

“Ms. Crosby,” he says, smiling welcomingly. He knows his appearance contrasts hers starkly, what with his dusty professor aesthetic of sweaters and chinos. Never mind his dark hair compared to her honey-golden locks that curl ever so slightly against her shoulders like Lesley Gore’s. “It is a pleasure. I’m glad you still find it to your liking.” He releases her hand gently, silently hoping he hasn’t soaked her palm with nervous sweat.

“Oh, no need for formalities, dear,” she croons, definitely younger than him. “We’re all friends, aren’t we?” She turns around to look at the sea of monochromatic busybodies armed with balloons and banners now flowing through the door. The set-up crew, he assumes. Either that or a band of very casual, lanyard-clad robbers. She turns back around, her face slightly tensed. It melts away into a smile. “So, it’s just after 9 now, and the crew will have the table, chairs, and decor up within the half hour. Mr. Montrose will be here just after that, so we ought to get things up and running, hm?”

Joe opens his mouth to ask her to elaborate, or slow the hell down, or, again, Xanax, but she whirls around and shimmies away. Her coat is deposited onto the coat rack, looking absurdly like a beacon of holy light in his brown book kingdom, and then she’s whizzing around the room. Joe watches, astonished, as she straightens already level pictures and licks her thumb to clean nonexistent blemishes, pantomiming actual work. He doesn’t miss the few sneers from the workers at her when they think she isn’t looking. Joe suspects she may be a personality hire, then realizes she works in PR. They’re all personality hires.

Not wanting to get in the way of the crew or, worse yet, Irene, Joe busies himself sweeping the corners that no one will see. After a few crew members start lurking about the counter, wringing their hands, he starts doling out uneconomic amounts of tape to save them the discomfort of opening unfamiliar drawers. Fingers covered in the stuff, they hang banners of Rhys’ face and multitasked cookie-cutter campaign slogans. Really, Rhys. You couldn’t do a bit better than “Giving London to the people?”  

Nope, nuh uh. Not his business. Joe doesn’t know him well enough to give him campaign advice, nor does he know anything about campaigning. It’s his building, sure, and those are his walls they’re plastering Rhys’ face over, but he’s only loaning the space, as it were. That’s the extent of their relationship: subletting and scotch tape. 

A crescendoing purr makes Joe look up from his useless sweeping and crane his neck to see out the front window. He quickly recognizes it as an engine, and in the next moment, a black luxury car creeps in front of his bookstore. Joe furrows his brows at it. He doesn’t recognize the model, but he knows enough about cars to not question anything with a hood ornament. It has limo tint, and no light passes the windows. What, or who, is inside remains a mystery – save for some logical presupposition – until the driver’s side door opens. A brown Oxford steps out, then another, leading up to long legs clad in navy slacks. The slacks lead to a neatly tucked-in light blue button-down with no tie or breast pocket. It’s crisp and simple and answers his lifelong question of what the hell business casual is. 

Joe finally lets his eyes trail up to the man’s face, swallowing saliva, and almost chokes when they settle on a familiarly cut jawline. Of course, Rhys is the owner of the long legs and trim waist, and of course, he’s been watching Joe ogle him through the window. Or, at least Joe assumes he has, because he can’t see Rhys’ eyes under the polarized browlines. It seems the sun had done the event a favor today and made a rare appearance. Joe chances a polite smile, which he’s sure looks more froglike than anything, and ducks his head down, returning fervently to his sweeping. He can’t help but watch out of the corner of his eye, though.

A stout, mole-like man climbs out of the passenger seat. Slow, lumbering steps bring him over to the drivers, and Joe catches a glimpse of a clear plastic earpiece. How very official. The bodyguard lurches after Rhys in sharp contrast to the other’s long, graceful steps. Another man in an unremarkable suit matching the bodyguard pops out of the backseat and into the front, and the engine turns over. The purring engine fades off in the opposite direction. The bell above the door rings. Joe can feel Rhys’ eyes on him when he enters, but stubbornly staring at his broom washes them away. In the reflection of one of the paintings, he watches Rhys remove his sunglasses and hang them on his collar. His hair is expertly combed to the side, the one strong curl gelled into place. Is his hair naturally curly? Joe wonders, sweeping a gouge into the floor. 

“There you are, Rhys, my dear!” Irene flits across the room and lands in front of Rhys, who smiles kindly down at her. Joe can’t help but notice his eyes don’t crinkle like they usually do. She must be exhausting. How can you deal with her? Irene whirls around and beams at Joe, and he genuinely considers hitting the deck, crawling behind a bookshelf, and dying there. Unfortunately, Rhys’ gaze follows Irene’s flapping hands, and his eyes lock with Joe’s and crinkle at the corners, effectively nailing Joe’s feet to the floor. Rhys’ smile is coy, unlike the normal blinding smile he gives to the press, which isn’t at all creepy to know because Joe happens to have access to the news, just like every other English citizen with a TV. Joe gulps and stands stock still, clutching his broom, but manages a closed-lipped smile. Why isn’t he saying hi or waving? Rhys cocks his head at him playfully, and Joe recognizes the gesture from the day they’d met not too long ago. The fond memory makes his lips split with a grin, showing his teeth, and his shoulders sag. His grip on the broom loosens, his knuckles flushing pink. Rhys’ chin tips down minutely, looking almost, approving? Irene’s hand wraps around Rhys’ bicep, and he’s being dragged away towards the collapsing table and chairs the crew has set up into a makeshift panel. 

Joe exhales and squeezes his eyes tight, getting a hold of himself. That was… odd. Creepy, even, if he wanted to call it that, but he doesn’t. It is weird to stare at someone you’ve met once, isn’t it? Especially surrounded by bystanders, Rhys’ PR rep, no less. It should weird Joe out, and he knows that, but he’s never had the best judgment regarding interesting people. He sighs through his nose and finishes sweeping the last pile, then dumps the scant dust into the trash bin. Tucking the broom into its rightful corner, he settles behind his counter.

The press will be here in an hour. Then he’ll have to stay huddled in his corner for six hours, which seems excessively long for any kind of event, not to mention one for a book, no matter how secondarily political it is. That can’t be normal, can it? Granted, he knows nothing about PR and even less about politics, but he can’t help but feel that he’s being toyed with. If you’re going to stage a day-long event, wouldn’t you want to do it at a performance hall? Not that he can really complain; he did say yes to Irene’s – Rhys’ – request after all. His eyes drift over to the pile of books he’d placed on the countertop, and tucks back a fallen lock. Running his finger along his selection, he picks up Metamorphosis. He figures it’s insane enough to keep him occupied for half the event or so. As he opens the front cover, he looks across the room to find Rhys sat at the table with Irene settling in next to him, the crew scuttling about, neatening up the place the last little bit. Rhys catches his eye and smirks at him. It’s going to be a long day.

***

Joe tucks his bookmark between the last page and the back cover, squeezing his eyes shut. Setting it on the counter, he blinks about the building, slowly coming back to the land of reality. The existentialist cockroach was only semi-helpful to calm his nerves. Still, it was enough to stop the incessant bouncing of his leg. A glance at the clock tells him it’s been three hours, which he takes some shame in. It’s not that long of a book. Irene’s voice slowly fades back into his awareness, though he doubts it’s stopped for anything longer than a breath since she got here. Looking across the room, Joe finds he can only see half of it, as a line of fans armed with treasured copies of the memoir cleaves the store in half.  The flow of people is arterial, shoe soles constantly squeaking across his floor, leaving slightly damp shoe prints despite the dry weather. Moisture has a way of clinging to old streets. 

Two groups of journalists flank the panel table, differentiable by their differently colored lanyards. Joe counts four separate networks, though the names he can’t make out from here. He’s confident the impending articles will answer that question within the week. A camera shutters occasionally, interrupting the drone of Rhys’ pen on paper, scrawling signatures across books and little note cards. The camera flashes are a sterile white, but Rhys and Irene don’t so much as flinch even as it blinds them. How can you stand this publicity?

The line of patrons parts for a moment as some woman fails to notice it moving, and Joe makes eye contact with a lanky journalist. The man’s face is pale and bored, and Joe suppresses the urge to duck and hide, something insane that makes him want to see the journalist’s reaction. There is none, of course, because Jonathan Moore is a nobody. The tall man only blinks curiously at him for a moment, then diverts his attention back to his camera, boney fingers spinning knobs and pressing buttons. Joe realizes his heart is racing, thrumming heavily in his chest and ears. He exhales and returns to his pile of books before his neck tightens. Looking up, he finds Irene watching him. Her critical expression is unfamiliar and doesn’t fit her face – the squint in her eyes makes her look five years older. He furrows his brows at her, and her eyebrows lift, as if catching herself, and she directs her attention back to the next fan in line. Joe frowns slightly, unsettled, and finds Rhys looking between him and Irene, having watched the whole thing. Joe looks at him unafraid, looking for, what, comfort? Reassurance? Whatever he wants, he gets with a gentling smile from Rhys and the slightest tip of the head. Joe sighs and slouches back in his stool, finding himself mimicking the nod. Rhys’ eyes crinkle at the corner, and then a book is jutting into his face, and his attention flicks to the fan. Joe watches as he beams at the woman, signs the inner cover, and hands it back to her. He even entertains her with a short, undoubtedly pleasant conversation. What’s your name, love? Jane? That’s just lovely. You enjoyed the memoir, hm? Well, I’m very glad to hear it. The support is just fantastic. You know, if you enjoyed the novel, you should consider voting for me for mayor, which I may or may not run for. Being a novelist and a political figure are highly comparable, you know. And, politics aside, who wouldn’t want this charming smile constantly on live television?

Joe frowns and cuts off his line of thought. That was a different kind of crazy. Since when does he write dialogue? Huffing, he chooses Clockwork Orange from his selection. Sick and violent – perfect for sitting in on a press event. He flips to the first page and grabs a bookmark to trace his lines with. The constant hum of activity is beginning to get to him, he’s better acclimated to reading in silence. His leg starts bouncing again, and he glares at it like it has a mind of its own. You just have to get through this afternoon. A microwave-ready chicken and rice dinner is in your future.

Joe frowns down at the page. How sad.

***

It’s half past 4 pm, and the press has left by now. The event is survived by the remaining fans (i.e., the richest), Rhys, of course, and Irene, who is flurrying about the room again, touching things randomly. The crew is back, having emerged from the shadows and taking down whatever decorations they can with patrons still present, understandably eager to start their weekend. Joe’s long since finished his book and has taken to herding loose balloons, which he doesn’t remember being blown up or deposited about the store. It proves to be a ridiculously difficult task; every time he gets a few together, a patron opens the door to leave, and they swirl off in different directions. Like the crew, he’s concerned with being a bother and somehow, even after its official end, tarnishing the event. Corralling balloons seems, illogically, the least intrusive thing he can do. Though he imagines he looks ridiculous, no one pays him any particular mind. The gravitational field of stardom enveloping Rhys saves him any unwanted attention.

It’d turned out to be a ridiculous anxiety about the press, one Joe kicks himself for now. Realistically, he’s just another face in grayscale London. Even if they did get his name, which they wouldn’t, Jonathan Moore’s identity traces smoothly back to infancy in Northern Dutchess Hospital, New York. He has nothing to worry about so long as he doesn’t run for political office. So, why is he so on edge? The press is gone, and the event is nearly finished, yet he can’t shake the dread resting at his nape and coiling down his spine. Three balloons group together as a patron scrambles out with their freshly signed copy. Fucking Sisyphusian.

Irene suddenly shrieks, and Joe’s head whips up, expecting to see her impaled with a pen only to find her whirling around. Why do joy and “I’ve just been stabbed” sound so similar in a soprano? Looking around the store, Joe finds that the one who’d rudely ruined his balloon grouping had been the last patron. The event is over. A bit dramatically, Irene celebrates behind the table, one hand squeezing Rhys’ shoulder as her head whips around, spewing compliments at the crew. Joe’s jaw clenches, and he goes back to his useless task.

“Oh, Joe!” Great . “You’ve done just an incredible job,” Irene gushes, releasing Rhys’ shoulder and rushing over to Joe. She shakes his hand again, which he assumes is a habit picked up from a disgustingly male-dominated industry. He’s never been one for handshakes himself, but he humors her. He catches Rhys grinning to himself. “Unfortunately, I must be going now. I’m due to send out summarizing press releases, you see. One before the event, then one after, and then the press must be monitored, of course. They are shifty little buggers, aren’t they?” She pauses, and Joe thinks she wants him to respond, but she only takes a gasping breath and rushes over to the coat rack, slinging her yellow overcoat back on. “It’s been lovely, Joe! And Mr. Monstrose, do let me know when you’re back at your flat so we can do a bit of reflection on today. I think it went splendidly, but there’s always room for improvement, no? That’s the beauty of performance! Ta-ta!” Joe stares, open-mouthed, at the impressive display of lung capacity. Ms. Irene Crosby opens the door, waves a hand at both of them and flutters out onto the street. The resuming silence is deafening.

Rhys’ soft laughter is what breaks it. Joe turns his head to see what he’s laughing at, but can’t find anything particularly funny. The bodyguard detaches himself from the wall and takes his heavy wool coat from where it’d rested on the chair. He shrugs it on, his swollen-knuckled hands flattening the lapels. Rhys looks up when the guard places a broad hand on his back, smiling pleasantly.

“Are you ready to go, Mr. Montrose?” The guard rasps. Rhys stands up, eyes flicking to Joe. “I think I’ll stay back, Rodrick. Thank you.” Rodrick’s heavy brow drops over his eyes, but Rhys raises his palm. “There’s no need to worry. I just want to thank Mr. Moore properly. He’s harmless. Aren’t you?” Rhys’ gaze rests on Joe, Rodrick’s beady eyes following. Joe swallows.

“Of course,” he breathes, giving a disarming smile. Rodrick furrows his brows, then shrugs and relaxes. Joe tries not to take offense.

“A’right, sir. I’ll be seeing you,” Rodrick juts out a fat hand and Rhys shakes it, patting him on the back in a friendly gesture. Rodrick lumbers across the building, puts on a flat cap, and then nods to each of them. He shoulders open the door and steps onto the street, popping his collar when the wind gusts. The bell chimes sharply when it slams the door closed, and he sighs. The crew immediately springs to life, tearing down posters and banners as quickly as possible. They remind Joe of worker bees, and he watches, intrigued, as Rhys rises from his seat, seeming the embodiment of calm despite the flurry around him. Just as soon as he’s come out from behind the table, two young men collapse it, fold it up, and take it out the door to an unseen van. Joe watches a bit dumbly as Rhys strolls over to him, and he gives up on the balloons at his feet.

“You alright, John?” Well, that wasn’t the question he was expecting. Maybe ‘Hey, what’s with the balloons?’ or ‘Why do you keep staring at me and trying to set books on fire with your mind?’ What is he even supposed to say? Yes, obviously, but what then?

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he says, clearing his throat. He ducks his head down, and Rhys follows him, slumping a bit and making Joe look up again. God, his face is on fire. 

“You sure, mate? Listen,” he gestures outward, waving his hand at the room and then the door, “I know events can be a bit much, and Irene is – well, how do I say this kindly. An active volcano on a freight train with a penchant for vibrant primary colors.”

Joe huffs out a laugh, dropping his forehead into his palm. “I was thinking more ‘bird actively on fire,’ but I like yours.” He looks up from his shoes to find Rhys smiling at him with too much kindness. Rhys nods at him encouragingly and stuffs his hands in his front pocket. The crew lines up behind him at attention, idly awkwardly like kindergartners. Rhys follows his gaze and twists at the waist to see them.

“Are you lot done?” One of them nods – the boss, if Joe had to guess. He’s graying at the temples, and his face is wrinkled, with crevasses carved in from smiling.

“Yes, Mr. Montrose. The van’s all loaded.” He cuts himself off, eyes darting to the balloons on the floor. “Oh, we can get those.” He gestures to two of the younger crew members, who lunge forward onto one foot, but Rhys stops them.

“Don’t worry about them. We can take care of it, can’t we, John?” Rhys turns back to Joe, cocking his head to the side.

Joe flounders for a moment. Then, finding his voice, “Yeah, of course.” Simpleton.

Rhys nods once, a sharp movement, and spins back to the crew. “You heard the man. You all enjoy your weekend, yeah?” 

The boss smiles at Rhys and pats the crew members as they trail out of the door. “Thank you, Mr. Montrose. You as well.” He pulls up as the caboose, giving Joe a polite wave as the door closes behind him. The line of people disappears to the right down the street towards the alley, the older man trailing behind.

Rhys turns back to him, a faint smile still playing on his lips. He bends down and picks up a balloon, then scans around the store. “Do you have a broom around here, John?”

Joe blinks at him slowly, definitely not staring at the way he’s palming the balloon, then nods. “Yeah, I do. It’s just behind the counter,” he points, then follows his direction and walks behind the counter. He returns and stands awkwardly next to Rhys, realizing how odd it is to hand the man his broom to clean up his store. Rhys laughs softly and extends a hand for it, and Joe hands it over. Rhys’ ring clinks on the handle.

“Thank you,” Rhys says, starting to bump the balloons toward each other. Joe mills about, kicking them gently, but he hits one with too much force, and it goes bounding across the store.

“Oh, goddammit,” he swears as he trails after it, nudging it back into the middle of the room. Rhys laughs and kicks one himself, dribbling it like a soccer ball. Joe watches, oddly enraptured, until Rhys stills the balloon gently with his shoe. 

“You didn’t play football?” Rhys asks, going back to knocking the balloons toward each other.

Joe shakes his head. “It’s not all that popular in the States.”

Rhys purses his lips thoughtfully. “I mean what you call soccer.”

“I know. Not that popular. Actual football is,” Joe teases, feeling his uncharacteristic shyness melt away as he busies himself with the balloons.

Rhys chuckles. “Did you at least play that?”

Joe raises his eyebrows at him, finally making proper eye contact. It feels dangerous. “Do I strike you as the sports type?”

Rhys smirks and nods his head in appeasement. “Alright, maybe not. Model UN?”

“Well that’s just mean,” Joe gripes, trailing over to get a wooden letter opener from the counter. He presents it to Rhys. “Too extreme?”

“Are you planning to kill me with it?” Rhys asks playfully. “I’d appreciate something a bit nicer, not to be pompous.” Joe rifles around and brandishes a sterling one, flowers carved into the handle. “There we go, that’s fitting for being stabbed in the jugular with.”

Joe laughs openly and approaches Rhys, handing him the sterling one and keeping the wooden one for himself. “I wasn’t in Model UN. I worked for an old man at a bookstore, and that took up most of my time.” Joe crouches down, scoops up a balloon, and presses the letter opener until it pops. Rhys copies the movement, popping his easily with the metal edge.

“I was in Model UN,” he admits, dragging over a waste bin to drop the rubber remains into. 

“Figures.” Joe freezes, then brings a hand to his forehead, embarrassed. He opens his mouth to apologize, but Rhys looks over at him, his eyebrow raised with amusement.

“There you are,” he says confusingly. 

“What?” Joe asks, pausing the execution of the balloon in his hand. The letter opener presses against its taut surface threateningly. 

“You seemed different today,” Rhys backtracks, popping another and throwing it out. “More resigned. I understand that these things take a lot of energy. I had hoped I hadn’t… broken you, or something,” he finishes, laughing softly.

Joe rolls his eyes and fixes his hair. Rhys’ eyes follow the movement. “A PR stunt isn’t going to break me.” Or stalking, arson, or murder. Not that he needs to know that.

“What about coffee?”

Joe pauses and looks over at Rhys, who’s watching him. “What?”

“That was an odd segue, wasn’t it?” Rhys laughs self-deprecatingly. “Would you be willing to get coffee with me?”

Joe stares at him, brows furrowed. Coffee? That’s… not at all the same as a PR event. That’s just a date, isn’t it? No, not a date, wrong phrasing. Quality time, is that what it is? He starts to panic as he fails to make sense of the request. “Is something wrong with the book?” He asks, grasping for straws.

Rhys looks at him, confused for a moment, then remembers. “The book! No, the book is fine. I finished it, actually.” He clears his throat. “I know it’s an unusual request, just like asking to use your bookstore for an event – Irene will be paying you shortly, by the way – but, well, it’s not often you meet someone real around here.” Rhys watches him, seemingly oddly vulnerable. The usual film of inaccessibility is gone from his eyes.

“Real?” Joe parrots dumbly.

“I’m sorry,” Rhys says, popping the last balloon and throwing it away. He turns around to leave, and Joe lunges for him, wrapping a hand around his bicep. Rhys turns suddenly, and he recoils, worrying that he’s overstepped.

“I just – what do you mean by real?” Joe asks, lacing his fingers together. Rhys’ mouth parts a bit, and he turns back to him. Joe suddenly realizes they’re far too close, and the blinds are open. What if someone sees them? That’ll definitely get him in some online journal, and who knows what could happen then –

“Unfortunately, I’m expected to be friends with London’s elite,” Rhys cuts in, running a hand through his hair. The gel and hairspray have started weakening. “And they’re alright, but they’re all very preoccupied with clothing with metal initials or some designer drug. It’s not exactly my thing.”

“I know,” Joe blurts out, putting his foot in his mouth. Rhys raises an eyebrow at him as he trips over his tongue. “I, uh, read your book?”

That seems to really spark Rhys’ curiosity. “You read it? After we met?” He gestures around the store.

“Well, yes. I got the eBook,” he explains uselessly. He pointedly doesn’t include how he’d finished it that night. Rhys smiles warmly at him, not finding it nearly as creepy as Joe had worried he would.

“I’m flattered. Did you like it?”

Joe licks his lips. “Yeah, I did. I’m not usually one for memoirs, but you’re a good writer.” Shut up now, Goldberg. You sound like a schoolgirl.

Rhys smile broadens, all but beaming at him now. “That’s wonderful to hear. So,” he pauses, clears his throat, and hands Joe the letter opener. It catches the light, blinding him for a moment. “Coffee?” 

Joe watches him for a moment, not bothering to correct the odd behavior. “Yeah, coffee would be nice. I don’t know many cafes, to be honest-”

Rhys waves his hand. “Don’t worry about it. There’s a nice one just a few blocks from here, but I’ve forgotten its name. How about,” his voice drops, conspiratorial, “I text you the name tonight once I’m back to my flat?” Joe nods. He knows this is all very forward, but he appreciates not being the driving party for once. “Now, I do have a meeting on Sunday…”

“I’m free tomorrow morning,” Joe offers too eagerly. Rhys grins toothily.

“Perfect.” He extends his hand, and Joe shakes it, surprised by the warmth. How can you have warm hands in a place like this? Rhys checks his watch. “I do have to get going now; Irene’s fit to start calling me soon if I don’t let her know I haven’t been kidnapped and murdered.”

“Is she okay with just kidnapping?”

Rhys laughs. “You know, I haven’t asked her. If I did, I think she’d assume I was planning to make a run for it and have me put on house arrest.”

Joe smiles at him. Not often do people keep up with him like this, enough that they can banter. “I’ll let you go, then, before she straps you with a new anklet.”

“That’s much appreciated, John.” Rhys leans back into the door, disturbing the bell. He waits there for a moment, types something into his phone, then nods at Joe. “Have a good night, mate. Don’t silence your phone,” he adds playfully.

Joe smiles at him as he leans out of the store. The same car from before rolls up to the curb, and Rhys climbs in, disappearing behind the tint. It rumbles off, leaving Joe in the ticking silence of his store. It looks like the event never happened, and the tables, chairs, banners, and balloons are now gone. He takes his phone from his pocket and opens it, tapping over to his call log. The unknown number becomes ‘Rhys Montrose’ in his contacts, the contact photo remaining a gray RM. He tosses it in his hand a few times, then tucks it away again. That’ll keep Rhys’ text from getting buried in the unknown senders. 

Joe locks the front door and lowers the blinds, cutting out the remaining sunlight. The lamps are turned off, the broom returned to the counter, and his pile of books to the shelves. He knows, on some level, that this is insane. To welcome a stranger into his store for publicity is one thing, but to get coffee with him? Even without the coffee, hadn’t Rhys been oddly... forward? What with the watching him and lingering behind to talk. Not that it wasn’t welcome, or appreciated, even – Joe hasn’t felt so comfortable around someone since Love. He knows he should be concerned, push Rhys away, and return to having no real connections with anyone. It’s safest that way. No relationships to worry about, least of all one with a public figure.

But he doesn’t want safety, not if it means loneliness. He’s not a solitary man, as much as he tries to be one. He can’t help it – he thrives best when he’s with someone. When he has a personality to learn and habits to memorize. Someone to share minds with. Rhys, you could be that person. Intelligent and quick, you don’t stumble over your words, and you don’t sabotage yourself or me. You’re clever, aren’t you? You’re more than the press sees, or even what I do, for that matter. You’re worth pursuing, worth a bit of forward behavior. You’re you.

[m-aster-of-spinjitzu]

the hues of an empty sky

Missing memories, or having two of them for one moment - not quite the same, but if there's one thing Jay's leant over the last few weeks, it's that literally nothing makes sense anymore.

Or, some Skybound aftermath, Zane actually expressing emotions about his memory switch being turned off for all those years, and what was supposed to be a 'they tell everyone about the erased timeline' fic, but it turned into a 'two characters who barely interact on screen talk at like one am in the morning, and don't actually tell the other what exactly they're alluding to the whole time' fic that I wrote at like one am- 

Also yeah, I realized too late that they split up to look for Wu after s7, we’re just gonna pretend that they waited a few days or something, idk anymore tbh, lol.

(I also didn't have time to edit - so please tell me where the typos are? 😂💛)

Word count: 4539

Prompt: crying, from @ninjago-bingo 's warm board.

Trigger warnings: the main character has a panic attack, and squeezes their fingernails into their hands once or twice but I think that's it.

*facepalms* also, guys, i’m so stupid - i literally just realized that this freaking CHANGES TENSE HALFWAY OHMYGOSH I-  i don’t think it’s super noticeable, but ugh, apologies to anyone who actually thought my writing was good lol-

---

It's cold.

Bitterly, freezing cold.

The biting chill of the air is a bit strange for this time of year, but, heck, that's nowhere near the craziest thing that's ever happened to him - not by a long shot.

He sighs, squinting at the stars dotted liberally against the black canvas of the sky.

Cole had once joked that one of them might be the remains of their golden weapons, after they'd hurled the burning mass into the sky - in another alternate timeline; one that only existed in the memories of a certain few.

Gosh - that seemed like such a long time ago.

Wouldn't it be nice to go back to that time, when he'd still thought that their powers were the coolest thing ever - instead of despising them for all the responsibility and sacrifice that came with them? When one of his biggest worries was whether the girl he had a crush on liked him back - not wondering if his friends would survive the night?

"I did not expect to find you awake at this hour, Jay."

Reflexivity, he jumps back, his mind twisting his friend's gentle voice into the- the djin's triumphant, accented one.

You're supposed to be a ninja. What good are you if your friends can still sneak up on you?

"Geez, warn a guy before you sneak up on him! I almost fell off the Bounty!"

"My apologies. I was... surprised to find you awake at this hour," Zane answers. "What are you doing?" "Couldn't sleep. It's too cold," he confesses, not entirely a lie. Ninjago wasn't 'that' far from the Sea of Sand, but he'd grown up in a much warmer area - unfortunately resulting in his practically nonexistent tolerance to the cold. That never failed to stop Kai from teasing him about it, though. He doesn't mention the pressing weight on his chest, almost tangible - or how it constantly makes him feel. Like he's being dragged through the darkness of an empty sky, spikes of fear making everything so freaking terrifying- "You?"

"I have been analyzing my memories of Pixal, in the hope that it may lead me to her whereabouts. However, all my efforts have proved... unsuccessful," Zane answers wearily, shifting his gaze to the sky.

Oh- oh. They'd all be so caught up in the chaos of the last few weeks - hey, it's not like any of them had asked the universe to permanently be out to get them! - that they'd forgotten Pixal was still offline.

"Hey, I'm sure that she's still there somewhere," he says, earnestly. "After all - she wouldn't be your girlfriend if she didn't pull a vanishing act every now and again, eh?"

The question is punctuated with a laugh, but he doesn't say that he's a little worried about her too. They hadn't talked much, but-

I can't see one of my best friends find out that his girlfriend is dead, a quiet voice at the back of his mind points out. Well - been there, done that, wouldn't recommend, he thinks bitterly. Emotional breakdowns and frequent nightmares apply. Anxiety attacks are half off, too!

It's quiet for a few minutes, neither of them seeing a need to break the silence. The wind blows softly through the sails above them; gray wisps of cloud revealing a pale sliver of moonlight that paints the sky in its glow.

It should be a peaceful night: beautiful, calm, no one trying to kill them or destroy their city - for a change.

His hands won't stop shaking.

It should be a peaceful night, but, as usual, the world is too freaking unfair for that-

He hasn't even slept for a full night in weeks! Well, not since- since-

Don't think about it! That's only going to make it worse, duh-

"Are you alright, Jay?"

"Yeah- I- I'm good, thanks," he says quickly, ignoring the way his breathing keeps speeding up. FSM, not this-

Not for the first time, the world suddenly becomes too loud - too much. Every little thing, from trying to breathe properly or even walk- feels insurmountable, because, gosh, oh gosh, it's going to come crashing down if he even moves-

The memory starts off the same as it always does.

Rubble strewn over the temple grounds, his friends literally reduced to nothing more than statues. A shot that hit the mark perfectly, but perfectly shattered his world in the process.

A poison-splattered dress, a terrifying realization.

Her well-aimed joke, but one that never fails to sting every time. Gosh, why hadn't they just allowed her to join their team in the first place? Maybe they could've prevented this- this- whole situation, if they hadn't been so freaking egotistical-

And, again, he's overwhelmed by the sheer sense of helplessness, all his power and training and skills completely useless to one of the people he cared most about. FSM, if only I hadn't used my first w-request so carelessly! If only I'd been able to escape- or, or if only I'd been able to assemble the team faster! If only-

Despite being in what must've been unimaginable pain, she offers a strained smile - a sweet gesture that, ironically, feels like she's poisoning him, because- because FSM, this is all so wrong, it wasn't supposed to end like this-

He watches with horror as her eyes dull and she stills in his arms.

She's gone, FSM, she's gone and it's all my fault-

"Jay?" a voice asks, concern evident in their tone. Distantly, he registers that he's having a breakdown in front of one of his best friends - one of the things he'd been trying really hard to avoid.

Dang it.

"I-" he tries to say, but, great, he's breathing too fast to even get the stupid words out.

"Breathe in for four seconds," Zane says, softly.

Four seconds? Time has no meaning right now, narrowed down to, like - falling down a chasm, terrified of what's at the bottom, except the fear's all around, this- this... foreboding thing of his mind that keeps yelling that he needs to run, or fight, but he can't, can't-

Right. Four seconds.

You're okay, you're fine, no one's trying to hurt you or your friends. She's not dead.

But what if- what if they're being dragged out of this ship right now? What if it was all a dream, and she's dead anyway, because all of us were too stupid to come up with another plan, and none of us could even do anything when she-

After a little while, when he could breathe a little easier, and the fear didn't feel like it was slamming into him from every possible direction, he slowly opened his eyes. Shakily, he wiped a tear from his face - as if that would wipe away all the weeks that had, theoretically, never even freaking happened.

The sky comes back into focus - pinpricks of light against pitch black. 

How was he going to come up with some sorta explanation without... well, explaining everything?

Great.

My nerves are frayed, and I have to lie to a walking lie detector - what could possibly go wrong?

"Are you alright?" Zane asks, his brows creased in concern.

"Heh heh, yeah. Probably just too many video games," he replies quickly, laughter a bit strained.

"You were muttering to yourself," his friend replies quietly. Ugh, trust the way-too-observant-nindroid to call him out on the remains of his facade. "If you do not mind me asking, what was 'all your fault'? I am sure that it was probably a misunderstanding."

You're the one who misunderstands everything, he thinks wearily, ignoring the part of him that yearns to tell someone else about... well, everything that's happened because of that stupid teapot. He's not one to keep secrets by nature, and it's been taking a bigger toll of him than he'd thought it would. Is this how Nya felt when she was still the Samurai? "It's- it's nothing, probably just nonsense."

"Are you sure? You seem... quite worried about something."

Dang it, were his hands still shaking? He presses his fingernails into his palms, squeezing his eyes shut for a second.

He's talking to one of his best friends, FSM. Weren't friends able to tell each other anything?

"Do you think it's easier to forget? Better?"

He didn't even realize he'd asked a question until Zane's eyes widened in surprise.

A forest coated in snow, ice crystals dangling from the tree branches above their heads. Plenty of screaming - way too much, he reflects, couldn't they have been a bit nicer? It must've been pretty jarring to learn that you weren't human, or that your father had erased years of your life from your mind - in that weird underground treehouse. Those crazy tree monsters - and the realization that they all had much more power than they'd thought.

"N- nevermind," he stutters, fleetingly thinking of kicking the deck. "That's way too personal, you don't have to answer it-"

"I do not mind," Zane says, a bit sadly.

Oh.

Heck, his friend was way too nice.

They gaze up at the stars for a few minutes, not really seeing them - one drowning under the weight of too many secrets, the other, too many memories.

It's quiet - too quiet.

Ugh, he thinks, sighing, that sounds like something a low-budget horror movie would start with, cringey sound effects to match.

But the silence is a painful reminder of the days he'd spent tossing and turning in a cramped cell - nothing but his worries and the bruises on his leg from that stupid ball and chain keeping him awake.

He's been trying hard - maybe too hard - to avoid being alone, avoid being in a situation where they've gotta be quiet ever since then, because, dang it, his memories always seem to fill the silence, and they're always far more terrifying than they should be-

It's easier, in a way, to be mocked for his stupid jokes than it is to relive a single moment from those nightmarish few weeks.

Almost reflexively, he grasps for something to fill the quiet.

"Heh, this is a bit awkward. It's okay if you wanna leave-"

"I do not mind," Zane echoes, walking a bit closer. "It is not as if I need to sleep. But... I do not quite know what to think of your question."

There comes the answer - or a semblance of one at least, and it's the last thing he'd been expecting.

"You don't know?" he blurts out before he can even think of trying to filter the thought. Way to treat your friend who's been nothing but kind to you, Jay. "But you're- you're a nindroid! You know everything-"

"Pixal," his friend mutters softly, sighing, and the hurt, the fear, laced through the word makes something in his heart practically twist. He knows all too well what it feels like to be in that situation - even if, technically, it had never happened.

Then- "I wish that were true. But I suppose that my emotions make certain situations much more complicated than... than they need to be. Thus I cannot give my perspective on this - or, at least, without sounding quite conflicted."

"You know that you're allowed to be conflicted, right? Even the coolest Nindroids don't know everything."

"...Yes, I suppose so."

Jay frowns at the almost subconscious hesitation, eyebrows creasing in concern.

"Seriously," he starts earnestly. They're both leaning on one of the railings just above the deck now. "Just 'cause you're a nindroid doesn't mean that you've gotta chase some kind of perfection that doesn't even exist."

He doesn't miss how Zane's eyes widen in shock, their bright blue hue glowing a little brighter - and heck, if that doesn't hurt even more than the earlier realization.

"Besides - it's not like none of us haven't made mistakes before. Hate to go all Wu on ya, but they help us learn or some stupid thing like that. Even if the mistake is trying not to make 'em, you know?"

"Thank you," Zane replies, a tired smile on his face. "Even the most advanced tech is susceptible to error, I suppose."

They've all made lots of mistakes, heaven forbid if one of them is still agonizing over messing up over the crazy situations the universe constantly put them in. It's not like they were told they'd have to face more ancient evil armies than they could count, were they?

Maybe it's time to stop focusing on events that never even happened, and pay more attention to your friends. What's the point of being part of this team if you're always scared or selfish?

"Shut up," he mumbles, rubbing his temples. What's the point of fighting if your own brain is gonna fight you whenever it gets a chance? A few seconds later, he schools his face back into his default anxious grin. "Great, cause I- I- could use your advice on something." "Alright," comes the quiet reply, his friend seemingly lost in thought.

"What if you wanted to tell someone something, but you couldn't?"

His breathing starts to speed up again, but he grips the deck until his fingers are practically bruised, stark white against his tanned skin. Not this time-

"Is this what you were referring to earlier? An event that you blamed yourself for?" Zane asks, eyes flitting between the floor and the sky.

Dang it, way too observant as usual. He masks his surprise with a laugh, but the conversation definitely isn't going as planned and, oh gosh oh gosh, what if-

No, there's no way that any of them would even believe that. Besides - no one can remember stuff that they've forgotten, especially if magic's at play.

"Yeah, kinda," and he's surprised by how steady his voice sounds. It's not easy to even think about that- event, talking about it is a whole different thing. A much more difficult thing, but also - a bit, a little bit, easier. "I-" "Apologies for interrupting," his friend interjects. "I suppose that I have not been entirely honest with you." What?

"A few days ago, I discovered a number of deleted memory files buried deep within my code."

Just like that, his whole world tilts out from underneath him.

It takes every ounce of his strength to keep himself from falling into the abyss again.

Wait, what?

Has he really known for all this time? It's been weeks! Surely he would've said something? It can't be, it never even-

The rational part of his mind points out that he can remember every day of those few weeks. Well, he was the one to make the wish - magical logic is kinda stupid, but maybe that's why he had to remember it or something?

Well then, a small voice interjects, why was Nya cursed to remember everything too?

Of course, even the stupid magical logic doesn't even make sense to the one who caused this whole mess in the first place.

"They were almost entirely corrupted - scrambled in a way that I am not familiar with. However, I did realize that certain files bore dates that have not even occurred yet. I dismissed it as a problem with my code, however..."

Breathe, calm down, it's not like he was able to process them or anything-

We agreed that no one was supposed to know! What if they end up blaming us for keeping it a secret this long, or, or-

"I mean, they could've been-" he starts, but the way in which he's nervously twisting his fingers is a pretty clear indication that he's lying, dang it.

"So when you mentioned that you were unable to tell someone something - did you mean that it was because they had quite literally forgotten about it?"

Great. Fantastic. Of course the literal robot has pieced it together by now-

He squeezes his eyes shut for a minute, hoping that if he ignores the problem, maybe it'll go away.

Okay, fine, maybe he's trying to figure out a way to fix this whole mess. Doesn't mean that he's any closer to coming up with a solution, though.

"Er, yeah," he whispers, shoulders slumped, eyes still firmly shut. Because gosh, he doesn't want to - can't, can't - see the realization dawn that, yeah, he's lied to people he's known for years and years, even though they've all seen way too many times that secrets bring nothing but trouble-

"Well, then - I would say that you don't have to tell them," Zane replies, surprisingly... earnestly? That, or he's either too freaked out to understand the tone properly. Could be either.

He opens his eyes, hesitantly.

And it comes as a bit of a shock to find nothing but concern reflected in his friend's.

The almost persistent weight on his chest feels a little lighter now, like the sky isn't as quite so empty.

Well, it still kinda is. But that doesn't hold as much weight as he'd thought it did - not if one of his friends is willing to look past that; past the heaviness of holding up all those memories with nothing his single star, flickering in and out of the darkness, to try and light the unforgiving darkness of the sky.

"Why?" Jay asks, so quietly he can barely hear it himself. "Don't I owe it to them? Do you?"

"No. Definitely not," comes the reply, so full of conviction that he almost stumbles back. Why-

"My father..."

Oh- oh.

"thought it was better to spare me the pain of mourning him than for me to know who I was," Zane confesses, hesitantly. "Not that I disagree, necessarily. I just..."

He trails off, clutching the railing so hard that the wood almost snaps beneath his titanium fingers.

It takes Jay a little while to realize why - why exactly his friend, who has access to a wealth of knowledge and information, is grasping for an answer. Because- because, well, even if someone does something in your best interests - sometimes the choice isn't always up to them. Or maybe it is, but it was... difficult, to say the least, to let go of the fact that his parents had never told him the truth sooner. Not that he blames them, necessarily - it's not like they knew that his father would pass on before he'd even get the chance to meet him - but... it's confusing, and difficult, not to know why you were left at a junkyard as soon as you were born. Maybe if he'd known that sooner, he could've asked the one person who might've had answers - although it's not like hoping for the past to change will actually change it.

They don't even know that you know, a small voice at the back of his mind points out, and suddenly everything makes a lot more sense-

"You wanted a choice," he breathes, eyes widening. A choice - like one that he'd never been given, one that he stills struggles not to hold against two people who've always had his best interests at heart. Even if they did have the right to withhold that one thing, after all they've done for him - the 'what if's' still echo in his mind far more often than he'd like. "There's nothing wrong with that, even if it feels that way. I kinda get where you're coming from, dude, and it's... super confusing, but I'd be pretty mad if my memories were tampered with like that."

So would anyone, he realizes, heart sinking. Oh, great. Not helping-

"I- I suppose so?" Zane answers, but it sounds more like a question than a reply. "However, in the same vein, it would be unwise for you to give away your choice whilst you still have one." "But don't I owe it to everyone? You just said it, it's horrible to alter people's memories and I- I-" "Did we forget... whatever it was for a good reason? "I- I mean, I guess, but..." "Then you do not owe it to us to relive something that we do not even remember." The words should be a relief - and they kinda are. But some part of him really does want to explain the crazy alternate timeline, and everything that happened in it. It's just... really, really freaking difficult.

"What if- what if I wanted to, though?" Jay asks hysterically, running his hands through his hair in a frenzied sort of way. "And I still couldn't? I just, I-"

He cuts himself off with a bout of forced laughter.

Zane takes a moment to reply, the bright blue light in his eyes flickering - a small tell that he was thinking so deeply, his processors were literally sparking up a bit.

"You queried earlier if it was easier, or better, to forget. And while all situations are different, I suppose it is... well, subjective. What do you think?" Zane asks, softly.

Derailing the conversation a bit, but his friend's obviously smart enough to be leading up to something.

Sure, he'll go along with it.

"I mean, there are some things I'd rather forget, you know? I guess we all know what that feels like," Jay replies, the statement with oddly sad air to it. They're still kids, after all, and it gets a bit exhausting pretending that their superhero lives were all fun and games - when they'd just given him enough grey hair to last then lifetimes, and enough nightmares to keep him from ever getting the normal amount of sleep his mum always prattled on about.

Sleep, heh heh. Practically a foreign concept, now.

"And I know that stuff that happens, like shapes us or something - and Master Wu would probably go off on a whole ramble about why we learn from our mistakes or whatever," he laughs nervously, resisting the urge to just fall headfirst onto the deck of the stupid ship instead of continuing the conversation," and how 'our scars only make us stronger', crap like that, but I just-"

"I'm just really... tired of this," he confesses warily, shoulders slumped. "W- I remember so many horrible things, and I-" he breaks off, laughing bitterly. His voice takes on a sort of brittle quality, way too high pitched, "and I can't even talk about them, dude. If that's not the most pathetic thing ever, I dunno what is."

"It does not-"

"Don't say it," Jay mutters, rubbing his temples. "I know, I know, my feelings aren't pathetic, they're always valid, whatever, spare me the lecture-"

"That is not what I was going to say," Zane replies gently. "It just seems that you have answered your own question."

"Gee, which one?"

"I do not know how much helpful assistance I can provide in this situation, but it is understandable to wish certain events had never occurred. However, seeing as we cannot change the past, it seems unwise to dwell on said events if you can avoid it."

Jay stiffens, clamping a shaky hand over his mouth. Something seems to press down even harder on his chest, a heavy sort of weight that causes his breathing to speed up again. Don't say it don't say it there's no reason to warn them this time-

"If you would like to tell any of us about something, of course you are welcome to. It does not to be the whole story, after all. Just make sure that it is the decision you choose, not one you choose because of what you think how it will affect others," Zane finishes quietly, ducking his head as if he's embarrassed.

The stars are still white-hot, burning away some million miles above them.

"Thanks," he says, and puts his hand softly on Zane's shoulder. "I mean, I know - that all makes sense, I guess. It's just- I-"

"You want to?"

"Yeah," Jay starts, sighing, "I do. It's just- it's not just my choice. And I'm pretty much dying already right now, so, as fantastic as making it all worse sounds, hard pass."

Oops, maybe he shouldn't have said that last bit. They'd agreed not to tell anyone about it - even this conversation was cutting it way too close. It wasn't impossible for them to put everything together - they were a pretty smart group, after all, even without their resident inventor and engineer - and Jay didn't really know what he'd think if they did. Fearful? Relieved? Angry?

"That does... not sound great? Dying certainly does not seem-"

"It's called sarcasm, Zane."

"Oh- yes. My memory now accesses the fact that people often speak in that manner. It does seem a bit counterproductive, though. Why not just say what you mean?"

"Shut it, you have no clue how integral to my life it is," Jay replies with a halfhearted grin.

A few seconds later, he remembers something his friend had mentioned earlier, and the grin disappears.

"You know that you can talk to us if you're not happy, right?" he asks, earnestly. Sure, it's not like he could always do that, considering, well, a stupid djin and even stupider magic, but it's not like he needs to. It's- well- he'll be okay, probably. Maybe. Kinda.

Zane's eyes blink on and off again, blue fading in and out. "I... I suppose that I was not quite aware of that."

Okay, they've screwed up way too many times, but this... this is pretty bad. Dang it, how long does it take for them to throw self-preservation instincts at their friend before he freaking- picks them up or something?

"However, will it not hurt those who have experienced the same unfortunate events?"

Dude, not the best question to ask someone wondering the exact same thing-

"It's been... uh, nice, kind of, talking to you. So- I don't think so, and I'm pretty sure someone would say so if it did. Besides, don't we talk about our adventures all the time? It'd probably be better if we... uh, well- heh heh, nothing."

"If we talked about the less than positive elements of them? Perhaps, but I still-"

Maybe it's the fact Zane has always tried to be there for him, or maybe he's too sleep deprived to care anymore, but this is a way too familiar situation and-

Well, not ignoring the issue would be a start.

"Sorry to interrupt, but we're family, Zane. We care about each other. And, gosh, that means that we care about you too. Memories are stupid and annoying sometimes, but we have to make good ones too, right? To block out the bad ones a bit, I guess? Kinda, at least."

They both look away from the stars now, grappling for something else to say.

In the end, they leave it be with a hug and a fondly exasperated warning about sleeping, if you happen to need it.

After all, they're family. They don't have to be perfect, or tell each other everything - even if it does take them a long time to realize that, and an even longer time remembering it.

---

The next time Jay startles awake from a nightmare, the sky is still empty - painfully so, like an ache that simmers beneath the surface even when it's not able to be seen.

The hue, though, is a little lighter.

Just a little - the all-encompassing darkness of it is now a navy sort of blue, his star shining a little bit brighter.

It's still not sunrise, not even close - but he'll take it. AN: the ‘sky’ mentioned at the start and end is a stupid metaphor that i somehow ended up liking too much to trash, it’s ‘empty’ because he hasn’t told anyone about the timeline, and Nya’s not included because they never had a chance to tell each other everything significant or even talked about it or processed it on screen. so yeah! if you read this,,, not great thing, can i send you a hug or good vibes or smth? tyy🥺

[luminois]

･:*✧ 𝗺𝗶𝗻𝗵𝗼; 𝗼𝗽𝗲𝗿𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝗲𝘅

𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗺𝘆 𝗰𝗿𝘂𝘀𝗵 @sparklemin 🖤

𝟮𝟮𝟵𝟱 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗱𝘀, 𝗰𝗼𝗹𝗹𝗲𝗴𝗲 𝗮𝘂, 𝗺𝗮𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘂𝗽 𝗮𝘂.

you smiled softly as your best friend entwined her arm with yours, talking excitedly as you walked towards the house. the music coming from inside could be heard from down the street and many people were hanging outside, taking a breather or smoking with some friends.

you hadn’t been in the mood to go to this party - to do anything at all - but she’d insisted and you could never say no to her, your guardian angel. she was the one you’d gone to in the middle of the night of your breakup, the one that hugged you and dried your tears and let you stay for as long as you needed. she listened to you talking and crying for hours and comforted you as best as she could, saying all the right things and making you smile with silly jokes and your favorite food.

that evening you’d both gotten ready at her apartment, laughing and singing as music played in the background, putting on makeup next to each other in front of her not-big-enough mirror. all dressed up as you were you felt pretty for the first time in weeks, and for that alone you couldn’t thank your best friend enough.

going out for one night would do you good, that’s what you kept telling yourself as every step took you closer to the full house. right before you reached the front porch, your best friend stopped walking and made you face her, holding both your hands in hers.

“bub, if at any point you want to leave just tell me and we’ll go back to my house, order takeout and have a bridgerton marathon, okay?” she said, squeezing your hands in reassurance.

she was serious, and you knew she wouldn’t have hesitated if you asked her to leave, but you really didn’t want to ruin it for her. she’d said she wanted you to have fun and cheer up for a night, which was undoubtedly true, but you knew the reason why she’d insisted to come to this party specifically. hyunjin, who was popular and funny, the host of the party, and your best friend’s crush. you’d encouraged her to approach him and helped her text him back when they first started talking.

but hyunjin was also one of minho’s closest friends, and the chances of not seeing your ex that night were close to nonexistent. still, you knew just how close your best friend and her almost-boyfriend were to taking the next step, and you wanted her to be happy just as much as you wanted the same for yourself.

you could recognize familiar faces wherever you looked, even with the purposefully casted lights and how crowded the place was. it looked like hyunjin had invited the entire campus, but you suspected many had just invited themselves. your best friend smiled and offered compliments to everyone who waved at her, always the skilled social butterfly.

you did the same, trying to ignore the bittersweet taste in your mouth when you noticed the difference in people’s eyes. when they looked at her they were excited, but they offered you looks that you could only describe as sympathetic. they had inevitably caught up on you going from often posting about your relationship to deleting all your pictures with minho, some even a year old. you’d even received messages offering you support and kind words and you were grateful that people cared about you like that, but for one night you just wanted to forget about everything.

you did the same, trying to ignore the bittersweet taste in your mouth when you noticed the difference in people’s eyes. when they looked at her they were excited, but they offered you looks that you could only describe as sympathetic. they had inevitably caught up on you going from often posting about your relationship to deleting all your pictures with minho, some even a year old. you’d even received messages offering you support and kind words and you were grateful that people cared about you like that, but for one night you just wanted to forget about everything.

“why don’t you go find hyunjin? i’ll just get myself a drink,” you said, noticing how your best friend was looking around, visibly searching for someone.

she turned to look at you, her widened eyes making you chuckle. “no! i promised i’d stay with you and i will,” she said, nodding resolutely and entwining her arm with yours again. she looked back in front of her and suddenly stopped walking, holding you back. she had a puzzled look on her face, the same as when you were studying together and she was trying to understand a difficult concept.

“are you okay?”

“yes!” she exclaimed, smiling widely. “i just remembered i wanted to show you these jeans i found on instagram, they’re so cute i think you’ll love them.”

she started walking again as she unlocked her phone and you followed, your eyebrows furrowed as you wondered. you knew her well enough to know when she was lying, but you couldn’t understand what she was lying for right now.

and then, as she made you look at her screen, her shoulder bumped into yours and you collided with someone standing on the side, the front of your top instantly getting stained with whatever drink they were holding in their hand. as they started apologizing, you immediately looked up, petrified by the voice that had been haunting you even in your dreams for the past weeks.

your eyes locked with minho’s concerned gaze and the world around you was silent, everything that wasn’t him - people dancing, someone doubling over in laughter, hyunjin and the rest of minho’s friends observing the scene in various states of shock - blurred out in the background. the first thought that passed your mind was that he looked beautiful, and you hated yourself for it. the words seemed to die on his lips, and the way his eyes saddened at the sight of you hurt like nothing had ever hurt before.

seconds felt like drawn out minutes. the slow-mo effect faded out as your best friend started talking, and with her angered voice came back the music and the chaos. “what the hell, minho?! don’t just stand there, for fuck’s sake! you fucked up her outfit, go help her clean up at least.”

minho looked at her and then back at you, opening and closing his mouth as he decided on what to do. he sighed as he came to a conclusion and took your free hand before leading you to the upper stair, dodging people in his way. you still hadn’t grasped the entirety of what was happening when you looked back down at your best friend, halfway through the staircase. hyunjin’s arm was hugging her waist and they were both looking at you, hyunjin offering you thumbs up. she mouthed a ‘sorry’ to you, but her smile betrayed how not sorry at all she actually was.

she’d planned the entire scene, probably right there and then, and you cursed her smart-ass and twisted way of caring for you. you could’ve honestly predicted something like this, you’d heard her telling you that she didn’t think you should just let minho go without a fight once too many times as she comforted you. was she right? as minho’s hand gently grasped yours tighter and he shielded you from a way too drunk couple of guys, your brain slowly started convincing itself that she was.

when the bathroom’s door closed behind you, it felt like you’d just entered another dimension. the room was still clean, the party hadn’t start long ago enough for any kind of bodily fluids to have reached it. not yet, at least.

you watched as minho found a clean towel and put it under the running faucet. you still hadn’t spoken a word to each other, but the noise from outside had made up for it. now, with tense silence and muffled music as the only things keeping you company in the small bathroom, it felt embarrassingly awkward. you thought about something you could say, anything that wouldn’t have tears streaming down your cheeks in a matter of seconds, but you couldn’t find anything.

minho shut the water off and started rubbing off the stain on your white top. he was only making it worse and his knuckles were touching your stomach as he held the shirt in place. you blurted out the words before you could stop yourself.

“it’s not going to come off.”

“it might.”

“it won’t,” you said, and he looked up at you.

close, way too close. that’s what he was, besides gorgeous and… miserable. his lips were chapped, his eyes dull and rimmed with dark eyebags, the white light of the bathroom making his skin look pale and sickly. he was still breathtaking, he still made your knees buckle and cheeks bloom with red, but you knew he wasn’t okay. your best friend had been right, once again.

you took the towel from his hand and placed in on the sink, newfound determination in the way you moved. if it had to cost you time, embarrassment and a shirt, at least you had to get something out of it. and there had never been a doubt about what you really wanted.

“it‘s ruined, but something else can be fixed.”

minho’s hands started to tremble and he put them in his pockets too late, you’d already seen them. “i don’t want to have this conversation.”

“i do,” you said, standing a little straighter, “and if you don’t want to talk just listen, because you didn’t let me speak before but you will now.”

he looked at you for a long second and then nodded, resting against the white porcelain of the sink. however, as you hugged yourself and spoke, your voice shaky despite your determined tone, he moved closer. slowly, surely. you didn’t notice, talking about how you didn’t understand where you went wrong, how the excuse he used to break up with you was the lamest shit ever, how there was no way you wouldn't have found a way around his busy schedule now that he was a professional dancer, how you would have made more time for him despite being a senior in college if he’d just fucking told you he needed more.

“why couldn’t you trust me a little more?” you said, looking up at the ceiling to prevent your tears from falling. “why couldn’t you just speak to me, minho? one year, we’ve been together for one year and you still didn’t open up with me about something that was so easy to fix, it wasn’t even a problem in my mind. that’s the worst part, it would’ve been so easy to fix if you just trusted me more.”

“i trusted you, i trust you,” he said, the crack in his voice making you look at him and get starlet when you noticed how much closer he was now.

“then why did you leave instead of working to make things better?”

the first tear followed the curve of your cheek, and his thumb had caressed it away before it had even reached the end. you chased his touch, because a few weeks couldn’t erase what you two shared.

“i don’t trust myself,” minho said, and it felt like he was whispering a secret. his hand came up to dry more of your tears, and you sighed when he cupped your cheek. “i knew i couldn’t give you the attention and time you deserve, and i’d rather leave than seeing you fall out of love with me.”

you closed your eyes, cursing him in your mind. he was so stupid, thinking that what you felt for him was so feeble it would just dissipate like that. you’d worried so much and in the end he’d just been scared, as if you wouldn’t have stayed by his side even if the world was crumbling around you. as if you’d really delete all of the pictures you’d posted with him instead of just archiving them. as if your best friend had heard you say anything other than ‘i need him so much’ rather than anything else you could’ve said. you could’ve been angry but you’d just been sad, because you knew he was the one that got away.

“you don’t get to make those decisions by yourself,” you said, placing your hand on his above your cheek. “don’t ever make decisions that concern both of us without talking to me first, am i being clear?”

“you are, i’m sorry.”

minho’s tone had your heart skipping a beat, and the way he was looking at you, with that enamored gaze of his, was making it beat too fast. you gulped, your eyes falling on his lips by their own accord.

“good,” you stuttered on the word, the corner of his lips curving up in a knowing smile.

“good.”

you were kissing before you could say anything more, your back hitting the closed bathroom’s door as your hands messed up minho’s hair. euphoria, longing. you’d missed him so much. one of his hands traveled under your ruined shirt and you bit his bottom lip before your mouths met again, craving each other like you’d been starving for weeks. which you had been. nothing was really fixed, you still had to talk things out and make sure you were on the same page, but it could wait tomorrow. the hunger burning at the pit of your stomach, however, could not.

someone knocked on the door and then knocked again when they received no response. minho groaned and hit the door with his fist, but the knocking didn’t stop and you were out in seconds, not even glancing at whoever had interrupted you.

sprinting down the stairs, your fingers entwined, you caught a glimpse of your best friend before following minho outside the house. hyunjin was holding her close, dancing with her and whispering something that was making her blush, and you smiled as you saw them kiss. you were going to thank her the next day.

———

do you want to read more?

[misterewrites]

Secret Agent Bard (Welcome to the Underground!)

Hello everyone! E here with a new chapter of the underground! Woo! I hope you are all doing good and staying safe.

So I actually have more to say today! That's a trip. I’ll have an author’s note under the line. 

So that's it for now. Stay safe, take care of you and your loved ones, stay out of trouble, wash your hands, wear your mask, get vaccinated if you can and push to release the vaccine world wide cuz we're all in this together. Have a great week and thanks for reading. I appreciate it and feel free to tell your friends, reblog, drop likes and feedback i love it all. Bye for now and enjoy!

If you want an easier place to read the story cuz tumblr sucks sometimes here’s a link to the chapter https://archiveofourown.org/works/27814297/chapters/79541746

The First Chapter: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27814297/chapters/68094967

and since you made it this far here’s a link to all my stories!

https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrE42/pseuds/MrE42

Byeeeeee!

Author’s note:  Today’s work will be a little different as there will be singing. The chapter with the bard is gonna have singing? Go figure haha So if you see a sentence in Italics, that means someone is singing. Bold and italics represents various people singing as a group. The song in question is called twiddles. There's different versions of it but the one I chose is from the misbehavin maidens. Great group but all their work ranges from innuendos to straight up not safe for work so listen at your peril. I have now completed my responsible adult duties haha. here’s a link to the chosen song https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iS1-_fKF5ug

Summary: Oliver has quite the task ahead of him as the group splits to achieve their goals. Leading Sel and Flora, the young bard will have to think quick on his feet to ensure this mission is a success. Luckily he's an old hand at this. Ironically the one person who could distract him may make a surprise appearance tonight.

-----

Oliver stood quietly, arms crossed and his mind thoughtful as the group prepared to go their separate ways. While ideally nothing would go wrong, that was a childish belief: Every person and robotic being here knew safety was not guaranteed in their line of work.

Even the old man knew the risks.

Oliver hated doing nothing. He thrived when he was busy, focused on whatever task required his attention whether it be being a better bard or upholding the Choir’s values. Too many ghosts and regrets lingered on the edges of his mind and he found the best solution was to simply keep occupied.

But that was his coping mechanism, not everyone else. He knew better than to rush his team: The party would last at least another few hours and beside the goal of getting Sel to the third floor, there was nothing else to do. No information to gather, nothing to review. Let them have their moment, it was good for morale.

Terri and Flora were sickeningly adorable: Hands clasped tightly with Terri tearfully asking her girlfriend to not poison everyone. Flora gave a halfhearted promise while as they shared a tender kiss. Terri noticed her less than enthused tone but refused to press the matter further.

Tyrell stood awkwardly to the side, his face twisted in a strange mixture of sick and excited. He fidgeted with something in his pocket, seeking comfort from whatever lay within. Given the shape of the bulge and size, Oliver guessed it was a knife.

Sel stood nearby, motionless in the shadows of the alley. They hadn’t moved in some time though he suspected the automaton was simply waiting for the next phase of the plan.

“Alright” Oliver spoke up, his voice firm yet gentle “Times up. You have your assignments?”

Uneven murmuring responded.

“Let’s go.”

Oliver, Sel and Flora went down one end of the alley, Terri and Tyrell disappearing in the opposite direction.

-----

It didn’t take long for the trio to find the main streets of the Merchant Ward and make their way towards the Brambleoak banking office. The crowds weren’t as thick as they had been during the day but Oliver knew everyone out and about did so with a purpose.

“Bard.” Flora asked without warning, breaking the awkward silence “Question.”

“Answer.” Oliver cheekily replied.

Flora glared.

Oliver coughed “Yes?”

“You are a First Chair Soprano correct?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Yet you are so young. How did you manage that? I thought First Chair ranks were only reserved for experienced or particularly skilled members. You don’t seem to be very magically powerful.”

Oliver paused for a moment, trying to best answer the question.

In a way Flora was correct in her assessment: He wasn’t particularly powerful as a spellcasting bard. Unlike Flora who clearly committed herself fully to nature and thus druidic magic, Oliver had only recently thrown himself into the magical arts.

Unless you were a wizard who studied the secrets of the universe with a very intimate and well versed knowledge of magic, most spellcasters drew their power from sources of existence: Clerics from their gods, Druids from nature, Warlocks from something beyond mortal existence yet not quite a deity, sorcerers because a family member fucked around with pure incomprehensible concepts. Magic was the fabric of the universe and the more you threw yourself into a source of power, the more the source threw itself into you, guiding your hand and your spells.

Of course each, wizards exempt, were limited in their spellcasting options. Clerics were powerful holy/unholy practitioners but couldn’t command plant life to save their lives. Druids were in tune with nature and the weather and all the lovely flora and fauna but ask them to superimpose an image onto something and they’d give you a dumbfounded look. Warlocks kinda just do whatever their sugar patrons felt like lending.

Magic bards drew their power from the arts: Drawing, singing, poetry, even witty and funny satire. Bards were in tune with life, with existence. Art could heal, could hurt, could make you feel happy and sad. It could make you feel like a whole new person or perhaps take you to a time and place you’d forgotten. Bards sung the song of life and Oliver was no exception.

However, Oliver still wasn’t sure what he could do exactly. His magical muscle was average on a good day and he could only cast a few spells before needing a good night’s rest. The basic healing spells and comprehension language he cast earlier today had taken a good chunk of his energy but he relied more on his wit than raw magical strength. He discovered creative and useful ways to cast his spells like amplifying dissonance noises to distract and disorient foes or temporarily place another person’s image over himself. Magic was as much about creativity as it was skill, pushing the limits of what you can do with your particular brand of spells.

“I’m clever.” Oliver answered honestly “The whole magic of the arts is new to me but I’ve been in the Choir for a long time now. I used to be Tenor like Sel here but more fast talking than breaking and entering. I guess they carried over my old position into my new one.”

Flora nodded, satisfied “That answers much. How long have you been a bard?”

“Few years now.” Oliver checked the street sign to ensure they were on the right path “The magic part is going on 3 years.”

“I see.” Flora scratched her chin “I’ve been a druid my whole life so it is a strange concept to be so new to the spellcasting arts yet hold such a high rank.”

Oliver gave a casual shrug “Not sure what you want me to say. We’re here by the way.”

The bank looked as unkempt as Oliver had remembered: Faded, peeling green paint with gaudy gray stone pillars. Two guards in green uniforms stood in front of the massive reddish brown doors that led into the bank.

“Lea’s mercenaries.” Sel pointed out “They are not letting anyone in.”

“Correction.” Oliver brushed off nonexistent dirt from his washed-out outfit “They’re not letting nobodies in. Luckily tonight we’re somebodies. Follow my lead.”

Oliver let out a tense breathe before strolling forward, his mannerism cocky yet unsteady. He reached the top of the steps when two sharp looking blades reached out to stop him.

“Halt” The elvish woman spoke with a hint of irritation “You lost?”

“Not at all!” Oliver beamed with a smile that was too wide to be natural “I’m here for the party. There is a party inside no?”

“No” The human man spat out.

Oliver gave a forgetful grin “Oh? I could’ve sworn Brambleoak was having some sort of charity event tonight. I’d show you my invite but I think I misplaced it.”

The elvish woman sneered “Right. How convenient for you having lost your special one of a kind invite.”

“Pfft.” Oliver scoffed “Special one of a kind invite? Reiner hands them out like candy. Probably find one in a gutter nearby.”

The guards shared an unspoken understanding with one another.

“Well.” The human began “Let’s pretend that is true.”

“It is but go on.”

The human’s eyes narrowed “Why should we let you in? You dress rather poorly for someone claiming to be in Reiner’s usual circles.”

Oliver let out an exaggerated gasp as he puffed out his chest “Do you know who I am?”

“Umm no.”

Oliver growled unhappily, his fist clenched tightly within his pocket “I am rich! I AM POWERFUL! AND I DEMAND ACCESS!”

As quick as lightning, Oliver flung a handful of gold coins towards the pair. The two reeled back in surprised as the money clanked onto the smooth marble floor. A moment hardly passed before the guards were shoving the loose coins into their tunic pockets like hungry dogs. They straightened up, eyes alive with greed.

“Of course sir” The elvish woman bowed her head in apologize “Deeply sorry for that.”

“Please go ahead.”

Oliver gave a self satisfied nod before moving past the pair only to stop as he heard the sounds of swords scraping each other. He turned backwards to see the guards barring access to Flora and Sel.

Flora looked back and forth between the guards, her eyes calculating and cold. Sel stood still but clearly at the ready for any sort of trouble.

“They’re with me.”

The Elvish woman shook her head “We said we’d let you in. These two? Definitely not Reiner’s usual prey.”

“They aren’t” Oliver admitted “But I need them.”

The human turned to him, suspicion in his eyes “Why?”

“She…” Oliver pointed lazily towards Flora “Is my street doctor.”

“Street doctor? As in….?”

Oliver gave a cheery wink “The fun kind.” And for give measure, he added a weak shiver to his act “Ugggggh I feel cold, are you cold? It’s cold.”

Before anyone could say anything, Oliver began shaking. He rubbed his hands for ‘warmth’ while swaying back and forth.

“Uh oh.” Flora spoke dully, pushing past the guards and holding Oliver steady “He’s crashing. I need to give him his umm medicine.”

“Medicine?” Oliver repeated, his voice soft yet manic “Yes medicine. I need it. I NEED IT!”

Folks began to turn their way, the guards shifting uncomfortably under the sudden attention they were receiving.

“And this one?” The Elvish woman gestured to Sel.

Oliver began to rock back and forth, his voice a harsh whisper. “Guard. Guard. Guard guard guard guard.”

The human threw up his hands in defeat “Bah! Get him in there and fixed! Any trouble and I’ll personally come over to beat your asses.”

“Thank you sir.” Flora murmured through gritted teeth. She guided Oliver and Sel through the doors and into the party within.

Flora sighed as Sel cracked the tension out of their fingers. Oliver straightened up, wiping the sweat from his brow.

True to his expectations, the bank had been altered to be suitable for a charity event: Torches lined the walls, casting the building into a bright light. The desks normally found on the floor were gone as to allow a more spacious setting. Oliver counted a handful of guards scattered about, wandering about for any sign of trouble. All except for the lone guard beyond the empty elevated platform who stood in front of the stairway to the upper floors.

“What now?” Flora asked

“Split up. Sel stay close to the door, Flora and I will figure out a distraction.”

“Sounds good.”

And without another word, Oliver was swallowed whole into the crowd.

-----

It had taken an hour for Oliver to figure out what kind of distraction he would need.

The patrols themselves hadn’t been very difficult to plan for: They would move randomly about, keeping an eye on the party and each other. He counted about 6 of them total and each one of them was easily starstruck. At the sign of any disagreement, they would swarm in groups of three and quickly threaten any troublemakers into compliance. However, upon meeting anyone with even the smallest bit of fame, they would subtly motion to each other and make their way as one to the person in question, hoping for a glance or the chance for an autograph.

So the floor guards were no problem but the one standing watch over the door was much more difficult. Evidently Lea was smart enough to give the most important job to the most responsible of his idiots. The stairway guard or Stairy as Oliver labeled him, would not budge at the sign of any trouble. Loud arguments, agitated party goers, a waiter being tripped (sorry it was for science buddy). None of these would pull him from his post. Celebrities wouldn’t either. Any time his buddies motioned to a famous person, he would shrug his shoulders and stay put.

Oliver was beginning to wonder if Flora needed to poison Stairy until he noticed something about half way into his observations: Stairy was a music lover. Specifically a cute girl music lover.

His gaze would wander every time he caught sight of a pretty girl who happened to be too close to him. Oliver wasn’t sure at first so he decided to test his theory. With his pocket change lessened, Oliver noticed how often a girl would catch Stairy’s eye. His attention didn’t shift when they fell in front of him, obviously in distress, or walked slower allowing him to enjoy the view longer but Oliver caught him smiling and tapping his foot when the odd girl would sing. He even staggered away from his door a few steps at a time before catching himself and returning to his post.

So the best distraction would be a girl who could sing and have some level of fame attached to her name.

Oddly specific and Oliver hadn’t the slightest idea how he was going to mange that. He was attempting to solve this puzzle when something caught his ear.

“Get off me you mulched dirt licker!”

That rather unique set of cursing could only mean one thing: Flora.

Oliver turned to where he last spotted her and found the young druid being hassled by a tall man in an elegant uniform.

Oliver noticed the guards were looking about, not yet spotting the commutation but aware something was going on. He needed to act first if he wanted to stop Flora deciding to kill everyone in the room.

The bard quickly slipped into the crowd, darting and weaving between any and everyone he could. He saw Flora slip a small vial into her hand as the man towered over her.

“I jus wanna dance.” the man’s words slurred out of his mouth “A pretty thing like yo shou wanna dance”

Flora’s eyes narrowed angrily “For the last time you dried poop stain, LEAVE ME ALONE!”

Flora pulled back her hand, prepared to throw the mysterious vial at the drunk’s face.

“Whoa!” Oliver cried out, tightly grasping onto Flora’s wrist “What seems to be the problem?”

“Nothing I can’t solve on my own.” Flora coldly glanced towards the drunken man.

“One sec.”

Oliver eyed the man carefully, absorbing every little detail he could.

He could see the muscles strain against the fabric of his light green tunic so this man worked in something physically laborious. The sheathed sword on his belt weight seemed to throw him off balance with every step. His gaze was unsteady and Oliver could see his pupils dilating wildly.

So this man was physically fit, armed with a sword in a charity event for the rich people and wearing light green tunic while currently drunk.

“You should leave her alone” Oliver said, sarcasm dipping from each word “You are so not her type.”

“So?” The man hiccupped “What’s the big deal?”

“So she’s got a girlfriend you idiot.” Oliver gestured with his hand “Besides you should go before your boss Lea gets here. I’m betting he won’t be happy one of his undercover mercs is currently drunk on the job. Of course I could always tell your captain what’s going on. That’s him over there right?”

Oliver gestured to the closest guard making his way towards the trio. He didn’t look any different than any guards but Oliver noticed his green was a shade darker than the rest. Lea probably used different hues to signify rank in his mercenaries.

The drunk’s face paled as he fidgeted nervously. He rose his hands in surrender, eyes darting between the two “Sorry.”

“Any trouble?” The captain approached, his hand tightly held around the hilt of his blade.

Oliver beaned cheerfully, trying his best to pull attention away from the fuming Flora “Not at all my good sir. This man simply mistook us for someone else, correct?”

The drunk nodded slowly “My bad. Forgive my intrusion.”

The captain gave a cold smirk “Apologizes. Mikey?”

The drunk flinched “Yes sir?”

“A word in private. Now.”

Oliver let out a sigh of relief as the captain dragged Mikey away..

“You should’ve let me poison them.” Flora muttered darkly.

Oliver scratched the back of his neck tiredly “Night’s still young. Still might get your chance if I can’t figure a way past Stairy.”

Flora tilted her head quizzically “Stairy?”

“The asshole at the base of the stairs.” Oliver answered absentmindedly as he spotted a familiar streak of platinum blonde hair among the crowd of strangers “And I just figured it out. Can I trust you not to poison everyone here?”

“You have an hour. I get bored easily” Flora swirled the sickly purple liquid in the vial threateningly.

“You and me both.” Oliver patted her shoulder before chasing down his perfect distraction.

-----

Oliver’s heart began to thunder loudly in his ears, a nervous and uncontrollable energy overtaking his resolve. The mission was important but he would be lying if he said he wasn’t happy to see Maria today.

Maria Thoreau was the daughter of a powerful, influential family. The Thoreau’s were more concerned with their standing in high society than any virtuous endeavors and thus each one of their children was trained from birth to excel in their chosen field. Maria’s older brothers were an aspiring politician and merchant respectively.

Maria’s path was to be a well famous singer and patron of the arts. She wanted nothing more than to sing for the people. Unfortunately, her father only saw a chance to further the family’s good name and tied his desire for power with her passion and dream. It was bittersweet really but nothing much could be done about it.

Yet.

Maria knew Oliver as a musical rival who thwarted her group’s attempts at winning local competitions which in turned derailed her father’s plans. So needless to say she was less than thrilled when she caught him making his way over.

“Ollie” she forced a smile while her hazel eyes narrowed, peeved “I’m surprised to see they let you into this exclusive event.”

Oliver gave a cocky shrug “Well your beauty caught my attention and I couldn’t resist trying to figure out a way in.”

Maria’s cheeks burned a pinkish hue.

Maria was the same age as Oliver with short, tastefully cut dark brown hair. A single streak of platinum blonde hair hung off the side of her face, giving her such a cute look. Her clothes were practical tonight since she wasn’t performing: A simple white blouse with a long flowing dark blue skirt that went all the way down to her feet. Her shoes were sensible dark blue flats designed for comfort over style.

Maria coughed into her hand, willing her blush away.

“So.” She cleared her throat “Is this your sad attempt to throw me off my game? You won’t win the next competition. We’ll be dealing with professional judges this time.”

Oliver’s eyes widen in false surprise “There’s a competition here? Fancy that. I hadn’t been made aware of that but since we’re both in town, why not have a round two?”

“Oliver….”

“I mean” Oliver went on, pretending not have heard “You are a much better singer solo than with those harpies you’re forced to keep around.”

Maria glanced to the side timidly “Don’t be absurd, the Melodic Maidens are a perfect, well oiled machine.”

Oliver scoffed dismissively “I suppose they’re nearby, listening in. Hardly leave you alone, don’t they?”

Maria opened her mouth to respond when a shrilly voice cut in.

“What do you know you two bit hack? How much did you bribe the judges last time?!”

Oliver gave a strained smile as the rest of the ladies forced their way into view.

“Lilly, Filly, Sally. You suck.”

The triplets snarled in unison, openly glaring at the bard.

Lilly, Filly and Sally were Maria’s chains: They were as much there to further her career as they were to report back to daddy to ensure the errant daughter stayed on course.

As triplets, they all shared the same features: Three pairs of dull green eyes and long messy black hair. Even their clothing were the same with each wearing a strapless dress that showed way too much skin and skirts that were way too short. The only reason Oliver could tell them apart was due to their preferred colors: Lilly in a shade of pink that was bright for her skin tone, Filly with a pale ugly yellow and Sally in seas of dark red.

The trio surrounded Maria, their arms embracing her in an uncomfortable hug. Maria bit her lip, trying to hide her uneasy.

“Still wearing that tacky outfit huh Ollie?” Lilly eyed his faded clothing distastefully.

Sally let out an unfriendly laugh “Ollie always looks like trash. Not even prize money could buy an ounce of class.”

“Actually” Oliver brushed his shoulder dismissively “Class is cheap. No amount of money could buy an ounce of character. You can blow hot air at me all you want but nothing in this world could ever change the fact that the three of you are bitches.”

The trio clicked their tongues disappointingly, their normally plain faces twisted into unflattering visages of rage while they screamed as one.

“HOW DARE YOU INSULT US?!”

“YOU ARE SUCH A POOR TACTLESS MAN!”

“YOU FUCKER!”

Oliver casually waved his hand “All bark and no bite. I’m supposed believe you’ve gotten any better in two months? Last time I checked I won the last competition.”

“OH YEAH?!” The triplets yelled, furious.

Maria threw a suspicious glance Oliver’s way “Girls, I don’t think…”

“Come on Maria, we don’t want to have to tell daddy you backed down from a challenge.”

A shiver ran down her spine, the fight draining out of her face. Oliver felt a tinge of guilt but said nothing as the girls took their positions.

Maria paused for a moment, her breathing slow and calm. The murmur of the crowds grew louder and louder upon the recognition that the ladies nearby were the Melodic Maidens.

Maria pivoted on her heels, a bright warm smile gracing her lips. Oliver could feel his heart skip a beat at the sound of her soft, airy voice beginning to sing

“Oh you hear a lot of stories about the sailors and their sport” Maria gave a playful wink his way. His cheeks burned brightly at her playful banter.

“About how every sailor has a girl in every port”

Maria twirled, her steps mischievous and alluring as her dark blue dress chased after her. She gracefully held two fingers aloft for everything to see, her smirk cocky and assured.

“but if you added two and two you’d figure out right quick”

Maria backed up as the triplets step forward to join her, the group made whole and ready for the chorus.

“It’s just because the girls all have a lad on every ship”

Maria turned to throw a sultry look towards her rival bard but instead of finding a dumbstruck Oliver, she found a smiling one. His gaze was gentle and loving as if he was seeing utterly beautiful. A small smile was tugging at his cheeks. Maria could feel her heart thunder in her ears as, without warning, Oliver gave a thumbs up and mouthed an appreciative “Thanks” before ducking into the growing crowd.

“And it’s twiddley idle idle idle, twiddley idle aye.”

What was once a spattering of folks formed into a massive gathering. Most of the party goers and guards had come over to catch the free show the girls inadvertently given and thus all focus shifted onto them. What was an attempt to show up Oliver ended up being a very unnecessary showcase.

“It’s often times a man will leave you broken with dismay”

Boy was Maria feeling that dismay right now.

-----

Oliver’s plan worked: Stairy hadn’t been to resist the siren call of a beautiful woman and her singing. Luckily the harpies hadn’t ruined it with their imperfect pitches. Stairy hadn’t taken more than a few steps when Sel slipped in behind and began working at the door. It took a moment but one blink later and the automaton vanished out of sight.

Oliver let out a sigh when a hand gripped his shoulder tightly.

“Hello sir.” A guff, low voice in a less than friendly voice “Might I have a word? You’ve been acting rather strange all party long.”

Well fuck.

[writeblrfantasy]

born from the prologue of the way of kings, some old school supernatural inspiration, and my entry into the hannibal fandom, i give you cyril's hell! all the characters in this are gods of actium state and urkon, and this happens well before acogs takes place. nikolai and katya tell this story over the fire over the course of the book. it's a mythology story.

cw blood, very vague descriptions of pain and torture and injuries, everything you can think of about someone being tortured in hell basically

word count about 7000

thank you guys for all the love on the summer of seret ashling, it definitely inspired me to write another short. i love writing shorts--you get the serotonin from finishing a wip and seeing people's reactions to it much faster. lower stakes. i have plans to write many more :)

enjoy! <3

Cyril wakes to burning pinpricks of agony seared into his arms. Unfortunately, this is perfectly normal.

The ghost of Alabaster’s laugh echoes in his ears, slowly fading out, but never completely. He never leaves Cyril alone, whether he’s sleeping—if you can call it that—or widely, excruciatingly awake. He’s dropped Cyril back in what has become his home, a room brightly lit with distant fire and a musical background consisting of the screams of the damned.

This place, out of all, is probably the safest for him, despite the metal piercing his arms, the chains connecting him to the ceiling. His arms went numb from the angle minutes ago. He tries not to jostle them, as well as his collection of new wounds, only healed enough not to kill him.

What does Cyril have to do to prove he knows he can't escape?

It’s not about that, he knows.

Alabaster's hell is more than pain, more than agony. It transcends anything Cyril has ever experienced, and yet every week Alabaster finds ways to show him something else new.

How long has it been?

Does it matter?

Alabaster’s cologne lingers on Cyril’s skin, one more layer of invisible pain. The worst thing is perhaps how he’s unable to wipe away the sweat dripping into his eyes. It only takes minutes after Alabaster deposits him back in here for his whole body to become soaked again.

Cyril naively thought, when Alabaster first brought him here, that it wouldn’t be so bad. That everything he’d be made to endure would be softened or cushioned in some way, more about drama than actual pain.

How wrong he was.

Alabaster, or perhaps just his own mind, has trained him to be relieved when he comes to unlock Cyril’s door every week. Freedom, he thinks, respite from the endless heat and sweat and reprieve for his aching arms. For the first few seconds, Alabaster’s smile looks pleasant. He’s undoubtedly excited to see Cyril, but Cyril somehow manages to forget every single time that smile means nothing good for him.

“Hello, beautiful,” Alabaster always says, in such a familiar tone it’s imprinted in Cyril’s dreams. “Let’s go.”

Reprieve turns into regret quickly.

Cyril has learned how to manage this, somewhat. Stay very still, don’t trigger anything, don’t tense up, try to sleep. Doing nothing but sleep for the whole week until Alabaster comes still won’t do enough, but in sleep, he has relief for a bit longer, a chance to see Damokles’ face again.

Tonight, when he closes his eyes, it’s not just Damokles’ kind eyes waiting for him, it’s Thea’s dark ones, clearer than usual, almost like they’re calling out for him.

He opens them and jostles himself a bit by accident, groaning in agony. He searches the shadows in the corner of the room for her face, and he could’ve sworn—

There’s nothing there but the sweat in his eyes.

***

As he drifts through sleep and wakefulness, Thea’s dark eyes return to him. He sees flashes of her through the haze of flames and screams, a striking dark clarity and a sense of peace.

The days just before Alabaster collects him are the worst. He finally has his strength back, or as he much as is possible down here, and it’s a new kind of agony to feel so glorious the day before his feet will be knocked out from under him. In the early days, when he still believed he could sway Alabaster by repetition alone, that if he begged just enough, Alabaster might listen, he pled to be left alone for just one more week.

“Not this time,” he’d sob, back when he still sobbed, when he gave Alabaster the pleasure of savoring his carefully crafted creation. Let him see, let him have it, he once thought. If he gave Alabaster what he wanted, he’d get a reward, because that’s how fair people work. All it did was make Alabaster hungry for more of his tears.

“Thea?” he whispers, low, as he swears her face appears in the shadows again. She’s exquisite, and she’s not real. if he’s not just seeing things, she’s one of Alabaster’s new experiments designed to drive him out of his mind.

Cyril will not fall for it.

“Thea?” he asks, still, hopeful and naïve despite everything.

The darkness in the corner moves, too clear to be a product of the shadows cast by the flames. Cyril stands straight so that his feet are supporting his weight instead of his arms, alleviating the perpetual ache in his back for a precious moment.

Theadora, in all her glory, walks out of the corner, dripping darkness and shade. Her long dark hair flows behind her, and her skin shines under the straps of her long dress. She doesn’t seem to walk on solid ground—her feet and the bottom of her black dress melt into shadows before his eyes.

Cyril loses his breath. She’s just as beautiful as he remembers. Most wonderfully of all, she’s clean, her face free of sweat and her arms free of blood and age old wounds.

She rushes over to him immediately, cupping his pale, ashen face in her dark hands. “Cyril,” she whispers, perhaps afraid of disturbing nonexistent peace. Cyril would be more afraid of drawing Alabaster’s attention.

“You’re not real,” he murmurs as she presses their foreheads together. She smells like their garden in the clouds, sweet and fresh, not a trace of smoke anywhere on her. She kisses him, and Cyril melts into it like liquid, imagining he can sip freezing water from her lips. She’s so refreshingly cold. Her heart is the only part of her that’s warm, and pleasantly so. It burns for him.

“He fabricated you to taunt me with for his pleasure. You’ll be gone in a moment, and I’ll be screaming for you because I still haven’t learned after all this time, and in a few days he’ll come in to see the results.”

“No. Cyril, I am real.” She touches one of his hands, clearly resisting the urge to squeeze it but knowing the ramifications. The way she stares at the chains holding him to the ceiling makes him shiver. He’s almost forgotten any type of power existed other than hot, burning, prodding pain.

How he’s missed the icy power of the moon.

“I am here to get you out,” she insists. He closes his eyes—they’re the words he’s dreamed of thousands of times, exactly in her sweet, desperate voice, but it’s too good. If he concentrates hard enough, he can see Alabaster’s grin in Thea’s eyes.

“You can only open the door from the inside, and he sure as hell wouldn’t let you in,” he argues. Anything else pleasant would tear him apart when it inevitably crumbles down on him. “You—you wouldn’t happen to have any water, would you?”

“Of course.” She brings out a jug and raises it to his lips. He drinks eagerly, the water sweet and cold, probably from the Pelia, her favorite. He doesn't care if it's poisoned.

Her silver bracelets sparkle in the firelight, and his eyes follow her fingers as she wipes the swipe off his face with a velvet cloth. He jerks his hands towards her as she begins to pull away on instinct, remembering his chains with a sigh. She’s still close enough for him to press his lips to her dark wrist, light as a feather.

He jerks again when something wet hits him, but his heart lurches when he looks up and sees that it’s her tears. For a moment, the only sound is the crackle of the fire lining the walls and the distant screams of Alabaster’s victims.

Cyril has never wanted his hands back as much as he does now. He wants to wrap his arms around her, whisper assurances in her ear like he used to when she grew worried. Instead, she wraps her arms around his torso and buries her face in the hollow his neck, crying quietly. The slight twinge of pain her salty tears bring to his hundreds of wounds old and new is more than worth it.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, closing his eyes.

She gathers herself enough to say, “What? Why?”

“I’m sorry for getting caught. I never should’ve left you. I should’ve been smarter, shouldn’t have let him anywhere near me, I knew what would happen—”

For a moment he's back in that seedy human tavern with both of them, intrigued but not alarmed by Alabaster's sudden presence and mischievous grin. What a fool he was to let Alabaster take him outside. Before he knew it, he was here.

“I would slap you," Thea says. "This is no one’s fault but Alabaster’s.”

He raises his eyes and smiles at her through his lashes. Thea makes him feel young again, as free and painless as if he’d never been dragged down here.

She pulls back, dries her eyes, and says steadily, “Me and Damokles have been waiting outside the door every night. Alabaster has been greedy, going out more often to collect new victims. He’s been careless. He leaves the door open enough for me to slip in through the darkness. He’s bright enough to take up all the light, he doesn’t notice me.”

Cyril’s heart pounds. Damokles. He resists temptation to ask about him—Thea would tell him if something was amiss with him—and instead asks, “How long have you been trying to get in here?”

“Too long. I’ve only been able to set foot inside some of his maze before he comes back or locks the door. This place is convoluted.” She swallows. “Do you even know where you are?”

He doesn’t care about where he is, he cares that she is actually starting to sound real, which is the worse option. If she’s just Alabaster’s creation, she’ll be ripped away from him. if she’s real, she’ll be ripped away from him when Alabaster discovers them together, and that will hurt ten times as much.

“Yes,” he says, smiling. “The eighth ring of hell. I’ve been through them all. The misconception is that each gets worse the further up you go, but that’s not true. Each sector of hell is just as bad as the last, just in different ways.” He licks his lips.

“Alabaster has spared nothing spared nothing in my tour of his domain. He’s shown me every piece of what he calls art. I have become so intimately familiar with the beauty of hell, the beauty of pain, the purity of it. He says it reduces us to our most basic needs again, tears down our walls and erases our dignity. He loves watching the change.”

Her mouth drops open. “He—” A distant creak draws her eye, whipping her hair into his eyes.

“That’s nothing,” he says. “I hear that ten times a day.”

“Nothing for you, maybe. That’s the sound of Alabaster opening the door.”

“Really? It’s that quiet? That’s a bit anti-climactic.”

She hasn’t taken her eyes off the door. “I need to go.”

“No,” he says, rattling his chains, which is more likely to draw Alabaster than their voices. He seems to have a sense for when Cyril is struggling or in pain more than when he’s talking to himself. “Please. Don’t leave. I won’t survive it.”

I won’t survive it? He’s survived far more corporeal pain than Thea’s absence. Moreover, where is this panic coming from?

“I’m sorry,” she echoes—now she’s the one with nothing to apologize for. The last thing he wants is her getting trapped down here too. He’d sooner endure everything Alabaster has done to him again than let him touch her. “I’ll be back, I swear. Damokles and I miss you more than you know.” She feeds him the rest of the water and kisses him one more time, a break from the endless heat. He takes it greedily. He’ll take everything he can get.

“That one’s from him,” she says, longing eyes raking him over one last time, before disappearing into the shadows of the corner. He knows she’s gone—the flames flicker, almost going out, before returning in full force. The sweat she wiped away from his forehead returns quicker than he would’ve liked, but at least Alabaster doesn’t come running.

***

“Hello, beautiful. Let’s go.”

Alabaster sweeps into the room in a ray of light blocking out the darkness of the hallway behind him. The clank his lantern makes when he sets it on the floor is a noise Cyril hears in his dreams.

Cyril stopped speaking to him long ago, and he ignores Alabaster while he reaches up, spreading his sweet smell everywhere, to free his arms. Through gritted teeth and a stifled shout, he lowers them, resisting the familiar temptation to shake them out.

“You know you don’t have to hide your sounds,” Alabaster says. “They’re like music to me, the finest lutes and cellos all at once.”

“That’s exactly why I do.” It’s the first time he’s spoken in a week, and his voice is hoarse and dry with thirst and underuse. “No water this time?”

“I have something better.”

“Better for you, maybe.”

Alabaster grins, showing sharp white canines, running a hand through white blond hair. He’s always chosen a wickedly tall body with long, pale fingers, skinny as a stick. The sleeves of the crisp white shirt under his brown waistcoat are always rolled up above his elbows, ready at a moment’s notice to get elbow deep. Black trousers are always stainless and black shoes are always shined perfectly.

He never wears a hint of the filth that lives in his mind, the grime that’s often under his fingernails. The only light he gets is that of the flames—he’d never go near Cyril’s sun if he could help it, just in case it might hurt him. He only leaves to draw in more victims, never under Thea’s moonlight. Cyril has been around him long enough to know that he’s not invincible, not mentally, at least. He does have fears.

To be fair, Cyril can’t think of many who wouldn’t be terrified of Theadora.

Alabaster rests a hand on his lower back as he escorts him out of his little room; Cyril jerks out of the way.

Alabaster is a whole head and slim shoulders above him, and Cyril hates having to look up at him, but his power on this place prevents Cyril from changing his own appearance. He’s been stuck with white skin, plain blond hair and sea blue eyes for however long he’s been down here, a short body with a bit of fabricated muscle—Thea liked that. He hasn't seen his own shirt since he got here, and his pants are somehow still clean.

Gods don't need to eat, so Alabaster never feeds him. Just one more pleasure he can deprive Cyril of.

After this, when he gets out, because there will be a when, Thea will come back—he’ll never be able to stomach wearing a toned body again. Perhaps the strength Cyril gave himself improved his endurance a little bit, but he stopped counting his blessings long ago.

He and the others are the ones who give the blessings. They shouldn’t be able to take them from each other, but Alabaster has taught him with not just words that anything can be broken if you try long enough, human or god.

The only thing Alabaster doesn’t have control of down here is his eyes, orange like his flames. Every master of hell has to don them while they’re down here.

The orange glows and dispels all hints of innocent gold. That gold fades every time Alabaster sets foot here in his heaven, and returns when he mingles with normal humans, enticing them with his beauty to follow him to the point of no return.

“So,” Alabaster drawls as they walk out of Cyril’s little prison room into the darkness of the hall together, the screams louder and everything dirtier, “you’re in a rather good mood.”

“Am I?”

“Yes. You’re glowing. I work hard to make sure no one glows except me.”

Cyril rolls his eyes. Let Alabaster psychoanalyze him all he wants, that won’t change the fact that for the first time, Cyril has hope built on fact. Hope is something Alabaster can beat out of him, but not if he doesn’t know why Cyril has it, and he’s already exhausted the Thea-and-Damokles-aren’t-coming-to-save-you angle. It’s a novelty now.

Alabaster shepherds him to a room Cyril could easily find on his own now, hell’s elevator, or as Alabaster likes to call it, the hellevator. The box of iron bars is decorated with skulls. Cyril started naming them a while ago to occupy his mind. Tiana stares down at him from the top corner, Alis from the outside looking in.

He waves at them. Alabaster doesn’t keep him in chains outside his room, since there’s no hope of him escaping hell. Only the master of hell can open the door, and only from the inside.

The elevator takes off with a lurch that knocks Cyril backward. It's nothing more than a cage, and no more stable, but Alabaster is convinced of his own invincibility, that nothing will ever befall him in his own domain. Cyril is determined to prove him wrong.

As the elevator finally stops, he lands with another lurch that ends with him face first in the filthy ground. It’s far from the first time, and he picks himself up with what dignity he has left while Alabaster strides out upright.

Alabaster brings him past room after room, cell after cell of unfortunate people like him who have endured Alabaster’s abuse like him. They stop in front of a pair of bone decorated double doors that stretch up toward the sky, shadows licking at the walls. Screams seem to come from within, or perhaps that’s just Cyril’s mind.

The doors open slowly, apparently triggered by Alabaster’s presence. “Welcome to my newest creation,” Alabaster says with a grin, spreading his arms. The room is large and shiny and new, not yet tainted with bloodstains and misery. Cyril is here to break it in.

Cyril lays on the table where Alabaster asks him to, doesn’t try to run. He’s tried, so many times. It gets him nowhere. It’s easier just to submit.

Alabaster probably likes this best. Not the physical pain, the scars, the blood, but rather watching all the joy and hope fade from Cyril’s eyes.

Alabaster loves nothing more than inflicting pain, but he has too many unwilling participants to get to. He only personally tends to a handful of his favorites, but he’s made it abundantly clear that Cyril is his ultimate favorite. “I’ve managed to capture a god,” he said when Cyril asked. “An equal. How could I not treasure that? I will find time to visit you personally every week however long as I keep interest in you.”

Alabaster will never lose interest.

What gets Cyril through it this day is the memory of Thea’s icy hands on him, her tear filled kiss, her promising words. Hope. Hope will get you killed here, or it can sustain you if you’re lucky. If you hide it well enough.

Hope is the memory of the natural warmth of his sun on his chest instead of the harsh heat of hellfire. He thinks of one day in particular, laying in a field north of Actium, flowers arranged in his hair by Thea, the wind threatening to blow them away while Damokles’ fingers carded mindlessly through it.

They had so few worries, then. They are gods, what do they have to worry about? They are eternal. Nothing can hurt them but themselves and each other.

The irony of that, as Alabaster does what he does best, is striking.

***

The next time Thea visits, she brings Damokles.

Damokles has no control over the shadows, the darkness, hell, and especially not keeping silent, so Cyril doesn’t know how Thea managed to sneak him in, but that’s not the important part. The important part is that in seconds, Cyril has Damokles wrapped around him for the first time in who knows how long.

Thea stands to the side, her eyes brimming with tears but letting a weeping Damokles have his moment. Not much except pain can bring Cyril to tears, but the deep, chest wracking sobs Damokles lets out nearly do. “Oh, Cyril,” he cries, clearly unafraid of drawing Alabaster’s attention the way Thea was. “Sweet, sweet Cyril. My love. What has he done to you? I will rip him apart with my bare hands.”

Cyril smiles. “I’ve always loved your passion, but I think Thea’s iciness will be more lethal. You are nothing but fire, and while it is beautiful, Alabaster revels in it. Is resistant to it.” He looks over Damokles’ shoulder at her, the way she crosses her arms and passively admires them both.

“Fair enough.” Damokles kisses him with salty tears trapped between them, igniting the fresh wounds on Cyril’s face, but it doesn’t matter. His lips stretch his wounded cheeks into a stinging smile.

“Cyril, have you seen yourself?”

His smile fades. “No. Why?”

Damokles slicks back his black hair with his hand, and Cyril gets to admire the way the firelight dances off his olive skin. Cyril has a love hate relationship with the flames and the light they paint onto his lovers’ faces.

“Thea, can you get him a mirror?” Damokles asks, now decidedly not looking at him. Cyril’s heart begins to sink.

“I’m ugly to you now?” he asks quietly.

“No, no,” Damokles predictably says, cupping his cheeks. “Nothing could ever make you ugly in my eyes, or hers.”

“You don’t have to lie to me, Damokles.”

Thea passes Damokles a mirror, who holds it up in front of Cyril’s face.

The sight there takes his breath away.

Alabaster never gave him a mirror down here, ever, and for good reason. What has to be months and months, maybe even years of abuse and torture is shown on his face in lines of scars like claw marks. There’s an x over his right eye—he doesn’t even remember that one. What Alabaster does to him sometimes bleeds into mindless waves of pain.

“Tilt it down,” he breaths in a voice deep and full of grief that’s not his own. Thea takes in a sharp breath, and Damokles searches his face uncertainly before complying.

Cyril has never been vain about his looks—how could he when he could just change them anytime? But Alabaster’s hell is different. He can’t just wave away his scars. Anything etched into his skin down here will remain, which is probably why Alabaster has been so thorough in marking him.

The first time Alabaster brought him out of his little prison room, freed him from his chains, Cyril attacked him. Alabaster would’ve hurt him regardless, but the fire in his eyes increased after he pried Cyril’s hands from around his neck. He gave Cyril his first scar, a slash across his palm that cut deep and bled deeper. Before Alabaster put him back in chains, which effectively cut off his powers, Cyril tried to heal himself. Alabaster’s laugh afterwards still haunts him.

“That won’t work,” he said, smiling. “Hell’s scars cut deeper. They can’t be wiped away by anyone but me. I am going to enjoy making a canvas out of you, beautiful.”

Cyril spat in his face, but that didn’t change the outcome. Now, Alabaster’s masterpiece is unveiled to him for the first time. The body looking back at him in the mirror is unrecognizable in its horrors, faded pink lines wrapping around his torso like a rope, a collection of slashes over his heart, one long cut from his jaw to his collarbone.

He remembers that one, remembers wondering how it didn’t kill him. Of course, Alabaster would never let him die. He has utter control of every piece of matter in every circle of hell, from the worst torture rooms at the top, to the sixth ring where Cyril’s prison lies, to the door leading to the outside world at the bottom.

Cyril is strangely fascinated by his new appearance. A wave of panic that he’s stuck with this now washes over him, but he stubbornly pushes it back. He’s survived so much worse than vanity.

“Please, be honest,” he begs, hanging his head, letting his arms hold his weight like he does when he’s alone. “You truly don’t think differently of me?”

Thea and Damokles are silent for a long time, exchanging uncertain glances, which does nothing good for Cyril’s esteem. Finally Damokles turns to him and says, shaky and angry, “Of course I view you differently. I view you as someone who’s gone through pain and horrors I can’t even imagine, with scars he would probably love to get rid of but can’t. Cyril, I’m pissed.”

Cyril swallows. Thea murmurs Damokles’ name and lays a hand on his arm, but he shakes it off. Damokles never hides his emotions. There isn’t enough space within him to contain everything he feels—it’s the reason every human looks to him for guidance with the head and the heart.

“I’m pissed that Alabaster did this, more pissed than I could ever express. I’m a little pissed at you for not being pissed at us, for thinking we’d ever abandon you, that we haven’t been trying to find you. Don’t deny it, I know that look on your face. Most of all, I’m pissed that we took so long to get here. I’m pissed at myself for not doing more.”

He pushes his hair back again, long curls always falling into his eyes, and seems to get some of his sense back. “Thea will attest that she had to hold me back every time we watched Alabaster leave hell. I could barely keep my hands to myself, I wanted them around his pale little throat. His unmarred, unscarred throat.” Damokles’ fists clench. Cyril shivers under the burning rage in both their eyes, boiling—or in Thea’s case, freezing—just under the surface.

“Cyril, you are the bravest thing I’ve known. I love you. Nothing could ever change that. How could I ever be anything but horrified for you?”

“I don’t want you to be horrified,” Cyril says. “I want you to treat me the same way you always have. I just want to go back to how things were before I was abducted.”

Thea’s sad eyes tell him what he already knows: things will never be the same again. But Cyril can shut his eyes and pretend, just for a moment, that they’re back in the field under the sun with Thea’s flowers and Damokles’ fingers in his hair.

“Can you hang in here just one more week?” Damokles asks. “We’ll get you out. I have a plan.”

Cyril’s eyes dart to Thea, raising an eyebrow. She’s staring at Damokles like she’s never seen him before.

Cyril swallows all his questions and nods. “Okay. I trust you.”

Damokles breaks into a blinding white grin and kisses him again, sweet and hot in the way Cyril needs. Thea is wonderful, and sometimes is the break from reality he needs, but Damokles is the dose of truth no one else will tell him.

Thea’s icy kiss comes next, with both of them their arms around him to follow. “When you’re out and completely free of pain,” Damokles says, a promise burning in his eyes, “I’ll show you exactly what I think of your scars.” Thea hits his arm, calls him inappropriate, but Cyril’s grin reassures them both.

They disappear into the shadows, Damokles holding tightly to Thea’s arm. The heat of the flames doesn’t feel so intense, now. When Alabaster comes the following week, Cyril is almost grinning, and no question Alabaster poses in between cuts and bruises can make him give them up.

***

It’s not Alabaster’s abuse or declining sanity that will kill him, it’s the anticipation, the waiting. When Thea and Damokles finally melt out of the shadows, after an eternity of waiting, Cyril’s stomach is in knots. Even stranger, both of them are empty handed.

“How are we going to get me out of here if you have nothing to do so?” Cyril demands before noticing the expressions on their faces. Damokles’ mouth is set in a grim line, and he tries to force a smile that just doesn’t stick. He’s uptight and determined about something, or, more accurately, stubborn.

Thea is furious. She’s perfectly composed and neat as always, but her fists are clenched and the air in the room is more frigid than usual. Cyril isn’t complaining about the latter, but they’re obviously withholding information. “What’s going on?”

“We’re here to get you out, like we promised,” Thea says in a far stiffer tone than he pictured her saying those words, glaring at Damokles’ back. Cyril has tried getting her to budge when she shuts herself off before, and it’s a fruitless effort, so he doesn’t even try now. He’s always been the calm force keeping those two storms from destroying each other. Without him there to separate them, who knows what they’ve gotten up to.

“And how are you going to do that?” Cyril asks again, shaking his chains. “Only Alabaster can get me out of these.”

“Oh, love, is that what he’s been telling you all this time?” Damokles asks with the pain of the heartbroken. “We can’t open the doors of hell, we can’t remove your scars, but gods have more influence in hell than you would think.”

Cyril’s blood begins boiling just under his skin. “Are you telling me I could’ve freed myself somehow this whole time?”

“No, those chains are as anti-god as I’ve ever seen. We didn’t free you before because we didn’t know—we just found this week—but it’s probably a good idea we didn’t. I would’ve hated causing you the pain of replacing them before Alabastard got back.” Damokles closes his eyes and breathes slowly, fists clenched at his sides. The fire flutters in the room, and a pop of air follows.

The breath is knocked out of Cyril as the chains abruptly break and drop his arms from the ceiling. Much like the elevator, he falls to his knees with the force of it. Thea is there immediately to hug him while Damokles deals with the noise of the chains. Cyril leaves the possibility of Alabaster in their hands, they’re not stupid. He allows himself to bury his face in her neck and shake, weak with relief.

“It’s okay now,” she murmurs into his hair. “You’re going to see your sun again soon. My moon.”

He begins quietly sobbing.

He told himself, all the times he foolishly dreamt of freedom only for Alabaster to drive the dream out of him, that he wouldn’t cry. He’d stay strong, he’d pretend he was fine. Damokles and Thea are too perceptive, too sensitive, he didn’t want to upset them any more than he knew they would be.

So much for that.

“Please,” he begs, a word he’s used so much, but never like this. He’s shaking all over, bleeding from his lip, bleeding inside, burning. He’s always burning, always bleeding, always pleading. Alabaster thrives on it. “Help me. Get me out of this place. Can't you just take me out through the shadows?”

“We will get you out,” she says shakily, dodging the question, cradling the back of his sweaty, bloody head against her. She’s on the verge of tears. Damokles drops to the floor to join the pile, wrapping chiseled arms around them both. They sit there in silence for a moment, grieving and celebrating and fearing and hoping. Cyril’s heart is so full of love for both of them he could burst.

“What about Alabaster?” Cyril has to ask at last. They can’t avoid him forever.

Damokles stands and suddenly shouts, “Alabaster! Come out, you bastard. Face us.”

“What the hell are you doing?” Cyril hisses, but Thea holds him down. "Let's just go out through the shadows." He'll leave Alabaster behind, he'll leave it all behind without revenge if it means he can just be safe.

“He’s an idiot,” she says, “but you have to trust him. He has a plan.”

“I know how hell works, Thea. I know the limits of Damokles’ stupidity.”

She just cradles him closer. He should've known Damokles wouldn't be able to leave without revenge.

After a few minutes of nothing, a great rumble begins shaking the room. If Cyril still hides his head in Thea’s neck, who’s to judge?

Alabaster has never made a dramatic entrance like this before, which must mean Damokles is onto something.

Cyril hears the moment Alabaster enters the room, firm boots on stone, Thea’s inhale. Cyril raises his head and sees Damokles standing tall and strong, his favorite handmade sword stashed somewhere else. It wouldn’t do anything against a god—Thea begged him not to include that in the list of things it could slice through like bread, and he loved her enough to agree.

Quick as Thea’s lightning, Damokles lunges forward and wraps his arms around Alabaster from behind. He is the patron of soldiers for a reason, his strength is unmatched, his grip sure. Alabaster struggles to no avail.

Cyril studies the contrast in them with pleasure. Damokles meets his eyes, panting, and smirks. Alabaster isn’t struggling, bucking Damokles off like he did so easily with Cyril. Perhaps it’s Damokles’ natural strength, maybe Alabaster is more afraid of him than Cyril.

“Oh, Alabaster,” Cyril says, smiling. “You spent so long trying to teach me the beauty of your ways, but you never believed I’d start agreeing with you. Well, here you go.” He raises his arms, trying to hide a wince and stifle a groan of pain. Thea’s hands on his waist help steady him—though that might just be her calming powers. “Here is the result of your hard work in all its glory. Are you happy now?”

Alabaster looks at him through long, pale eyelashes. He manages a manic grin through the grimace breaking out on his face, licking the sweat off of his lip. He’s blinking and flicking his hair like that will do anything about the sweat. Cyril is looking forward to watching him realize nothing will work.

“This won’t work,” Alabaster says. “Keep me as long as you want, but you’ll never leave. Only the master of hell can open the door, and from the inside, and I swear I’ll never open it for you as long as I live.”

“Good thing you’re not going to be the master of hell much longer,” Damokles says, lowering Alabaster to his knees in front of him, hands held behind his back. His eyes meet a breathless Cyril’s. “Shall I place him in your hooks?”

Cyril, open mouthed, is speechless even for that question. He can only manage a small shake of the head. “Keep him low, where he belongs. Don’t give him the dignity of meeting your eyes.”

Damokles nods in approval. Thea helps Cyril to his feet to avoid that exact issue, and Damokles ties Alabaster’s hands more securely with some rope. “What the hell do you mean?” Cyril asks.

Damokles meets his eyes without fear, a dark, intense stare. “I mean, I’m going to kill Alabaster and take his place.”

The whole room freezes. Even the fire seems to still.

Cyril looks at Thea for help, but her arms are crossed and her face set in that same muted furious expression she arrived with. He understands the fierce determination in Damokles’ eyes now.

“You’re not.”

“I will. That bastard doesn’t deserve to live, and you two deserve to get out.”

“Why can’t you just take both of us through with your shadows?” Cyril demands of Thea.

She’s crying now, silent and strong, even with her cheeks shiny and wet. “The moment Alabaster places his mark on someone, like a scar, they are bound to this place and its rules. No shadows for you.”

“Not even after his death?”

She shakes her head and squeezes his waist. “I tried so hard to talk him out of it,” she says, gesturing to Damokles. “His mind can’t be changed.”

“Damokles, no,” Cyril says. This can’t be real. “Don’t do this to us. I can’t lose you.”

“I don’t want to lose you, either,” Damokles says, his own eyes shining. He’s smiling, though. “If we could, I would have you kill him.”

Cyril breathes out. “I don’t want you to get trapped down here! At least, uh”—he rubs his forehead— “you be the master only until Thea and I can find someone to take your place. We’ll find a way to do it without you having to be killed.”

“You would involve a human in this mess? An innocent?”

“I won’t lose you.”

“It’ll be preferable to what you went through,” Damokles counters, though Cyril sees his hands trembling. Cyril’s lower lip begins trembling.

“I’m not sure it will be,” he chokes out. “You’ll be without the physical pain. The rest is the same. I never had to manage the eight rings of hell.”

Damokles shakes his head, turning his eyes back to his prey. He sighs, then his hands are moving.

“Damokles, no!” Cyril yells. Thea’s hands hold him back, but it’s too late—rather, Damokles ignores him. He wrenches Alabaster’s head to the side with a crunch as satisfying as it is agonizing to watch. Thea squeezes his hand and lets out a harsh, shuddering breath, as Alabaster’s pale head falls limp.

The room begins shaking again. Thea falls to her knees and presses her forehead to the ground, Cyril is rooted to the spot. Damokles stands tall and breathes in, embracing his new role. When he opens his eyes, they’re bright, flame orange.

“You idiot,” Cyril hisses, shoving him back. “You didn’t give me any time to input. You never think. We could’ve worn him down in one of the hundreds of rooms alone I was sent to. We could’ve gotten our revenge and our freedom. Instead, you decided to become the master of hell instead. We’re split up again.”

“Better me than you.” Damokles yanks open the door of Cyril’s little room and walking with purpose. Cyril follows him. “Tell me where the door to this place is. I don’t know this place from the inside yet.”

“West,” Cyril says automatically, then curses himself. “You can’t just leave with us. Too long away and you’ll start to wither away, and I’m not coming back here if I can help it. This isn’t a solution. Far from it.”

“Hell no you’re not coming back here. Never again, for you.” Damokles takes a deep breath as Cyril guides him to the elevator. Thea is hot on their heels, shadows licking the ground. “Cyril, I did this because I love you and Thea more than I’ve ever loved anything. I would set fire to our Actium in a day if it meant protecting you. I didn’t care what it would take to free you, I just didn’t want you to suffer you anymore.”

“When you described how we’d spend our time when I was free, had you made up your mind then? Were you lying through your teeth?”

“No, dammit,” Damokles growls, turning around and pushing him against the wall. It burns Cyril’s back, but not as much as his kiss. “Don’t worry about me.”

“What if I love you, too?” Cyril yells back. “What if I never wanted us to be apart again? I will find a way to fix this. We will get you out.”

Damokles doesn’t argue.

When they reach the door Cyril tried to break out of so many times, tall, white, and uncharacteristically clean, Damokles kisses Thea goodbye. Tears begin filling Cyril’s eyes again as Damokles presses both hands to the door and murmurs something under his breath. It opens as easily as a human door.

“There you go,” Damokles whispers. Cyril can smell the fresh air, and it almost brings him to his knees, but he doesn’t look yet. He stubbornly looks back at the aching oranges and blacks, the smell of smoke that’s ingrained into his soul now, the blistering heat they’re leaving Damokles behind in. Thea’s hand snakes into his, and Cyril squeezes it like he’ll die if he doesn’t.

“We’ll meet again,” Damokles promises, before the door swings shut and locks with a boom. Cyril misses him immediately in a wave of incredible grief.

He turns around.

The sky is so very black, the stars so very bright, the air so very cool. Cyril closes his eyes and breathes in, long and slow the way he dreamed of for so, so, so long. But his right hand is painfully empty, the pains of hell too fresh. He needs a thousand baths, a thousand days in the sun, but he’ll never stop wishing Damokles was there.

Cyril breathes, closes his eyes, and with barely any effort changes his hair to a dull, mousy brown. It's an immediate relief, enough to bring tears to his eyes.

“I never thought I’d say this,” Cyril says, “but I already want to go back.”

“Yeah,” Thea murmurs, thick with tears. Cyril lets her cry, too in pain and exhausted to do anything but hold her hand and stand in solidarity.

In his mind, he’s in the field with flowers and fingers and laughter in his hair, the sun warming them all.

It's so peaceful at night.

It's wrong.

acogs taglist (lmk to be added/removed) @magic-is-something-we-create @inkflight @spencer-nyx @writing-is-a-martial-art @ashen-crest @wisteria-eventide @nikkywrites @denkis-phone-charger @myhusbandsasemni @lynolord @ettawritesnstudies @golden-apple-s-blog

tag of interest: @aelenko

[virtueangel]

limitless.

chapter two.

wc: 2,337. original publish date: october 3, 2020.

"'And oh, Aunt Em! I'm so glad to be home again!' The end," Van Gogh finishes, closing the children's book and setting it on the table.

"That wasn't a bedtime story!" JFK protests.

"I didn't know that!" Van Gogh volleys.

"What do you mean you didn't know that? Everyone knows The Wizard of Oz!"

Van Gogh shakes his head, almost apologetically. "Clearly not everyone," he mumbles.

Kennedy sits up, a bit taken aback. "You mean you've never read The Wizard of Oz?"

Gogh shakes his head, sliding the book off the table and stroking the cover. The yellow finished cardboard is bumpy beneath his fingernails, and it makes a low scraping sound.

"Surely you've heard of it?" JFK asks, eyebrows furrowing.

"No," Van Gogh admits, feeling defeated.

Kennedy unwraps himself from the blanket and sits up, scooting across the bed to console his best friend. He puts a comforting hand on the boy's shoulder, but it is only shaken off. His kind gesture and caring attitude deflate like a released balloon.

"I thought every children's book was a bedtime story."

"Nah, but every children's story has a moral," JFK offers.

"How do you know that? Can't imagine heartless ol' JFK reading a picture book. I can't even imagine him as  toddler."

Kennedy graciously ignores the first part of Gogh's comment. "My dads used to read them to me when I was a kid."

Van Gogh's smile falls, but thankfully JFK can't see because he's looking down at the book. He runs his fingers over the words, printed in accented letters, shiny and blue. "I bought this book when I was fourteen years old," he admits.

"You bought it for yourself?"

Van Gogh nods, still entranced by the golden-yellow cover of the children's book. "I liked the artwork," he explains, looking up at his best friend now.

Kennedy scoots away from Van Gogh, falsely assuming his work as Supportive Best Friend is through. "You would. It's all oil pastels and shiny objects -- very girly."

Gogh rolls his eyes. "Not all artwork is girly."

"No," JFK agrees, "just the artwork you like."

Van Gogh shoves the boy, not sorry when he hits his head on the wall.

"Hey!" He bellows, rubbing the back of his head vigorously.

"You deserved that," Van Gogh snaps, standing up to slide the book back into its rightful place on the shelf. "Do you ever get tired of your own voice?"

"Um... no?" Kennedy replies, laughing at his own answer.

Van Gogh runs a hand through his vibrant orange hair in exasperation. He snaps the pristine white bandage wrapped around his head, tied there to put pressure on his self-amputated ear in hopes to relieve some of the pain. It works most days, except when there are loud noises -- like on Friday nights when there are sports games and the streets flood with intoxicated teenagers who insist on letting their excitement out through violence. JFK used to be amongst those alcohol-ridden invalids. He's not anymore, but Van Gogh can't figure out why he changed.

But he's still an arrogant, egotistical asshole nonetheless.

Van Gogh scoffs, tempted to shove the boy again, but decides not to because it may escalate into a fight. Gogh would lose. He loses against everyone, his five-foot-five stature doing him not favours. He knows Kennedy could pin him to the ground in three seconds. His shoulders tense just thinking about it and the illusion of pain makes his bad -- or rather, nonexistent -- ear throb. He raises his hand reflexively, rubbing the side of his head over the bandage.

"Does it hurt?" JFK asks, suddenly dropping his macho-jock façade.

Van Gogh bats his best friend's hand away almost instinctively. "I'm fine. Sorry. It just rings sometimes. No big deal."

"Sounds like a big deal."

"Well it's not, okay? I said I'm fine, so I'm fine," Gogh replies.

JFK holds his hands up in surrender. "Jesus Christ, I was only trying to help."

"I appreciate that," Van Gogh sighs. He looks up at Kennedy and opens his mouth like he has a follow-up, but nothing comes out. He closes his mouth and looks away. JFK raises an eyebrow, having noticed the boy's jaw, but doesn't press. He wouldn't want to push his best friend over the edge. God knows he's already so close to the cusp of a fall anyway.

"Your parents coming home soon?" Kennedy asks, reaching for small talk.

Gogh shrugs, eyes fixed on his shoes. He wears black Keds with white toe-tips. The laces are tied in tight bows and are as pristinely white as all of his other possessions -- he'd expect no less from himself. "Who cares?"

"You can't stay here alone on a Friday night," Kennedy says.

"That's why you're here, dipshit," Van Gogh rolls his eyes.

"No, I mean-" JFK sighs. "The whole night. You can't sleep in this house all by yourself."

"Why not?" Gogh asks, looking up at JFK now. The rims of his eyes are red and his jaw is tensed.

JFK huffs, sure the boy is just being difficult now. "Because."

"Because why? Adults do it all the time."

"You're not an adult, Gogh. You're sixteen."

"So?" He spits. "You're sixteen and your dads let you do whatever -- whomever -- the hell you please!"

"This isn't about me, Van Gogh, it's about you and your apparent abandonment issues!"

"I don't have abandonment issues!" He means it to come as an angry denial, but it comes out as a scared protest instead. He tries again, steadying his voice. "I don't have abandonment issues."

JFK shakes his head and raises himself off the bed. "I don't have time for this. Do you want me here or not?"

Van Gogh pulls his socked feet onto the chair and crosses his arms over his chest. His absence of an ear throbs again and it skews his hearing, but he doesn't let on. He's so tired of this up and down with JFK -- they fight, Gogh falls into a vulnerable state, Kennedy drops the argument to console him, Gogh says he's fine, and the cycle repeats. Either they're fighting or they're not. I can't be held hostage by my mental illness, Gogh thinks. I won't be made into a fool.

"Not," he swallows the word, his voice nearly cracking.

"Gogh..." Kennedy says, dropping his attitude.

Gogh wipes at his face, trying to play it off as swiping away mucus from a cold-caused runny nose. "I'll be okay, Kennedy."

Kennedy stands in the doorway, one hand on the smooth white trim -- as pristine as the rest of the room -- and the other hand limp by his side. He turns around to look at Van Gogh, who won't meet his gaze, and thinks of crossing the room to him. He looks so small on that wooden chair, his plain bed made up with hospital corners and brand-new-car-tidy floor filling up with absence. JFK wants to stay with his best friend to make the room feel smaller, to make the house feel fuller, but he knows when to stop pushing. Sometimes it hurts to be edged out of Van Gogh's life... but then again, he's used to it. He's used to being treated as the boy's second choice because sometimes it's easier to confide in a stranger than a lifelong friend. Kennedy doesn't know, but he understands, and sometimes that has to be good enough.

JFK drops his hand from the trim of the doorway and turns back around to face the hallway. He walks between the walls as they close in on him, creating a suffocating ocean with their murky blue hue. He exits the house without glancing back at Van Gogh, forgetting to wonder if he'll be okay. He hates sports games because they make his ears ring, Kennedy reminds himself. Being there won't stop that.

***

John F. Kennedy walks through the door of his house at precisely 8:32pm. His foster dads are both sitting on the couch, wrapped up in a blanket with each other, watching a movie that must be pretty damn entertaining with the way they keep giggling. John hates it when people giggle -- the sound reminds him of butterflies, light and airy and so fragile it can't help but be crushed. "Giggle" is a gross word, too. It's made up of all the letters that no one likes to read to form sounds that no one wants to hear. Well, actually, that's not true -- plenty of people like the letters; they're just too predictably common for JFK to enjoy.

"Dads, I'm home," John announces halfheartedly. His parents are so absorbed in the television show that they barely look up -- maybe that's for the best. Arguing with Van Gogh never leaves Kennedy in a very chipper mood.

He sulks up the stairs to his bedroom, gripping the wooden railing firmly in his ascent. He tries to make a point of stomping just so his dads will turn his way -- he's not in the mood for talking, but he's accustomed to demanding attention.

John flops down on his bed -- it's king-size which means it takes up the majority of the room, but Exclamation!'s biggest playboy has got to decorate his bedroom for the aesthetic somehow. Kennedy's phone buzzes and when the screen illuminates with the name Cleo printed in thin white letters, he almost smiles, but remembers he's still blowing her off. He can't figure out why; most nights he would be ecstatic to whisper sweet little nothings in her ear. He starts to feel bad about ignoring her, but then remembers that she isn't his girlfriend -- he doesn't owe her anything. And even if he did, everyone's expectations of him are so low that even the bare minimum is seen as a prayer answered by god themselves.

He means to only flip his phone over to hide the screen, but he accidentally pushes it off the edge of the bed. It bounces on the carpet, landing corner-first, but JFK is too tired to care about whether or not the screen is cracked. He rolls over onto his back, folding his arms over his stomach and staring at the ceiling, his eyes unfocused. His head starts to rush -- possibly from the cold air intruding his bedroom from the open window, or more likely from emotional strain. He replays through the day, memories of Cleo's hand grasping his bicep and him leaving her alone to go help Van Gogh. Everyone always wants a piece of John F. Kennedy. He never meets anyone's expectations, and yet, everyone religiously seeks his approval.

"Fuck them for relying on me as their source of entertainment," he mutters up at the ceiling. "I wish no one in this goddamn town knew me at all."

And yet, there's still one person exempt from the statement. Sure, everyone in Exclamation! is mushy-headed and smooth-brained, but going to high school here is a pit stop in JFK's life, and a vital one. Because while 99.8% of the Clone High student body give Kennedy a stomachache, there's still 0.2% to be taken out of the perfect whole.

JFK rolls -- no, literally rolls -- off of his king mattress to reunite himself with his phone. He taps the screen, lighting the machine to life. He slides away the "missed call" notification, erasing Cleo's name from his home screen. He unlocks the device and taps on a contact, which speed dials a certain someone wallowing in their room on the other side of town.

The phone goes to voicemail once, twice, but Kennedy doesn't give up. He knows the boy is receiving his calls -- it's not like he wants to be alone on a Friday night.

But then again, he might be drawing or painting or reading a book or doing homework or-

Van Gogh picks up on the second ring of the third call. "Leave me alone, JFK. I'm busy."

"Doing what?"

The line goes silent as Van Gogh fishes for an answer. He comes up short. "Look, I told you to leave because you upset me-"

"Let's go on a trip," Kennedy suggests, intentionally cutting off his best friend to avoid an uncomfortable conversation that would probably result in tears, yelling, or both.

"What?"

"Let's leave Exclamation!. I'm tired of it here, and I know you're not too crazy about it either."

The line goes silent again as Van Gogh hesitates. "Kennedy, that's absurd."

"How do you figure? It's not like your parents would miss you," he replies without realising how it sounds.

Thankfully, Van Gogh doesn't comment on it. If he's hurt by his best friend's words, he doesn't let on. "But we have school..."

"I don't care about school."

"But I do," he says, icicles freezing over his voice.

"Please, Gogh? I need a break from it all."

"What do you need a break from? You're everyone's favourite jock. Scudworth loves you. You're somehow pulling straight As even though you never do your work... I'm betting you're banging one or all of your teachers."

"I am not banging all of my teachers!" Kennedy exclaims defensively.

Van Gogh smirks through the phone. "But you are banging one."

JFK shakes off the boy's words. How does the point always manage to get away from him? "I know you're unhappy, Van Gogh."

"That's an understatement," he scoffs.

"Right. Well, don't you want to explore the world?"

Van Gogh doesn't respond.

"Draw? Read? Write?"

JFK still isn't selling him.

"Paint?" Kennedy tries one last futile hope.

Gogh's ears -- ear -- perks up. "Paint the whole world?"

"Well, we'd only be visiting a little at a time-"

"Okay," he replies too hastily, cutting off his friend. He swallows, running a hand through his hair to smooth it down as if the boy can see him through the phone. His fingers snag on the bandage again. He gives up. "Okay. Let's go on a road trip."

"You mean it?"

"Sure." Van Gogh can hear Kennedy smiling through the phone, his expression melting like honey and dripping down the line. "Why the hell not?"

[hellisheuphoria]

Chapter 3: Melancholy

The MC has their first heartbreak after weeks of freezing out their friends, and drama ensues.

[This chapter contains scenes depicting mental health issues such as anxiety and anxiety attacks, so read at your own risk. And don’t hesitate to write constructive criticism or point out any mistakes, thank you <3]

“MC!” You gasped, sitting yourself up. Mammon loomed over you, with a hand outstretched to shake you. You stared at him, not knowing what to do.

You just woke up, having fallen asleep on the couch the minute you got home from school. Absolutely exhausted, you had lay down on the couch and used your bag as a pillow, snoozing soundly.

You tried your hardest to shift yourself away from everyone. That meant walking away when they tried to initiate a conversation with you, ignoring messages, calls or whatever and eating somewhere else during lunch- a whole list. They were really invested in you, and you were exhausted.

Struggling to see due to the intense light, you rubbed your eyes. Mammon was already dressed in his usual clothes with his signature tan jacket. It was pretty, and made him look even more like a model.

You pulled into your collar a bit, feeling awkward to be caught like this. You grabbed your bag and muttered out “Sorry.”, before getting up and turning away, trying to keep your distance.

You felt bad for ignoring him, as Mammon never hurt you once. He held you in his arms as you died. But you were still afraid of him. You were afraid of his kind, having been murdered by one yourself- his brother, too!

You were afraid of his reaction if he figured it out. You didn’t want to hurt him, yourself, or even Belphegor. He had calmed down in the recent weeks, but you could never forget the way you’d died by his hand.

Mammon, not having any of your attitude, pulled you by your arm and brought you back to him.

”Hey, MC! Where do ya think you’re going!?” He talk-yelled, clearly agitated at your cold attitude. He twisted you to face him, not noticing your anxious expression.

”I thought we were friends? I thought I was your first man! Why would you- why would you ignore me like this..!” His voice cracked, almost as if he was going to shatter.

You panicked, not knowing what to say. You didn’t know what to expect from him, but you couldn’t expect anything less than this. He was hurt, and you could tell it from miles away.

Mammon was a kind, sweet individual despite how idiotic he could be. But you didn’t know the extent of his power, with him being the second oldest sibling. You had witnessed Lucifer and Belphegor using their powers, and didn’t want to think about how powerful Mammon would be. It must take a lot for him to snap, seeing how patient he was with the insults he would get from his brothers.

You felt bad for him, but didn’t want to let your guard down. You didn’t want to be betrayed or hurt again. You didn’t want to feel anything at all for the rest of the year until you got to go home.

“MC! Say something, please-! I can’t help you if you won’t tell me. I don’t want you to ignore me anymore, MC, please!” His eyes became glossy and small droplets of tears escaped his eyes.

You felt like crying yourself, too. You didn’t want it go this far. It hurt to see the way his cheeks went red and his eyes swell up with tears.

He was beautiful, nonetheless. Crying, or not crying. But you remembered how deceiving his younger brother was, trying to convince you into believing he was a human. You knew he wasn’t telling the truth, but you still trusted him. You helped him escape. But in the end, he betrayed you anyways.

He murdered you, and left you to die, alone and scared. Even if you made a pact, you didn’t want to use it as way of controlling them. They’re not puppets, they have feelings too, and pacts go way deeper than just a form of control. You didn’t want to disrespect them in that way.

And that’s why you just shut down. You ran away from your friends, you ran away from yourself, you ran away from everything. You had changed too much. The other you felt like a lie. You were ashamed of yourself, and would forever be reminded of that.

You pulled him off you and walked away, ignoring his plea for you to not go. It hurt you, but it was better this way, wasn’t it? A human lifespan can not even compare to that of a demon. Better you distance yourself now then later.

He still begged you to stay, yet you continued to ignore him, sealing yourself away.

———————————————————————

The afternoon was, to say the least, silent. No one spoke a word, and even Asmo who would usually be chattering was quiet, unspeaking. The atmosphere was cold and tense, you could feel it radiating from them, including yourself.

Nothing could be heard except the clattering of cutlery and Beel practically inhaling his food. It was funny, seeing him like that. Oblivious to the awkwardness of today’s dinner.

Mammon sat in his seat, gloomy and depressed. He wouldn’t eat his food, he would just play with it and take small, practically nonexistent bites. You could feel his gaze on you when you weren’t looking.

You remembered the shock and surprise of everyone when they witnessed the “argument” you and Mammon had. They tried to stop you from leaving, with Beel grabbing your hand and Lucifer practically bombarding Mammon with questions.

They tried to get an answer out of you, but you ignored them, looking the other way.

Finally, they left you alone, unsure of which side to take if there was any. They were worried for you after weeks of your coldness, but they didn’t have it in them to trace it back to Belphegor. They thought you would get over it, seeing that you were alive now, anyway.

It was all too overwhelming that you lost yourself for a bit, and forgot how to feel. You were gone, numb. Any gossip, questions or whatever just bounced off you. It was all so dull.

You excused yourself early and allowed Beel to eat your leftovers, not feeling quite hungry yourself. Their gazes fell on you as you left, and then they went back to their own business.

You sat in your room, feeling quite sad and tired with everything. Nothing felt right anymore, and it made you nervous. But your room cheered you up a bit. It was beautiful and colourful, the complete opposite of you. The plants growing on your walls and the tree made you feel nostalgic, reminding you of the human world.

A knock on your door shook you out of your thoughts and you turned your head toward it. “Come in.” You said, wearily and confused.

Lucifer came in, looking more worried than stern. You stared at him, confused as to what to do. He wouldn’t usually come into your room like this, or at all, really. He was always busy with the work he was assigned, usually disappearing into his room.

”MC, I have something I wish to speak to you about, regarding the last few weeks.” He oddly spoke, observing you.

”Oh.” You muttered out, unsure as to what to say. He sat next to you on your bed, about to continue.

”I understand something may be bothering you to have made you act as how you are now. And I would like it for you to explain it to me.” His gaze fell on you, and his voice unusually soft.

He placed a hand on your shoulder, his gloved hand soothing your bare skin. “MC, has any of the lower demons been bothering you? Or Mammon, like today? What is going on, MC?”

You looked at your clenched hands on your lap, scared to talk. No matter how nice was trying to be, you still felt on edge, and attacked.

”It’s nothing. I’ll be fine, and tell Mammon I’m sorry.” You murmured quietly, too conflicted and scared to talk anymore.

”MC, you managed to make Mammon cry today, and that alone is not entirely what’s been worrying me. I want to help you, we all do. You do not have to confide in just me if you do not wish to.” He held out a hand to hold yours, but you wouldn’t let him.

”I.. Lucifer-“ You whispered, your eyes darting everywhere and panic rising in your chest.

You threw him off of you and thrashed around hysterically, feeling stressed and frustrated. “Please! Leave me alone, damn it!”

Lucifer got up immediately to calm you down, but you wouldn’t let him, running out of your room and heading towards the front door.

Everyone had apparently heard the commotion in your room and collectively got together to see what was going on. But they didn’t have the reflexes to catch you as you hastened outside.

”MC!” Lucifer yelled, shocked at your sudden outburst.

Bur you didn’t listen, you didn’t even wait to put on your shoes before you ran out of the House of Lamentation. You ran, and ran until you were a good few miles away from there. Your feet hurt, but you were glad that you wore socks. At least they wouldn’t be dirty.

The wind blew and you shivered, regretting not at least grabbing a jacket. You heard telling dad bwhind, and hurriedly speed walked yourself further, trying to get yourself lost.

It was evening and dark, so not many people were outside. You wandered around, alone and cold. It was better than being put on the spot like that.

The wind blew and goosebumps appeared on your skin, the cold intensifying.

It was entirely deserted and you were glad for that. You would be by yourself, just the way you liked it.

You sat down on a bench, pulling out your phone. You had multiple missed calls from everyone and a whole bunch of texts. Especially from Levi- he was still spamming your phone with his texts.

You shut it off and placed it back in your pocket, leaning forward with your arms on your knees to stare at the place around you.

It was darker than it usually was in the Devildom, with everything being barely visible. It was scarily quieter than usual, not even the Devildom birds were chirping.

The only thing that could be heard was the sound of the water from the ponds, looking eerily shiny. Then you noticed a darkened figure creeping up behind your own reflection.

You felt something, or someone, behind you. The hair on the back of your neck stood up, and you froze, worried you were caught.

Then you felt a hand on your shoulder.

”Hello, MC.”

[tomesandsuch]

Tangs of the Dead

They were the tangs of swords never sharpened, and their handles extended great and deep into the earth.

“Look! Gaze upon those kings that lived and died before those of your greatest fables had ever been raised from the dirt” “Look, then, to those great cities! Those whose names were forgotten before yours had ever come to being!”

“Look, then, at all that has fallen before you and ask: Will you be so different?”

I cannot. But I must. If anything, I will be the one. It may be all in vain. If such a thing is true, I’ll gladly slide into darkness with the rest of them.

But I believe there is still a chance to find the light once lost.

…

Nobody’s that stupid. Nobody. Not even you, Kong. And you’re the dumbest fucking creature I ever did see.

I’m hungry. I go to the river. I drink the water. I see the fish. I chase the fish. I grab the fish. I kill the fish. I eat the fish. That was as complicated as it ever had to get. That, at least, is what I repeat to myself. One must keep the evils of this world at bay at all times, in the heart. Even when their body has long since submitted, when the mind has failed, the heart must not accept it. That was your teaching, was it not? When you looked upon me then, were any of the thoughts in your mind even close to comprehending the reality of it? That, with what happened then, that I would be the only one to remember anything you said? Did you go to your grave thinking I would forget? Did you go thinking that everyone would?

Everyone did, but I did not. I am not like them. They are not like me. They tell me they are like me, and they tell me I am them. I don’t believe them. They’re lying to me. You knew that when you saw me. You knew I could not talk like them. I could not pretend to be one of them. I could not understand what they found most important. To me, it was invisible. It was nonsense. Beyond incomprehensible.

I found it strange, then, that you, who arguably looked upon me with all the ire that I had been spared by so many before, were the closest to something I could understand. Even if you were a fool. They were all fools, but that wasn’t the problem, was it? No, it wasn’t, and it couldn’t be. They gave me guilt. Where I came from, such a thing did not exist. They foisted their burdens onto me without a second thought. Did they believe it would make me happier? Or, more likely, were they unable to stomach the thought of one that could live without it? 

You’re all jealous. You were always jealous of what I had. You would rather destroy it than learn from it. Sounds familiar, yes? I didn’t realize it at the time, but I had already become part of it. I had disappeared. Before it had even begun, in my mind, I had been obliterated. I ceased to be. What came after was not me. It was something that certainly thought it was me. But it was not me. It is not me. It will never be. ‘I’ am something that lives in the past. Never being touched again, but there. Unable to advance. Unable to live. Unwilling to die. 

And, to think, there are those that believe ‘divine justice’ to be nonexistent! There is no judge so righteous to strike me with this, only something beyond that. A god, a spirit. Something I am blind to.

Then, my mind wanders to another question: Was it ever truly that easy? 

--

It isn’t too long before I’ll be able to recognize something in it. Soon enough. I can see, now. The color’s returning. It’s faint, but it’s there. Unmistakable in its presence and significance both, but its meaning unclear. I am not there yet, but I am here, and I am breathing, and there is blood moving through me, and my stomach wavers with the shock of emptiness, and my hands clasp themselves into tensed shapes. Yet, that’s all I can think of. I’m hungry. I’m very, very, very hungry. 

I’ve been foolish, of course, because I’d convinced myself that this was bad. I had forgotten the rule I had learned before I had even known it was a rule. The dead things are the ones that don’t want to eat anymore. Remember that, and an empty belly will disturb you no more. Well, it’ll disturb you a little. It disturbs everyone a little. If it didn’t, we wouldn’t eat in the first place.

--

Let’s not get presumptuous, now. You think I, of all people, don’t know? I know what you speak of, and I sure do know it better than you do.

Let’s not get so wrapped up in self-pity that we forget we’re here for a reason, yes? It may not be very much of a mission, but it’s certainly a reason. Not that we need one. But I know I need you. I wouldn’t be livin’ very long without you, right? Just the way you wouldn’t be livin’ very long without me. I’ve always been honest with you, haven’t I? You keep that smile going, you keep that spring in your step, and I’ll handle the rest, yeah? That’s all you gotta do, but it’s harder than it sounds, and believe me when I say that.

Let’s think of it like this. You keep things moving forward no matter what, and don’t you worry your pretty little head about another solitary thing. You can fuss over whatever nonsense they’ve taught you all you like. From the bottom of my heart. You go, and you have yourself a wonderful, wonderful time. Just know when it’s time to let your betters take the lead, and you’ll have no quarrel with me. Remember who got this whole thing started, after all. But you never struck me as the insubordinate type anyway. That was the whole point to start with, right? Anyway...

Knock yourself out.

[moondustaeil]

⋅ ɢᴇɴʀᴇ : a thunderstorm-filled night with mark : fluff

⋅ ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀꜱ : mark x reader

⋅ ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ : 1.1k

Right when the weather forecast is about to reveal tonight's stormy weather, the television screen goes black. The weather broadcaster is no longer explaining in the monotone voice, neither is he pointing at a card that you don't bother reading. Your fingers blindly reach out to grasp the remote, and as soon as the black zapper is clenched between your fist, you press the first button your finger rests on.

Nothing. Not a pixel of the screen that changes the black shade into a colour. The screen stays black like it's never been something else, and the sound is nonexistent like it doesn't even have a sound function. Thinking Mark is the culprit -because he knows how anxious you get over stormy weather- you turn your body towards him.

"Why did you do that?" You ask. You forget how you are the one possessing of the remote control, neither do you see the confused look written all over his face. You simply blame him because he knows your fear of thunderstorms: he's your biggest saviour in them and now you're accusing him of preventing you from being scared.

Mark turns his attention from the nonfunctional television to you, his eyes appearing slightly softer but still as confused. Your words confuse him even more than the television does, but he knows that he needs to puzzle those together. "I didn't," he protests lightly, his hands moving up in defence.

Your eyelids narrow, revealing less of your intense irises even though you look slightly more intimidating now. "You didn't turn off the television?" You ask him. It's a serious question because who else could have turned the television off, you didn't as your hand wasn't on the remote before, and Mark had been too far away to be able to reach it.

"I swear I didn't. I was sitting here!" This time Mark's defence is more intense, getting annoyed that you accuse him of something he didn't do. It takes him a second to realise why both of you are getting so worked up over it: you are afraid of thunderstorms and he is the one who will always hold you close through the thunder-filled nights. To give a closeup of how those nights are: they are pretty much sleepless.

To give an example of how storm-filled nights pass: the two of you usually collect everything important in a bag and place it in a corner in case you would need to flee from the apartment and the two of you sleep on top of the sheets, cuddled in one another's arms. You see every hour of the clock: one, two, three, four, five o'clock. Not to forget all of the minutes between those hours.

Tonight will be no different to that example, even though you still hope you will be able to sleep a little bit between the rumbles of thunder and the flashes of lightning. The stress from the thunderstorm combined with the exhaustion the day after does you no well.

"Okay, I believe you," you nod. You believe Mark as he says the words but that does take away the explanation you had for the sudden standby of the television. Mark sits up properly and grasps his phone from the coffee table "I'll just check the weather like this, don't worry," he says as he unlocks the device. Though after going to the weather app, he realises that even the app doesn't give him any updates.

"I guess the power went off already," He concludes, seeing that his wifi signal is completely gone. And having no electricity also explains why it's suddenly a hue darker in the room, the table lamp in the corner is turned off too. You stand up and spin around the room: no television, no table lamp, no sound of the washing machine doing the laundry. That the electricity went off could only mean one thing: the thunderstorm was close.

Upon Mark's request, you find yourself in bed earlier than expected. It's been around ten minutes since you were robbed of electricity and the thunderstorm had presented itself half of those minutes ago. Droplets of rain layer over the sound of the thunderstorm, though it's not as calming as ASMR always makes it out to be. They hit the window rapidly, almost in sync with the rapid beat of your heart.

It's Mark who wraps his fingers around your left shoulder and gently pulls you to lie next to him, on top of the sheets that cover the mattress. Sometimes you're a mess tangled in the sheets, but during the thunderstorms, you can be a mess without them. "Let's try to rest a bit before it gets worse. If we manage to fall asleep now, we might sleep through it," Mark reasons softly. His voice soothes you, alluring you into the idea of closing your eyes to sleep.

You hum in thought, pondering about the idea, but your idea is surely not as ideal as his. As ideal as an idea can get in this situation, that is. "Just close your eyes, love," Mark whispers as he notices your tense appearance: your legs tensed like they're ready for a marathon, your eyes widely opened and staring in direction of the window.

Against your will, your body responds to his words. Your eyes are closed before you can force them into staying open, though the rest of your body stays tensed up when a new rumble of thunder erupts from above.

To soothe the fear that fuels the tense muscles, Mark wraps both of his arms around you and pulls you onto his side of the bed carefully. His arms stay around your waist, holding you as close as he can, even though one hand slowly makes its way to your arm. Goosebumps rise on your skin as he brushes over your arm gently, tracing curved lines and meaningful figures.

"It will be over in a few hours. Think of thunderstorms like my heartbeat," Mark whispers in your ear. His forehead is rested against the side of your head, whispering the self-made quote into your ear so that you momentarily forget the rumbling outside the window. "Just like thunderstorms rumble for nature, my heartbeat beats for you."

His words lull you away from the negative thunderstorms, instead, your ears can only imagine the rumbles as the beats of his heart. A sound that you've heard so many times, you can almost imagine it even in a music-filled room. Whenever the thunder doesn't rumble, your mind fills in the blank moments with the beating sound.

Minutes pass and so does the thunderstorm. But your eyes are still closed and so are Mark's, peacefully asleep through the late hours of the night and the early hours of the morning. Mark's arms are still wrapped around your body: he feels like he's embracing the sun which is you, and you're embraced by the moon shining from a clear sky.

💌 send me a member (nct/tbz/too) + an au/genre and I'll write you a drabble or some soft hours

[nemesis-is-my-middle-name]

Amethyst and Emerald Eyes

Arthur's used to his friends dragging him to creepy places. Doesn't mean he likes it, but he's learned how to handle it. 

  The cave Vivi's found this time is... something else, though. There's no evidence of previous human occupation – it's untouched, and yet something with it is wrong. Everything is stained purple, even the mist drifting from the entrance, and the rock face towers above them like a yawning mouth. It feels dangerous, like something is warning them to leave. 

  None of the others notice it. Vivi bounces out excitedly, Mystery close at her heels. Kay strolls up to the entrance unfazed, his flashlight clicking idly on and off. 

  “What are you waiting for?” he calls after a moment, not even turning around. 

  “I- I don’t… there’s s-s-something… wrong with this place.” 

  “Oh, don’t start that again. Do you want to be here, or not?” He starts walking again. 

  Arthur can’t just leave them alone, what if someone gets hurt? But… his skin itches as he drags himself closer to the cave, scars aching and growing tense. He doesn’t want to be here, he wants to leave– 

  –but everyone else is going inside, and he can’t leave without them. 

  He forces himself to keep moving. 

---

Lewis is pulled from his slumber by the feeling of an unfamiliar presence in the cave. The gemstones around him flare to life as he wakes, their glow turning the rock above him to pink-tinted stars. 

He sighs, and rises through the cavern, drifting towards the intruders. He just has to get them to leave, and then he can go back to sleep. 

  On the lower path are two – people? A twenty-something girl and her dog, it seems at first glance, but… the dog burns with raw power when he gets close, and the girl is blue and cold, driving him back seemingly without noticing. He shivers and floats away, turning his attention to the other points of life he senses. 

  There’s two on the upper path as well  – young men, a little older than he was when… he shakes his head to dispel the sudden, uncomfortable familiarity. They’re both carrying flashlights. One’s tinged in shades of green, strolling ahead, perfectly calm, and the other, done in gold… Lewis can already feel the fear radiating off him, if it wasn’t obvious from the way he’s hunched in on himself with a white-knuckle grip on the flashlight. He’s almost stopped in the crossroads, the other walking off without him. 

  “If you want to leave, hurry up so we can get this over with,” says the first one. His voice is as relaxed as the rest of him, but there’s a dangerous undercurrent to it. 

  As soon as Lewis brushes near him, he can feel his thoughts. It takes a moment to process, and then he's sickened to his core. 

  Sucker has no idea what's coming, the mind whispers, he's gonna walk right into it. Goddamn I can't wait, I'm finally gonna be rid of this leech. If only he'd just hurry up, you'd think he'd want to get this over with, just a little closer you scrawny bastard so I can grab you by that stupid hair and kick you into those rocks- 

  He tears himself away from the thoughts in a panic. This visitor to his cave – he's planning a murder. He has to stop this. 

  First, he thinks to possess the would-be killer. To do what, he isn’t exactly sure – just stop them, whatever comes after, he’ll figure out as he goes. So he gathers all his power, a swirling, glowing purple smoke, and reaches out. 

  …only to find the murderer’s mind impenetrable. Like smooth glass against his nonexistent hand, any attempt he makes to get through into this person’s head falls against an unmoving barrier. He's too strong - dammit, why did this have to be the person he finally fails against? Why now?

  The gold one approaches closer behind them, finally finding his footing, and prompting a renewed urgency in Lewis. 

  “’s fucking fr-freezing in here,” he comments, oblivious to the looming danger. 

  “Really? I’m not cold at all,” Green responds with hardly a glance over his shoulder. 

  “Of course you’re not cold,” Lewis hisses, “you’re surrounded by a fire spirit.” 

  Gold jumps, attention snapping to the vague area Lewis is currently occupying. “Th- d-did you hear that?” 

  Did he... hear him? How?

  He’s a medium, Lewis realizes suddenly, the fact clicking into place. No wonder he’s afraid – he knows they’re not alone here. Green, clearly, has no such ability and no such concerns, and has defaulted to flat-out ignoring his companion as he presses on. 

  He ought to pay more attention. Frustration slips in alongside worry as he thinks about it further. He wanders into dangerous, likely-haunted places, disregards the person who might actually warn him about the danger, and then has the- the audacity to call him a leech? 

  Gold is approaching panic now, with the wide-eyed stare of a trapped animal, but he keeps following Green anyway. He wants nothing more than to help him, to at least stop what’s coming, most of all he doesn’t want to watch this- 

  -an idea forms as he drifts, aimless and despondent, after the two visitors. He may not have been able to reach Green, but maybe there’s something else he can do. But- what if something goes wrong- 

  But then he realizes they’ve reached the end of the road. The cliff opens out before them. It’s now or never. 

  As he was expecting, it’s almost unnervingly easy to slip into Gold’s mind. All he has to do is visualize himself reaching down and taking his hand, and any defenses he has cave instantly and allow him inside. For a moment, Gold locks up, registering something wrong in his head – and then Lewis takes over and the body relaxes again.

  I'm sorry about the intrusion, but I’m not going to hurt you. I’m here to help, he whispers to Gold, feeling his panic build with his sudden loss of control. 

  All he gets in return is a frantic no no no please don’t please don’t hurt me, and he realizes he won’t be able to reassure him, not like this. He's already too afraid of him. 

  “Hey, c’mere,” says Green, lifting his head from where he’s looking over the cavern. “You can see Vi from here.” 

  They draw closer to Green, eventually settling behind him with not a foot between them. Lewis debates, for a moment, what to do; he’s still not quite sure, when he speaks. 

  “I know what you’re going to do.” 

  A slight, almost imperceptible jerky tilt of the head, Green just barely resisting snapping it around to stare at him. He hears his mouth open with a soft click, but it’s another beat before he speaks. “…what?” 

  He hadn’t realized how strange talking through a mouth would be, and the unfamiliarity adds to his nerves. “I… I can’t allow it.” 

  Green scoffs at that, standing up again and turning around to face them, speaking as he does. “And what are you going to do about it? Go run and cry to Vivi, so you can make yourself look even worse for her? You're certainly not going to do anything by yourself. I mean-" A light, sarcastic laugh. "You probably don't even want to. So why not just save us both the trouble?"

  And then he shifts his weight, and it’s barely the beginning of a movement but it’s still all too easy for Lewis to predict what comes next. 

  Gold is stronger than he was expecting, and Green isn’t ready for the blow. And overconfidence had him standing too close to the edge, and the single step he takes back in response is one step too many. All of a sudden, he’s falling. 

  Lewis is all too familiar with this drop, but he still nearly forgets what’s coming next. The crunch of bone and muscle tearing apart echoes through the cave, followed by a scream – coming not from the dead man, he realizes, but someone else. The other person he’d seen on the lower path. 

  He takes a couple steps back from the ledge – away from that gruesome sight. He’s starting to regret this decision, to second-guess himself – but the only alternative he can see is Gold dying, and he… he can still feel Gold, innocent and frightened, alongside him in this mind. There’s no way Green deserves to live over him. Not someone who’d murder – from the looks of things, someone who considered him a friend. 

  I can go now. He tries to reach out to the soul. I'm sorry again about the intrusion, I just couldn't watch him kill you.

  The response he gets makes him flinch - a wave of terror that would have been a wail if they were physical, wordless and honest panic. Does he still not understand? 

  A sound from behind makes him spin around. It’s coupled with a flash of power that makes him take a step back. He recognizes the dog, but… it’s not a dog anymore. It’s massive, and the way it’s standing is obviously hostile. 

  He holds up his hands. “Hold on, I’m not- I’m trying to help-“ 

  “Silence, monster!” it snarls, stepping forward. “Not one more word! I already know what you are.” 

  “Wait-“ 

  The distance between them is closed in an instant. A weight slams down on his – Gold’s – chest, and he feels something snap under the force, closely followed by sharp stabs when claws bite into flesh. The sensation is familiar, and he’s not sure if it’s that or the sheer force that keeps him from breathing. 

  Teeth bite into the arm he’d first reached through, and he isn’t sure if it’s him or Gold that’s screaming. 

  All at once he’s yanked out of the body, and his spectral form flickers, mingling with the blood in the air. He reins in his fire before it can do any damage, staring in horror at the scene before him. This – he didn’t want this – why – who are these people? 

  A shout echoes from behind the monster, echoing and unintelligible, and it starts and looks back. Suddenly it’s gone, replaced with the small dog from before. 

  Lewis is torn between running and staying – his instincts are screaming at him to get away from that thing – but Gold’s rapidly losing blood, and if he dies here too, it’ll be his fault, and… and then he’s just caused two deaths. 

  Then the blue girl from before appears. The dog doesn’t say anything, just stays close and watches silently. It takes her a moment to process – and then she’s moving, pulling off a scarf and working to bandage the wound. 

  He isn’t sure even that will be enough. He can feel Gold’s life fading, and his bright colors are dimming to near-grey. 

  He didn’t want this. He spares another glance to the not-dog, who seems too preoccupied with reassuring Blue to notice him now – reassuring her and not the person he’s very nearly killed. Blue, at least, doesn’t seem to know what happened. She’s reacting as if some outside force has caused all of this. 

  Then they’re leaving the cave, and he’s expecting to be left drifting there. But something pulls him along after them, staying just a few feet from Gold. 

  He stays tethered to that dimming golden light as they speed away from his decades-long home in the cave.

[emerald-amidst-gold]

My DAUGHTER

I did it. My first of Elise and by extension, Nathaniel. I hope I did him justice, but I’ll get the hang of it if not! 

FLUFF for your PLEASURE!

****

Elise sat along the battlements, the cool stone and fresh breeze helping ground her, even as her hands shook from the letter lodged between her fingers. She knew reading any letters from him would elicit these feelings and reactions in her, but she had no choice but to read them. They were business, they were important, and they hurt because of how much veiled anger was housed within indifferent scribbles. 

“It’s been over a year, and I still can’t stop shaking every time I read these letters.”, Elise said to herself, lifting a hand to tuck a lock of her hair behind her ear and then using it to resituate her fur cloak. It was spring, but near the sea it was always a bit cooler, especially in Ferelden. 

“Warden-Commander?”

Elise blinked, startling a bit and almost losing the thin paper in her hands to the wind as she whipped her head back and forth. Who had..? Her silent question was answered as her gaze landed upon Nathaniel, seeming to have just rounded the corner from the quiet look of surprise at seeing her upon his face. He was dressed in the basic Warden scout armor, but had forgone the heavy plating for a comfortability, and donned a light fur cloak much like she did, much like they all did, actually. The look of shock dissipated into a thoughtful expression, but she still sat with her mouth slightly agape and letter clutched to her chest, hands still trembling slightly.

“Oh!”, she squeaked after a little longer at staring at one another, turning her gaze down to her boots, tapping the heels together idly. “Um, hello..”, her voice a murmur, as the continued feeling of her Second’s gaze had her flushing lightly. Hopefully, it would just be taken as the wind irritating her cheeks. That’s all it was, after all!

A quiet chuckle and the drag of boots had Elise relaxing and tensing at the same time. 

“Are you a mouse now? How the mighty have fallen.”, her Second teased, voice louder now that he was closer, her senses telling her that he was only a few feet from where she was seated. Elise lifted her head to give the man before her a small glare, not even caring if he could see her blush now.

“No, I’m not a mouse.”, she denied, pulling the letter from her chest and immediately regretting it as her hands began to shake again. “I’m just..”, she sighed, unable to get the words out and opting to just stare up hopelessly at someone who had thus far stood by her despite every decision, every hiccup. Nathaniel’s expression softened a bit, normally stern lines smoothing out as he slowly came to sit beside her on the stone slabs.

“You’re shaking..”, he pointed out, leaning towards her a bit, but not touching her despite seeming like he wanted to. “Are you cold? The Vigil does get especially windy this time of year.”

Elise shook her head, raising a trembling hand to push her hair from her face. She needed to trim it, or at least style it differently, at this rate. 

“Not really.”, she said, glancing back down at the letter in one hand as she fisted the other in her cloak for a lifeline. “I was...reading a letter.”, the words finally taking shape from her lips. She glanced back up when Nathaniel let out a hum in understanding, his own gaze looking at the worried piece of parchment in her ungloved, pale hand.

“I guess it’s from...you know who, then?”, he asked, knowing far more than Elise had divulged, but that was her own doing since the rumor mill was deep and its wheat spread like wildfire.

Elise sighed. “Yes.”, slumping down a bit on the stone and resting her back against one of the vertical slabs. “It’s almost been a year and I still…”, she trailed off, mouth forming into a hard line that made her lips seem almost nonexistent. She hated this feeling of being lost and adrift. Ever since the Landsmeet she had felt this way, and she had no one to blame but herself. She didn’t regret what she had decided, never, but venomous words had cut deeper than a hurlock’s blade did. 

Elise nearly felt tears prick at the corners of her eyes until a light nudge from a sturdy shoulder had her blinking them away, looking up to see Nathaniel regarding her calmly, but with quiet warmth, almost as if he was worried such heat would have her jumping back in fear of being burnt. But she wanted, desperately wanted, to be burnt, to feel something other than cold anger from inked words upon indifferent filigree. She wanted to be...to be looked at like Nathaniel was looking at her right now, gentle and honest, no anger, no scorn, no betrayal. 

She wanted to be wrapped in this calming fire, and cleansed like Andraste had been cleansed with love and understanding.

“N..Nate..”, Elise stuttered, the sound of the letter tearing from her grip barely reaching her ears as finally, finally, she felt gloved hands, the fingers bare, but the palm covered, gingerly wrap around hers to dislodged them from the object of her distress. 

“Let it go, El.”, Nathaniel whispered her nickname, calm and steady as each of his fingers pried one of her’s open and away from the past. “I know it’s hard, but you can decide when enough’s enough.”, the sound of cloth and leather shifting telling her that her Second had moved closer, but only just. 

The tears forgotten began to make a reappearance as Elise watched deft fingers unlock her fingers like they unlocked chests without fuss, without judgement. She wanted to lock those fingers around her own and never let go, but would she be foolish to do so? Would she drive them away with welling meaning decisions born from a want not to continue killing?!

“I can’t..”, Elise whispered out shakily, beginning to lean towards the warmth Nathaniel was exuding, tears fattening at the corner of her eyes as she squeezed them shut. “I..I can’t..!”, hands upon her own successfully managing to make her drop the letter, the breeze finishing the job by shoving it down the walkway. She nearly burst as a heavy, warm arm came around, cloak and all, to pull her into more heat and stability. 

“You can.”, the affirmation firm, encouraging, and deep as Elise felt a weight atop her head, a cheek resting against it, but she couldn’t be bothered to wax poetic about it as she began to sob. “He has no control over you here, or anywhere. You’re a Grey Warden, and an admirable woman.”, Nathaniel told her, the feel of his cheek being replaced by his nose as it burrowed into a raven’s nest. 

Elise shifted against the stone at that, practically throwing herself into a sturdy chest that was so different, so foreign, but so right, and wrapping her arms around it to greedily suck in all the heat and acceptance it had to offer. Her hair stuck her face as tears rolled down from tightly shut eyes, but she didn’t care. She didn’t care! She just wanted to forget it all, to be burnt so badly that all the memories of honeyed eyes regarding her with pain and betrayal melted away like wax!

“A..Admirable?”, she squeezed out between sobs, nearly wailing as she felt Nathaniel throw caution to the wind and embrace her, albeit it loosely in case she wanted to escape. “I..I..I made a decision and...and..it only caused p..pain!”, the words a choked cry as the tears flowed. Why couldn’t she stop crying?! She didn’t want to cry! She had cried enough in the last two years!

A soft exhale of air had Elise shivering as Nathaniel let out a quiet sigh, one hand tenderly stroking her back in a soothing fashion. Like a cat, she arched into a bit, wanting something, anything to make her understand.

“Maybe, but that’s not your fault, El.”, he whispered, arms tightening around her as she sniffled like a child. “You don’t have control over how someone will respond to what you decide. They’re responsible for their own actions, and you shouldn’t feel guilt over it.”, one arm shifting to card through her long hair, smoothing it out along the middle of her back. 

“You didn’t see the heartbreak in his eyes, Nate!’, Elise spat around tears and sobs, turning her head up from the pillow of blue and silver that meant so much to her to connect gazes with someone who was slowly crossing into the same category once again. And that scared her, but she couldn’t pull away! “He..He loved me, and I..I gutted him as if I had a sword..”

“If he truly loved you, Elise, would he have said things he had? Would he have gutted you just as you gutted him?”, her Second offered, eyes flashing with anger, but not towards her. “Would he have abandoned you to face the Archdemon alone? Would he have married a woman right in front of you, even though it was solely political? Would he have ignored the heartbreak in your eyes?!”

Her eyes went wide at that, tears halting and mouth going agape. She felt her fingers curl into the blue cotton under her hands, feeling the rapid beat of a heart as the body that bore it tried to compose itself. The words had struck deep, but not to inflict harm. They were said to make her wake up, and she had, if only for the moment. 

“...No.”, Elise whispered shakily, taking in a deep breath to try and calm herself more. “No, he wouldn’t have.”, she repeated more resolutely. She was such a mess these days, wasn’t she? 

Sharp eyes gazed down at her with fierceness and resolve, a handsome face stern, but caring around her. In the lull of the moment, Elise couldn’t help but reach up and attempt to smooth out furrowed, raven brows with two fingers, their owner blinking in surprise and tensing a bit. A watery giggle left her lips at that, melancholy momentarily forgotten for lightness.

“S..Sorry.”, Elise apologized, feeling her cheeks heat up a bit as she retracted her hand with a shy smile. Yup, a mess. She was a mess of fluttering emotions. Surprise drained away from Nathaniel’s expression, something like a silent battle going on in his mind as his eyes hardened a bit before he opened his mouth to speak.

“I..didn’t mind it.”, he admitted, hardness softening to fill her with more warmth, just as the arms still around her were. “I could stand to be less intense. We can’t all walk around here being like Justice.”, a smirk playing on his lips as Elise let out another soft giggle. 

“Oh, Justice isn’t that bad!”, she argued, slapping the chest she was reclining against with a larger smile when Nathaniel raised an eyebrow at her. “He’s a spirit! He gets a rain check!”, another laugh leaving her as her bastion against the storm rolled his eyes, smirk growing.

“So if you’re a spirit, you can be as brooding as you want? Good to know.”, he quipped dryly, eyes calm where they were otherwise tumultuous due to cold anger. “I don’t think I’m eager to possess a half rotted corpse, though.”

Elise only laughed again before lifting a bit of her cloak to wipe at her eyes. This was actually making her feel a bit better. For all his blase, Nathaniel had a special brand of humor that always had her sprawled across the table during dinner, stomach hurting and gasping for breath. It was so different from-- She shook her head a bit, scowling a little. No, she wouldn’t compare. That wasn’t fair on either person. Each person was individual, and each responded to experiences, jokes, and statements differently. 

Just like Nate said.. Elise thought, watching with curiosity as said man was currently staring out over the battlements, eyes hooded and face relaxed despite the intimacy they were locked in. And strangely, she felt just as relaxed when otherwise she would have believed herself to combust with a blush and sputtering. Maybe she had changed. Maybe...maybe she could let go..?

Maybe she could hold tight to a hand that let her.

“Um..”, Elise uttered, tapping a few fingers against Nathanie’s chest, succeeding in turning his distant gaze back to her, expression thoughtful, eyebrows slightly raised. She froze a bit at that intensity before finding her voice again. “Thank you..for slapping some sense into me. It’s..not always that pathetic, but sometimes...the letters get to be a bit much..”, she said. She knew it was no excuse to ball, but it was something.

Nathaniel’s expression turned a bit confused before he let out a small sigh, smirk reappearing upon his lips. “I could use the letters as target practice, if you want.”, he joked, but something in his tone had Elise believing he might actually do such a thing. 

She shook her head with a smile, lightness replacing dark. “While that might be fun to watch, I have to have my fun, too.”, she said, wiggling her fingers in front of him. “Namely, fire~”

Nathaniel’s face went deadpan. “The last time you used fire, the drapes in the main hall looked like charred wood.”

“Okay, that was only one time!”, she squawked, pushing herself up a bit to try and glared down into blank eyes, the body before her barely budging. 

“One time’s enough for everyone.”

“At least I didn’t shoot Oghren in the ass during a skirmish!”, she shot back, but knew it fell flat as Nathaniel gave her a look that said, ‘Is that a problem?’ She scoffed with a roll of her eyes. “Don’t give me that look!”

“What look?”, he responded flippantly, face still blank, but Elise could see the cracks as a corner of a lip twitched. She leaned down a bit so that their faces were mere inches apart, putting on her best Warden-Commander expression. 

“You know what look, Nathaniel Howe.”, she said sternly, but nearly cracked when an amused snort left the aforementioned man, a cough following to cover up the sound, but she had caught it.

“With all due respect, Commander, I don’t think I do.”, he played coy, the two of them jostling a bit as his face inched closer to her own, but Elise didn’t falter, even as she felt a soft blush heat up her face. “Care to educate me?”

“And how do you think I’d be able to do that?”, she voiced the question, a sense of heated tension wrapping around her like the warmth of their combined bodies and cloaks. “I don’t have a mirror on hand, unfortunately.”

“You’ll think of something, I’m sure.”, a push, a gentle shove as a soft expression turned softer, sharp eyes flitting downwards before catching themselves and reconnecting with her own. However, Elise felt caught herself doing the same, but hesitated on what her mind wished to act upon. 

Was it really okay? Could she have this? Could she...let the past be the past and stride into the future, hand in hand? All those questions, and no conclusive answers. Dangerous for a mage of the Circle, but she wasn’t that any longer. She was a Warden, a woman, and she wanted to start acting like one.

“Um..”, Elise started, swallowing around a lump in her throat as intense eyes gazed up at her, just now realizing there was a warmth on the small of her back to steady her. “Do you…”, she started to ask, but was abruptly cut off as a loud howl came from her stomach, gnawing hunger severing the thread of intimacy and confusing feelings. 

Elise felt her face flush ten shades darker, the heat almost unbearable, as she scrambled away from Nathaniel, the man wearing a knowing smirk, but a somewhat disappointed look in his eyes which was quickly flushed away with gentleness towards her. 

“Hungry?”, he asked, already starting to stand up from his stone seat and stretching as he did so, body locked up from sitting for too long. 

Elise only stared at her feet, clacking her heels together in embarrassment. Maker, she was such a mess!

“Mm..”, she offered with a tiny nod, face still feeling like a raging inferno and eyes glued to her rapidly tapping feet until a hand, palm side up, came into her line of sight. She blinked, clacking stopping as her thoughts did, turning her gaze upwards to see Nathaniel giving her an uncommonly gentle smile, his features seeming so much younger and sharper. 

He’s...everything I never imagined I would want, but do.. The thought made her tense up in fear, but immediately relaxed when she felt Nathaniel take a hold of one her hands, strong fingers curling around her own delicate ones to give it a light squeeze. 

And she responded back with one of her own eliciting an even softer expression from her dour Warden. It made her heart soar to new, exciting heights without fear, without dread.

“Shall I treat the lady to dinner?”, Nathaniel asked her with a hum, lifting her hand lay a barely perceivable kiss upon it, but she could feel it with acute awareness, the foreign, seemingly forgotten sensation making her toes curl within her boots and face burst into flames. 

“U..Uh-huh!”, Elise squeaked out, nodding rapidly to the point she was making herself dizzy, but she didn’t care. Nathaniel’s smirk grew from around her knuckles, giving her hand a light tug.

“You’ll have to stand first.”, he pointed out before humming as he stood up straight, still holding her hand. “Or..do I have to carry you?” 

Elise spluttered a bit before hopping up, nearly falling into the man before her, but was steadied with a hand upon her shoulder. She immediately drew her cloak up over her nose, attempting to hide her blush from her Second as his thumb idly stroked the back of her hand, his smirk never vanishing despite her actions. An absolute mess! That’s what she was! But..why did she want to be one with him?

“I can walk, I can walk..”, she muttered, voice muffled from the fabric as she began to walk towards the entrance to the Keep, but was immediately pulled back with little effort, tripping over her heels a bit to where she was falling backwards into a firm chest. 

“Ah!”, a cry slipped from her due to surprise, but she went silent as intensity and tender warmth regarded her once more, a pleading question desiring an answer within razor eyes. It made her melt into the body behind her, fumbling with the hand in her own to finally interlock fingers how she had wanted so desperately before, and their counterpart responded with just as much fiery desperation.

“Do you want to let go?”, the question was a whisper, a double edged sword, but Elise felt no danger from it as she squeezed the hand clinging to her own, shaking her head slowly with a tender smile.

“No.”, she said, pulling their joined hands up to hug them close to her chest. “Do you?”, fear making her wary, souring the intimate moment, but sweetness encased her like a sugar coating as a soft kiss, more of a brushing of lips against her forehead, had sighing out in relief, nearly crying anew. 

“No.”, Nathaniel whispered against her hairline, taking in a deep breath through his nose as he drew her closer, squeezing her hand firmly. “Never…”, he shifted his head, leaning down a bit to where their noses were nearly touching. “Never..”, the desire repeated, certain and assured.

Elise let out a shaky sigh, eyes going hooded as their foreheads touched. “Do you..want to try?”, she asked, hoping he would pick up on what she wanted without context. She needed to know, needed to realize she could...could want this and not be slapped for it.

“I do. I’ve wanted to try for a while.”, the response instant, easy, the head against her’s tilting a bit for a better angle, but to what, she wasn’t sure as fear, hope, and joy mixed in her heart and mind, dulling its edge and there was no whetstone to sharpen it anew.

Elise bit into her bottom lip a bit, heat pooling in her body when she saw hazy eyes follow the movement easily. “R..Really?”, she asked, still doubtful, still leery. 

Nathaniel nodded, patient and calm despite the heat in his gaze. “Yes. Really.”, he assured, his free hand coming up to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear, grazing the lobe with his fingers to which she shivered with a sharp, quiet intake of breath. “I won’t push you, though. Despite what I said earlier, I know it isn’t easy to let go of the past. And if that means I wait, then I wait.”, the words a promise wrapped in deepness and velvet. 

Elise could only smile, shaking her head slowly once more. This man could be extremely devoted, couldn’t he? Of course, he could. She knew that from the moment they met, and he further proved that to her with his dedication as a Warden. He did everything without complaint, but wasn’t afraid to question a decision if it made him feel uneasy. He looked out for his companions, even as he appeared to be uninterested in befriending them. He was proud of what his family was before the war, before the Blight, but was willing to accept that the past could never truly be the same, but that he could paint a different picture with his own actions. 

Nathaniel was her Second, her rock to lean on, one of her closest friends despite the shaky beginnings, and her…

...hand to hold when darkness was the only thing waiting in the end and he would never abandon her to it.

“You don’t have to wait.”, Elise blurted out, desperation overriding fear as she turned to face Nathaniel, his eyes slightly wide and eyebrows raised in shock, but she kept her resolve. “I want to..to try. Now. Now, in the present, and in the future, and...and for however long we have.”, she watched as their joined hands began to shake, but from her or him, she wasn’t sure. “I..never thought I’d..I’d be able to..”, tears pooling around her eyes as quiet sobs began to escape her again. No, no! Why did she always have to cry?!

An airy, soft laugh had Elise burrowing into blue and silver once again, a gentle embrace encapsulating her with no hesitation this time and a firmer, more defined kiss against the crown of her head had the tears picking up as relief and joy, two things she thought she’d forgotten about, filled her heart to bursting.

“You’re a mess.”, Nathaniel said around another laugh, but the words held no disdain, no accusation, only affection. “But that’s what I like about you.”, the words chosen carefully, knowing the line was thin, even as it thickened. This was fresh, new and they both knew that. So, Elise could let out a wobbly, but genuine laugh as she peered through a watery veil into grey eyes. 

“What a way with words.”, she teased around sniffles, reaching up to poke at a nose and was rewarded with a blank stare with hidden mirth in its depths. “But that’s what I like about you.”, reciprocation laced with sugar.

“That I’m blunt?”

“That you’re honest.”, she corrected, smiling more at the resounding chuckle.

“You’re something else.”, Nathaniel said with a shake of his head, but it was fond, not chastising.

“You wandered into my dungeon, Howe~ Remember that~”, Elise sang, rocking on her heels and smiling with a lightness she hadn’t felt in months. 

It was so nice to feel...found, unafraid. There would undoubtedly be days where she tripped up, fell in the mud, but there would be a hand waiting to pick her back up, and she would do the same for the man who was once an enemy, but was now one of her most cherished friends.

And a little something more, but again, it was new, fresh, she was ready to try, but not outright dive into the ocean. Not yet, anyways. That would come in time, when letters didn’t make her hands shake and her heart heavy with memories of yelling, snapping, and betrayal. But for now, she would try, and traverse this sandy shore, hand in hand with someone new, but somehow felt like he’d been with her since the beginning of it all.

“And you..”, Nathaniel began, pulling her close with a light growl that made her nearly burst out in giggles. “...let me out, so you have no one to blame for this but yourself, my lady.”, he teased, the title like silk as he brought their hands up to lay another kiss upon her’s. She flushed a bit, but didn’t short circuit like before, only leaning into the body before her more.

“I think I can live with that decision, thank you very much!”, Elise chirped, the two of them locking eyes with electricity and piercing accuracy before the sound of her stomach growling again had her sheepishly turning her own away. “I can’t live without food, though.” Blasted Grey Warden hunger! It always snuck up on her at the worst of times! 

Her Second chuckled, stepping back from her a bit, but not releasing her hand. “The offer for dinner still applies, just so you know.”, he said with a raised eyebrow, lighting tugging on her hand as he began to move towards the door, knowing she would follow. 

“It better be a feast at this rate.”, she grumbled, putting her free hand on her stomach as she followed as if on auto pilot, another growl sounding like an angry mabari. “Three feasts, actually.”

The only response Elise got was a laugh and roll of grey eyes as Nathaniel led her along the battlement, and all she could do was stare down at their interlocked hands, face warm and cheeks nearly aching with a smile as she realized she would not longer have to rely on a piece of paper filled with echoes of the past to fill them.

***

I’m crying. This was so much fucking fun to write. AGHDHKG! *screams like a dinosaur*

[autistic-beshelar]

Neurodivergent Link Headcanons (BOTW)

Here are... my headcanons for ND Link! I’ve tried to put them in fairly concise bullet points so hopefully they make sense. A lot of the autistic/adhd traits overlap, but I’ve put them in separate sections just to try and make this easier to read 

Headcanons under the cut!

Autism:

 - sensory seeking! Link needs constant stimulation and his preferred sensory input is touch, whether it’s rubbing his palms over tree bark or smushing his face in soft pillows. Auditory and visual stimulation are good too, but he’s very, very tactile. Of course taste is another big thing for him, he loves cooking and trying out new food and exploring different tastes, whether it’s sweet or spicy or sour, the stronger the better.

- he stims. SO MUCH. he has so many stims that I’m going to make a separate post to include all of them, but the main ones are rocking and flapping his hands.

- very good with gross motor skills, generally good with fine motor skills but there are a select few he struggles with - he has very poor handwriting, has to focus tying shoelaces, struggles washing his hair, overestimates how hard he’s brushing his teeth and makes his gums bleed

- poor interoception. Has a hard time telling when he’s hungry, or tired, or in pain. Sometimes he will walk around with an injury and not realise until he sees blood. Finds it hard to recognise negative sensations and his body tends to just interpret them as discomfort.

- very good at recognising and deciphering expressions and body language, but not particularly good at (or interested in) emulating it. He’s very astute and can pick up on microexpressions and hidden glances and the like, and can work out people’s true feelings or motivations, but in a social context he’s not necessarily good at responding to it.

- easily picks up on small details and notices things others don’t - this can be related to the former point, but also just in general. Also very good at pattern recognition which lends itself well to solving shrines.

- nonverbal. Mostly uses sign to communicate, or noises (usually with animals or people he’s comfortable with). Can occasionally manage to speak in short bursts when he has to, but it’s few words and usually stuttered, and if he gets at all stressed (which he often does if he’s forced to talk) he won’t be able to say much of anything. He can talk a little around Sidon and Zelda, they’re pretty much the only he feels comfortable enough to be verbal with, and they understand the way he talks and are patient when he’s slow or gets words mixed up.

- difficulty with eye contact. Either too little or too much, though usually it’s the former. He only tends to stare at people if he likes them, or if he’s angry with them or trying to make them uncomfortable

- echo echo lalia. Loves to repeat fun noises, especially animal noises, but sometimes words (sees a dog and just goes doggy doggy doggy doggy doggy for the next hour). He does this with sign as well, but tends to prefer making fun mouth sounds

- special interests in food and horses! Those twins at the stable were right. That’s all that’s on his mind. Food and horses. He really loves trying out new ingredient combinations and exploring different tastes. And he knows a great many horse facts. 

- forms connections with animals more easily than with people. This is partly because when he first left the Shrine of Resurrection he was alone in the wilderness, and partly because he doesn’t really talk, but it’s also just an autism thing. People are friendly to him, but he doesn’t tend to form deep connections with them like he does with animals.

- can tell the time by the position of the sun in the sky but can’t read a clock. What are those numbers on the slate. It’s a mystery!

- has mild visual processing issues, mostly struggles to focus on things like screens or pages, things look blurry or strangely coloured, or have a weird overlay.

ADHD:

- inattentive AND hyperactive AND impulsive, a triple threat

- gets the Zoomies. Often ends up conking out afterwards. Will run around chasing frogs all day and then just fall asleep in the middle of a field

- Can’t Stay Still. Has To Bounce Leg.

- nonexistent sleep schedule. Granted, he doesn’t sleep well or regularly what with travelling all over Hyrule, but even without that his sleep would be terrible

- sometimes zones out in the middle of a conversation. Good luck guessing whether he’s having a seizure or if he’s just thinking really hard about jellyfish

- alternatively, he will hyperfocus. Very good at hyperfocusing on shrines, or anything that involves challenges. Also good at hyperfocusing on physical activities.

- executive functioning… what’s that. Link doesn’t know. Link can’t organise to save his life and honestly thank god for the sheikah slate because without it he’d be screwed. Cannot schedule, cannot plan, cannot organise. 

- thrillseeking!!! He gets easily understimulated and needs adrenaline to survive. Will do anything remotely dangerous for fun and profit. 

- often thinks very quickly, usually jumping quickly from one thing to the next, but only about certain subjects (usually related to animals, nature, food, chaotic activities) and usually when he’s full of adrenaline. Although other times, especially when he’s tired, it’s just. Dial up noises. Head empty

- focus juice… for mentally taxing activites? Nonexistent.

Expressive language disorder:

(It used to be separated into receptive language disorder, expressive language disorder, or mixed, but these days it’s lumped together into developmental language disorder. However I use expressive language disorder for link because he specifically only has problems with expressive language (forming his own words) and not receptive language (understanding other people’s words)).

- gets words in the wrong order

- sometimes replaces a word with something else, especially if the signs are similar

- has difficulty with tenses (more so in verbal speech)

- often misses out words completely

- has quite a large vocabulary, but struggles with word recall. Will sometimes remember the word he meant to use hours later

- often flaps his hands in an attempt to remember a word, if he can’t think of it he will try to find an alternative

- c a n n o t  s p e l l. Sometimes when he doesn’t know the sign for something, he’ll try to fingerspell it, but if the word is hard to spell he’ll try and find an alternative

- finds sign much easier than spoken language, because its grammatical structure (particularly how it uses tenses and combines language with muscle memory) is simpler to use for him, and because it’s so expressive he finds it easier to get his point across

- his language disorder is a part of why he’s nonverbal (as well as that he has a bit of a stutter), so signing in general is just much easier, though not everyone knows sign, and he isn’t fluent himself.

Epilepsy: 

- has temporal lobe epilepsy

- mostly gets absence seizures and focal seizures

- absence seizures (essentially his brain ‘switching off’) are his more common ones. They usually only last a couple of seconds, and tend to look like he’s just distracted or zoning out (which he also does because of ADHD), though sometimes his eyelids will flicker, or if he’s walking or doing something he’ll suddenly stop, and go back to it like nothing happened. He isn’t aware of them at all. If they happen during something like a conversation with someone, he’ll just dismiss it as being distracted, though he does start to notice when he has longer absences and misses whole sentences, or has clusters of absences.

- focal aware seizures (auras) usually present as deja-vu, intense fear, or out of body feelings. He doesn’t realise they’re seizures for a while, since he experiences these anyway, and attributes the deja-vu to the memory loss, but eventually learns to tell them apart because his auras tend to come on very suddenly, though they can last a while

- he also gets focal impaired awareness ones, which tend to happen more when he’s very tired, especially when waking up/going to sleep. When he gets auras he’s still completely aware of his surroundings (and usually doesn’t have trouble moving, unless it’s a particularly bad one), but with impaired awareness he gets drowsy and confused, and won’t understand what people are saying

- usually his focal seizures stay just that, but sometimes they will become tonic-clonic seizures. This is usually only when he’s exhausted/injured/extremely stressed/otherwise worn down. Most of the time his auras come on soon enough to warn him he might have a worse seizure, so he can go somewhere safe (at least, once he realises he’s epileptic

- they’re arguably the mildest, but his absence seizures at the most dangerous, even though they’re usually short, because he gets no warning for them. He usually gets them a couple of times a day (especially waking up/going to sleep), but he gets them more frequently if he’s very tired, and if he gets absence clusters it makes it really hard to do anything.

- his main triggers are sleep deprivation, missing meals, extreme stress, and extreme heat. Which is unfortunate considering he spends his time running around Hyrule on no sleep and forgets to eat all the time.

in conclusion link is neurodivergent and i love him. thank u for ur time pls feel free to comment ur opinions and headcanons etc 

[thebigqueer]

fic prompt: a vibey group of friends (all diff aesthetics but they fit) being very swaggy and then they engage in THIEVERY and get away with it like the cool peeps they are - for flavor throw in a bunch of androgyny and no romance but instead they are very good friends

at first i was considering using my OCs but then i remembered that i really wanted to do a fic with the Art Hoes TM so thank you for this perfect prompt (also lakjsdljkdf yes this is very late but in my defense i also could not figure out how to write this one) thanks for the prompt! i hope y’all like this! and, as always: I do no editing on these, so please don’t be too judgmental.

The light overhead flickers, brushing strokes of darkness over the ceiling intermittently. A low hum emanates from the packed freezer, showcasing the variety of expired milk and sweet ice creams. Perhaps they shouldn’t do this to the poor twenty year old at the counter, but in their defense, the cashier seems like they’re too dead to even notice what’s happening. They should really be focused. In the quick flash of darkness, two beings flicker into existence in a corner, shadows coiling like snakes behind them. They balance themselves against the wall to fight off the wave of dizziness and wait for the signal of Lou Ellen. She stands by the candy aisle, browsing through an assortment of teeth-rotting delicacies, all the while brushing her hand over the air to pull them all under the guise of invisibility through the Mist. The beings step into the light once again but there’s no anxiety in doing so; the cashier won’t see them. They whisper past the shelves of snacks and junk food and approach Lou Ellen. Alex pulls out a dark green bag and quietly shifts through the snacks, pushing only his favorite ones into the sack. Nico opens a rip of darkness between the bottom and top shelf and shoves Twizzlers, gummies, and a wide assortment of chocolates in. They’re careful to keep silent; the Mist can only really hide the most bizarre of scenes, most incomprehensible of scenes. It’s not created to hide the image of three shithead teenagers very obviously committing shoplifting. A bead of sweat pops over Lou Ellen’s forehead as she shoves a pack of Starbust into Nico’s rip of darkness. “We’re gonna need to hurry,” she hisses, fingers trembling as she pushes Sour Patch Kids into Alex’s sack. “I don’t know how much longer I can hold it.” Nico sighs as they scrutinize a bottle of Coca-Cola. “I knew I should have brought Hazel with us. She would be able to help you. Sorry, Lou.” “Less talky, more stealy,” Alex mutters, opening his arms wide and shoving almost an entire shelf of candy into the tear of darkness. He fixes Nico with a glare. “Honestly, it’s like none of you have stolen before.” Lou Ellen mutters, “Sorry we haven’t exactly mastered the art of thievery.” “Speak for yourself,” Nico whispers, a smile creeping over his lips. “I’ve had my fair share of thievery when I was rogue.” Finally, when it seems like Alex’s back can’t hold anymore and the ripple of darkness that Nico opened is bursting with stomachache-inducing goodies, the three stop shoving food in. Nico tilts his head and frowns. “I think we have more than we even need.” “It’s fine,” Lou Ellen says, face turning a little red. “We don’t have time to pull it back out. We can just give it to Will and Magnus and Percy and maybe the Stolls. They’ll find a way to sell it off.” Nico snorts, eyes glimmering in amusement. “Can’t believe we’ve become candy dealers.” Alex laughs silently. “Oh, we are so bad. Maggie’s gonna be so scared of me.” Lou Ellen glares at the two of them. “Okay, yes, ha-ha. Can we go now? I’m not sure how much longer I can keep this up.” As if on cue, her eyelids flutter and her hands drop. She sways on her feet and almost collapses, but Alex is there to hold her steady. Lou Ellen wipes her face over her palm. “See? Let’s go.” Alex and Lou Ellen hesitate, watching Nico. But he gazes ahead to the cashier with his eyebrows furrowed as if deep in thought. They pull their hand into their pocket; the clinking sound of money chimes from his pockets. 

Alex raises an eyebrow. “Nico, let’s go.” 

“Hold on.” And before Alex can protest, Nico disappears into a nearby shadow, leaving only the darkness lingering behind them like smoke in the air. Alex’s heart punches against his chest with anxiety. What is wrong with him? he asks himself. Turning abruptly, Alex discovers Nico standing before the cashier, placing a pile of coins over the counter. The cashier doesn’t seem to notice Nico, perhaps fooled by the mist, but he certainly notices the new money appearing before him. His eyes widen in surprise, a panicked look overcoming his face. 

Alex facepalms. “Of course. Nico just has to go ahead and be a noble hero.” He sighs. “At least he’s quiet. Maybe the poor cashier will think it’s just a ghost giving him money.”

But then, right at that moment, Lou Ellen gasps and stumbles to the ground. A large whoosh flows through the convenience store, the sound of the Mist slipping away from her grasp. For a second, everything stills. There’s a tense hestiation in the air, as if everyone’s waiting for something to happen. Alex bites his lip.

And then the cashier screams, pushing against his chair, a look of pure fear erupting in his eyes. Nico’s eyes widen and they step back into the shadows, melting away. A second later, they pop up right next to Alex, skin pale.

He glares. “Is there something-”

Nico shakes his head and pulls a finger to their lips. “Come on, we gotta go,” they whisper. They lean in for Lou Ellen’s arm, who’s panting on the ground, and reach for Alex’s arm with his other hand. Then, before Alex can even process what’s happening, the world melts into darkness. Shadows surround them, licking their bare skin like cold flames. Nothingness surrounds them. Time is nonexistent.

And then they pop up in a cold area, darkness envelops them. The three collapse onto the ground, exhaustion spilling into their bones. 

A figure steps before them, hands on their hips. “Well, look who’s made it to the party.”

~ 

About twenty minutes later, the group has made itself comfortable on the grass of Central Park, scavenging through the loot that Alex, Nico, and Lou Ellen managed to pick up. Midnight bleeds over the sky, the only source of light being the stars that poke through the encompassing darkness. A cool breeze flows past them. Nico lies on their back, staring at the sky, trying to fend off the exhaustion threatening to pull their eyelids down. 

When the three demigods finally came to, Alex had his fair share of scolding: “Are you stupid? Do you realize what you’ve done? We could be caught! Why did you do that? Do you realize what robbing is? Putting money on the counter defeats the entire purpose!” 

It went like that for fifteen minutes, just enough time for Nico to regain his stability and stand. They shrugged and smiled. “Hey, it’s not our fault that the poor dude had nothing going for him. Besides, he’ll forget about it.” Opening a Twizzler packet, the child of Hades smirked and said, “They always do.”

Now, as he and Alex, Hazel, Rachel, and Lou Ellen circle around each other on the grass, all the anxiety of earlier fades away, replaced only by a tranquility. Alex has his arm around Rachel, the two of them munching on some Twix; Hazel leans back on her arms and watches the stars with Nico. Lou Ellen rummages through their candy pile. A comfortable silence surrounds them. 

When Rachel snorts, Nico sits up and offers her a confused look. She laughs. “I can’t believe you really threatened the entire mission. You’ve fought monsters and can’t even rob a store for just candy?” 

“Hey, fuck the rich,” he replies, stealing a gummy from Hazel’s hands. She protests but they ignore her. “The dude deserved some money. He looked like he was barely living.” Raising an eyebrow at Alex, he adds, “And that’s saying something, because we literally have a dead person here.”

“Aren’t we all dead inside, though?” Lou Ellen reasons, frowning.

“Yeah,” Nico agrees, pulling a Twizzler out from a packet next to him. Placing one end to his mouth, he says, “But he looked even more dead than the average person.”

Alex scoffs and leans his head against Rachel’s, the green locks dramatically clashing with her bright red. “As much as I want to agree with you, it was so incredibly stupid.” He lays his palms out in a placating manner. “I mean, yeah, fuck the rich, but... come on. Now the rich are gonna fuck us.” 

Nico shakes his head and chews a piece off the candy, feeling the bland sweetness of the candy sweep over his taste buds. “They won’t see anything. These things usually fix themselves with the Mist. Percy once crashed his stepdad’s car and he got away with it.”

Rachel rolls her eyes. “Yeah, only after he was chased halfway across the country.” 

“Hey, now, no need to get into the specifics.” 

Hazel laughs, her voice tinkling in the eerie quiet. “Can’t believe I’ve got an accomplice for a sibling.” Edging her toe against the grass, she adds, “Almost wish I was there.” 

“Hey, no wishing!” Rachel exclaims, frowning. “You and I had a blast robbing my dad’s car from his house. Let’s not forget that we were the most important mission. We literally got all the tagging supplies.”

“Yeah, but who got all the candy?” Alex asks, raising his eyebrows. “We got the nutritious food for you children. Honestly, Rachel, it’s like I’m the only one who cares about keeping the roof over the house.” 

“Okay, shut up.” Rachel’s fingers clamp over the ground. “Say one more word and I will throw dirt at you.” 

A daring look comes over Alex’s eyes and he raises an eyebrow. “One more word-” 

Rachel throws a fistful of muck against his face and he stumbles backward, spitting and groaning. His laughter echoes, and soon Rachel’s own giggles sprinkle into the air. 

A car blares in the background. Lights from the city blaze against the sky. Streetlamps glimmer over the outskirts of the park. The familiar electricity of New York buzzes in the air, making Nico’s blood simmer with anticipation. Euphoria fizzes within him. It’s something about hanging out with these four that makes their heart pound with excitement, makes their body glow with superfluous joy.

They lie back down again. Grass prickles the back of their head, tickles his bare hands. Laughter continues falling over him in a waterfall of sounds.

They smile. 

[whump-me-all-night-long]

The Scoop of a Lifetime - 19

Whumptober Day 19 - BROKEN HEARTS

Tagging: @mnmlover2002, @cupcakes-and-pain, @lave-e, @appy-polly-loggies, let me know if you want to be added/removed!

Whew, this chapter.. kind of got away from me, both in length and content. It’s almost double my usual length, and it’s pretty rough. Heed the CWs and stay safe guys!

CW: suicidal thoughts (in the “I’d rather be dead than have to go through this, why couldn’t I have died?” vein), violent death, gun violence, blink-and-you-miss-it noncon implication, threats, reference to past torture, previous injuries, Devin has a pretty unhealthy mindset throughout this chapter, please let me know if I missed anything!

Masterlist // Previous

---

Once they were settle back in their room - they’d stopped trying to convince themself it wasn’t theirs - Devin simply laid on the bed, their ankles wrapped tightly and elevated by a few pillows. They stared up at the ceiling, trying not to think. And failing.

Is this really going to be the rest of my life? Being tossed around and hurt, depending on Wildre’s every whim? How long can I actually survive like this? How long will I actually want to survive like this?

Their thoughts restless and dark, they must’ve fallen asleep eventually because at some point Wildre was knock, knock, knocking on their door, his much too cheerful for this early in the morning voice ringing through the door. “Good morning, love! It’s time to get up! I’ve got a fun activity planned for today!”

Devin dragged a hand across their face with a soft groan, before pulling themself out of bed, forgetting about their ankles until they tried to stand. They had to quickly sit back down on the edge, slowly moving their ankles to stretch them out as much as they could. Every morning, they seemed to have to re-remember that i’m crippled i’ll never be the same as i was before he’s hurt me for the rest of my life what had happened.

They shakily stood back up, swaying slightly and grimacing at the pain but gradually making their way to the bathroom, stopping to grab a change of clothes from their wardrobe. 

Once inside, they quickly stripped off the clothes they’d fallen asleep in and the braces, dropping the clothing on the floor and carefully setting the braces on the sink counter before stepping carefully into the shower. They stayed under the steady stream of hot water as long as they dared before shutting it off and drying themself off. They squeezed the water out of their hair, making sure it wasn’t dripping and that it was out of their face before pulling the plain, long sleeved t-shirt and blue jeans on, refastening the ankle braces on before giving themself a cursory look over in the mirror, frowning slightly at the deep shadows beneath their eyes.

They sat down on the bed to loosely lace up a pair of sneakers before running a hand through their hair and pulling open the door, unsurprised to find Duncan waiting for them.

They silently followed him down the hall, until they reached a room they thought was on a lower section of the house but weren’t completely sure, Duncan motioning them through the door.

Cautiously, they stepping through, their eyes quickly taking in a small underground parking garage filled with more cars than any one person could ever need, with multiple tunnels leading out in different directions.

Wildre was standing by one of the cars, perking up immediately and calling out, “Oh, Devin, love, there you are! I was worried you’d gotten lost.”

Devin and Duncan made their way over to him, going at a slow pace due to the former. Once they reached the car, Wildre easily opened the backseat door for Devin and, as they slid in, he tossed something to Duncan before climbing in afterwards.

Duncan sat down in the driver’s seat and started the car. Devin took a deep breath, feeling slightly i can’t breathe they’re trapping me in i have no space surrounded with Duncan in front of them and Wildre next to them.

The car started to move as soon as everyone had done their seat belts, quietly humming beneath them, and although Devin knew nothing about cars, they could tell this one was definitely expensive. It drove through one of the tunnels, lights flashing above them as they passed. The car was deathly silent, so Devin settled for staring out the window, watching the concrete walls fly past. 

After a while, Devin would have to guess around fifteen or twenty minutes, although they’d never been good at estimating time, the car seemed to pull into another similar miniature parking garage, this one with less fancy cars in it. They stopped and Wildre turned to face Devin, an unreadable expression on his face.

“Now, love,” he started and they immediately began tensing up, “I’m about to bring you on a little trip, okay?” They bristled at how he spoke to them as if they were a child but they slowly nodded. “You might see some things, and they might not be pretty, but-” He reached out and grabbed their jaw firmly, but not painfully, forcing them to meet his gaze- “it is crucial that you keep your mouth shut. Am I understood?”

They nodded, licking their lips nervously before saying softly, “Yeah, I-I understand.”

He smiled, and Devin hated how that made them almost relax. “Good.” He opened the door and, once he stood, reached back a hand for Devin and they accepted, leaning on him more heavily than they’d like to admit.

Once they were all out, they fell into a formation, with Wildre in the lead, Devin a step or two behind him and to the side, and Duncan bringing up the rear. They headed for a door along one of the walls, a keypad locking it. Wildre punched in a long code before pulling what looked like an ID badge out and swiping it. The light on it turned green, and the door swung open slightly. 

Walking through it, the three were greeted with what looked like receptionist’s area that wouldn’t look out of place in a downtown office building. A young woman sitting at the desk glanced up at them then did a double take as she spotted Wildre.

Standing up, she brushed nonexistent wrinkles out of her clothes. “Mr. Wildre,” she greeted, glancing discreetly at a clock hanging on the wall. “We, uh, we weren’t expecting you for another hour, sir.” She took in Devin with a narrowed gaze. “And we weren’t expecting a, a guest,” she added, tone as if she thinks i’m a threat as if i would voluntarily have anything to do with him decidedly less friendly.

He smiled and waved a hand towards Devin. “Oh, Devin? They’re harmless.” She seemed to melt under his paparazzi grin, and Devin flushed, biting down on their lip to keep quiet. “And I enjoy showing up early. What can I say?” he said with a laugh and careless shrug.

The woman nodded before gesturing to one of the doors behind her. “Well, Mr. Westhaven is in the warehouse right now, getting ready to send out a shipment.”

Wildre gave her a nod and another smile, before taking Devin by the arm and marching them towards the door she had indicated. He had to enter another code and swipe his badge again before they were standing at the top of a stairwell, looking down on a bustling warehouse, filled with large crates and loud machinery that looked disconcertingly normal. 

Leading Devin down the stairs, Wildre looked around the busy area, Devin’s ankles protesting at the i can’t keep up please slow down i’m in so much pain harsh movements. Once they reached the bottom, he made a beeline for an older man who seemed to be at the center of the chaos. As they passed, workers began recognizing Wildre and growing quiet. 

By the time they had reached the other man, the warehouse had become nearly silent, every eye on them. Devin felt heat creep up their neck as they felt eyes landing on them and tried to subtly shrink into Wildre’s side, a fact that, while he clearly noticed, evident by the smug grin on his face, he thankfully did not comment on. The older man turned around and, seeing them, gave a huge grin. 

“Mr. Wildre!” he called, and Devin was surprised to see such an older man, he had to be in his fifties or sixties, call Wildre “Mr.”

He responded with a small wave. “Westhaven. How’s this shipment progressing?”

The man chuckled. “Very good, sir. Running smoothly. What brings you by so early?” While he portrayed the picture of ease, Devin could see that he was scrambling by the sudden appearance of his boss and, judging by the gleam in his eye, Wildre saw it too.

“Oh, just wanted to see it in action. I do miss being part of the day to day activities sometimes. It’s not nearly as fun being stuck in a stuffy office all day.” He saw Westhaven’s eyes turn towards Devin, neatly tucked between Wildre and Duncan, and grinned, wrapping an easy arm around them. “Although it does come with its benefits.” 

Devin stiffened almost imperceptibly at the he’s touching me stop don’t touch me like that please get away but that man is staring at me like that i don’t like that possessiveness in the gesture, but Westhaven seemed to get the message and easily changed the subject.

“I can see that. We’re just finishing loading the last of the crates before we send them off-”

At that moment, shouting erupted from one of the many doors throughout the huge room, and Devin’s eyes widened as a man staggeringly ran out. They had to grit their teeth so they wouldn’t disobey what he told me to do he told me to be quiet cry out when they realized the man was littered with cuts and bruises, some still leaking blood.

Wildre exchanged a look with Duncan and shifted slightly, so Devin was more blocked from view. The man, catching sight of the movement, locked onto Wildre and charged towards them. “You! You bastard, how dare you-” 

Devin would never know what he was going to say because at that moment, Wildre pulled out a gun he seemed to keep concealed, tucked away inside his jacket, and fired it, the bullet punching smoothly through the man’s skull, all in one smooth motion. 

Devin jerked back from the sudden spray of blood, not quite believing what they were seeing, a hand clasped over their mouth to keep from sobbing or screaming, they didn’t know which, as their gaze locked onto the growing pool of crimson only feet away.

As they were slowly lead away, brought into another room, one that looked like a typical boardroom, and placed in a chair sandwiched between Wildre and Duncan, their gaze remained far away, stuck on the way the man’s body had continued propelling himself forward for just another second before being unnaturally jerked backwards, the desperation and raw hatred in his eyes, and just one thought kept running throughout their head.

Why couldn’t Wildre have put that bullet in me?

Next

[mintaka14]

With kind permission from Damagectrl, this is a fanfic inspired by, and directly following on from, their story Delayed.

When Marinette heard Adrien’s startled voice out in the hallway saying “What are you doing here?” the spoon she’d been stirring the pasta sauce with paused. That was a voice she hadn’t heard in a while, and she lifted the spoon out of the pot, turning down the heat.

Luka was leaning casually against the doorframe, his attention on their guest, but Marinette could see the muscles in his shoulders tense.

“I live here,” Luka said in a neutral voice. “It’s been a while, Adrien. What brings you here?”

Adrien’s gaze shifted past Luka to fix on Marinette as she came to stand just behind Luka.

“Hi, Marinette,” he said softly. “It’s been too long. I was hoping we could talk.”

He proffered the bouquet of pink roses in his hands, and Marinette stared at it for a long moment. Luka’s long, black-nailed fingers flexed on the doorframe, but he said nothing.

“I’ve been trying to call you.” And what was she supposed to say to that? Yes, I blocked your number because I didn’t want to talk to you, didn’t want to have to pretend everything was okay when you left me two years ago.

“Nino told me where you were living now,” Adrien admitted. At least Marinette knew who to hunt down and kill, although Alya might not be thrilled if Marinette strangled Nino with her bare hands.

Adrien held out the roses again, practically pushing them into her hands. She stepped back with a sigh, accepting the inevitable.

“Why don’t you come in, Adrien?” She caught the lift of Luka’s eyebrow and gave him a wry smile in return. His fingertips brushed her hip. “We’ve got our parents and Juleka and Rose coming around for dinner later, but we’ve got a few hours before then.”

“Oh,” Adrien said uncomfortably. He shifted, looking around the apartment in bemused appraisal. His eyes flicked over the photos on the walls, the untidy scatter of sketchbooks and fabric samples, and settled on Luka’s guitar propped against the couch.

“So,” Adrien said awkwardly, his gaze shifting between them rapidly. “You two are together now. Nino didn’t mention that.”

His gaze drifted around the room again. There were still a couple of boxes and suitcases lying around that Luka hadn’t had time to deal with yet, but all his instruments were carefully unpacked and displayed already. Marinette liked the shapes and patterns of the assorted instruments against the bolts of fabric she had propped in all corners of the room.

“Just got back two days ago,” Luka was saying calmly. “There’s still a few things to unpack, and I’m trying to work out where my toothbrush is, but I’m starting to settle in.”

Luka moved his guitar to its stand and came back to her side, one arm draped over her shoulders and she leaned back into him, her hands still full of roses.

“We met up again in Reykjavik after I got stranded at the airport. Luka was over there working with Jagged, and he came and rescued me,” she explained.

Adrien’s slightly bewildered green eyes shifted back to Luka.

“Working with Jagged,” he said, as if he was trying to find something safe to talk about. “Wow. That must be amazing.”

“It’s been interesting.” Marinette could feel the low rumble of Luka’s soft laugh. “Jagged tends to do everything at full volume, but we’ve been to some incredible places, and got some incredible music out of it. I’m just as happy to be back home again,” he said, glancing down at Marinette. “Still got a few performances to go, but at least we’re in Paris again.”

Silence fell, and for the life of her Marinette couldn’t think of anything to say to break it. Luka took the flowers gently out of her hands. “How about if I go put these in some water while you two catch up.”

Marinette turned her head slightly to watch Luka head into the kitchen. She could feel herself frowning and she smoothed out the expression.

“I’m sorry,” she cut off what Adrien was saying and stood up. “I just… did you want a drink or something? I’m going to go get a drink.”

She didn’t wait for his negative before she beat a retreat into the kitchen. She was too old for one of her teenage emotional freak-outs. She’d thought she was past this, but there were times when it felt like Adrien just brought out the worst in her.

Luka was filling a jug with water, but his eyes were on the flowers sitting on the bench. There was an uncharacteristic tightness around his mouth.

“Are you okay?” Marinette said softly, and Luka refocused on her.

“I’m fine.”

“Really? Because you’ve got that ‘I hate this, but I’m trying to be the bigger person’ look.”

His smile turned wry. “Am I that easy to read?”

Marinette slid her arms around his waist.

“Only to me, rockstar.” She leaned her forehead on his shoulder and sighed. “I’m guessing he’s trying to work out if it’s been long enough that he can smooth things over with me. Adrien never could stand the thought of someone being angry at him.”

“Are you sure that’s all it is?” Luka asked drily, his eyes flicking towards the flowers. Marinette sighed again.

“I hope that’s all it is,” she said, her voice going flat, “because I’d hate to have to kick his ass for thinking there was any chance I’d ever go back to him.”

That startled a laugh out of Luka, as she’d been hoping.

“Suddenly I’m hoping he really is here to try and win you back,” he said, dumping the jug on the counter and turning to wrap his arms around her. “It’d make my day to watch you take him down.”

“I fell out of love with him a long, long time ago, but I’d really hate to think that anyone I’d ever dated was that stupid.”

Luka’s arms tightened around her, and Marinette felt him chuckle into her hair. For a moment the rest of the world, and the ex-boyfriend waiting in the other room, faded into nonexistence as she stretched up and kissed him.

Finally, Luka reached up to brush a strand of hair out of her eyes, looking as though he wanted to kiss her again.

“You’d better go talk to him,” he said reluctantly, “before we’re unforgivably rude and forget we have a guest here.”

“Later for that,” Marinette told him, a smile flickering at the corners of her mouth as she stepped back, her hands lingering a little longer on the lean muscles of his waist. She pushed through the kitchen door, and Adrien looked up from the couch, not mentioning the absence of any sort of drink. He looked as awkward as an impeccably dressed model could look, and Marinette felt a pang of sympathy.

“We’ve got our families coming round for dinner, otherwise I’d ask you to stay,” she told him. “It’s a bit of a special occasion tonight. But maybe you could come to Jagged’s concert tomorrow night. Alya and Nino are coming, and we can get you tickets if you’re interested. We’re all going to catch up after the show.”

“That… would be nice.” Adrien gave her a tiny smile. “It’s been far too long since we talked. I’ve missed you.”

Marinette stayed silent, wondering where he was going with this.

“I hope you can forgive me for how I treated you,” he said. “I hope we can be friends again one day.“

Marinette softened. “I’d like that,” she said gently, and allowed herself to be pulled into a hug. But she didn’t let him linger. She stepped back, and gave him a smile.

“Luka’s a lucky guy,” he said, and if it sounded a little wistful, she ignored it.

“I’m the lucky one.” She sometimes felt as if all of Ladybug’s fortune had been packed into that night in Reykjavik that had brought Luka back into her life. He was the calm to her chaos, the one who made her light up at the sound of his voice. He was brilliant and sweet and those hands of his could set her on fire. He was like coming home. He was… Luka. That was all he needed to be. And he loved her. Oh, he loved her. “Having Luka back in my life is the best thing that ever happened to me.”

She could see Adrien stiffen a little at her words, but she couldn’t take back the truth. At the door, Adrien turned with that famous Agreste brand smile on his face.

“I’m very happy for you both.”

Marinette smiled back, and waved, and closed the door on the past.

Luka was humming under his breath and stirring the pasta sauce when Marinette came back into the kitchen. He dropped the spoon and swept an arm around her waist, spinning her in a circle until she was dizzy and giggling.

“What else could I do?” he sang loudly, grinning back at her. “I’m so inspired by you-“

“You’re in a better mood now,” she observed, winding her arms around his neck.

“Best thing, huh?” he said, and she wrinkled her nose at him.

“You heard that.”

He bent her backwards in a kiss that took her breath away, and that sexy voice of his sent a delicious shiver down her spine as he murmured against her ear, “The sauce is done, the pasta won’t take long, and I have a gorgeous girlfriend and about an hour before we have to get ready. Any thoughts about what we could do with that time?”

Marinette looked up at him from under her dark lashes. “I do have a thought or two.” She backed up a step, tugging him with her by a handful of t-shirt. “How about we discuss it in the bedroom.”

On the way past, Marinette snagged the jug of roses that were still sitting next to the sink and dumped it on the wide kitchen windowsill, half-hidden by the curtain.

“They won’t last long in the sun like that,” Luka observed mildly, planting another kiss on her collarbone.

“And? You think -“ Her breath hitched as he kissed her again. “You think I should put them somewhere else?”

“No,” Luka said. “No, I think they’re fine where they are.”

[sharpnothashtag]

The Good Ship CrushWay, Chapter 47

Bridge: KJ, Data, Daneel, Tasha, Tom, Patrick

KJ: Conn, current speed? Tom: Warp 3. KJ: Helm, current heading? Ro: 315 mark 47. KJ: When will we be there, Number One? Data: At current speed, 2 weeks, 4 days, 7 hours. KJ: Daneel, any word from Dukat? We'll be entering Cardassian space soon. Data: In 4 days at our present speed. KJ: Thank you. Daneel: (looking down, multitasking) Dukat's last message was a strange one--we'll be picking up a couple of people who need to be ferried to DS9. His neck was very tense, and he was more articulate than usual. Patrick: Was he annoyed, perhaps? Daneel: (clearly working on something else and not concerned about this) Unclear. KJ: (blinking...realizing she is going to have to get used to someone who doesn't read emotions that well) Are there any ships we need to be aware of in sensor range? Daneel: No. (KJ turns away) However (KJ turns back, fake smiling to put her best foot forward with new Lieutenant) there is a Gamma Class Nebula right (bringing it up on the viewscreen) here if you would like to study it. KJ: Would you like to study it, Lieutenant? Daneel: I have been. (buttons) There are some dilithium crystals that could be used as bargaining chips with the Borg, provided they are in a dire enough state to need them. I have also found trace elements of Galantium. KJ: Data, isn't Galantium the normal antidote given for Lyantirum poisoning? Data: Galantium Byzantride, yes, however it is only used for extreme cases. KJ: You saw the elevated Lyantirum levels from the weapon they were using. Are those levels severe enough to cause poisoning? Data: Yes, but all the drones rescued thus far have not needed the treatment. Hypothetically, with their method and frequency of travel, it would have taken a full year for the effects of Lyantirum poisoning to take effect. However, at the rate the drones were dying due to the phase variant disease, many of them did not succumb to the effects. KJ: Tom, take us by the nebula. Collect all the Galantium we can store. I have a feeling that the Borg we are about to encounter need help, and lots of it. Janeway to Seven of Nine. Seven: Yes, Captain? KJ: Coordinate with Dr. Crusher on the information I'm sending to both of you now. We need to know how the Borg reconstruction surgery could be altered due to the effects of Lyantirum poisoning. Communicate with headquarters that we have found a large cache of Galantium and are collecting it in hopes of using it for treatment. Janeway out. (turning to Ro) Ensign Ro, you and Commander Data figure out the most efficient way to dispense the treatment to as many drones at a time as possible. Lieutenant, you're in charge of harvesting the Galantium. Get down to Engineering, and make sure everyone is on the same page. Daneel: For clarity's sake, what page is that? KJ: (typing into the padd on the arm of her chair, over this before it even starts) The page where we save the Borg's asses. Again.

(throw to commercial)

B'Elanna: Emptying the Bussard collectors is going to take time, Lieutenant. Miles: We'll be here another 6 hours just making sure that they're ready--apparently no one at Utopia Planitia thought they were important enough to test before we left. Daneel: Understood. The Captain sent me to help in any way I can. (B'Elanna nods and takes them off to help clean and test the collectors. Miles is left in Engineering to deal with the programming side of things.)

B'Elanna: Can you hand me that plasma spanner? (Daneel hands it to her. B'Elanna clearly feels awkward.) So...Miles tells me that you and Data hung out last week. Daneel: (blushing deeply) Yes, we did. B'Elanna: May I ask you in what context? Daneel: We went on a date. B'Elanna: (beaming) I like the two of you together. You are both very sweet--almost innocent. Daneel: Innocent? B'Elanna: You're both consenting adults, so it isn't a "young love" situation, but it does feel like you two are generally inexperienced. Daneel: I don't come across as cold and jaded? B'Elanna: I don't think so. But I'm not really one to judge. Daneel: You aren't? You seem neurotypical. B'Elanna: That's true. But that doesn't mean that I trust the way I interpret people's characters. If I were fully Klingon, I think I would be a better judge. But (shrugs) I'm half human. Daneel: I kind of thought that I came across that way. B'Elanna: Why is that? Obviously something in your past has scarred you, but I do wonder why you think of yourself in that way. Daneel: Have you ever found someone who understood you in a way you didn't understand yourself? B'Elanna: Yes. Daneel: Besides Tom. B'Elanna: Strangely enough, yes, besides Tom. Daneel: Wesley Crusher is that person for me. (B'Elanna cocks her eyebrow.) We met while we were in the Academy. One day at lunch, I was studying for my robotics class with the textbook that Data wrote. B'Elanna: (sarcastically) A real page turner. Daneel: (enthusiastically) I know, right?! Anyway, the seat next to me in the cafeteria was open, and Wesley just interrupted my study session.

Flashback (Those of you who know me know I am not a huge fan of Wesley Crusher. That isn't Wil Wheaton's fault. I'm about to try to do him justice. Please bear with me, nonexistent readers and Wil Wheaton.) Wesley walks past Daneel without looking at them. It is as if he isn't allowed to go past--like a video game character hitting an invisible wall.

Wesley: I know this is a really weird thing to say, but I feel like I'm supposed to sit here. Glasses: (Daneel doesn't look up from their book) Go ahead. Wesley: (blinking in surprise, sits down. Notices the book.) Oh, Data's book! I really miss him. Glasses: (deeply surprised, about to fan-person) You know him?! Wesley: Yeah, he's on the Enterprise where my mom was assigned. Daneel: Cool! What's your name? Wesley: I'm Wesley Crusher. He/him/his. Daneel: Wesley? (Wesley nods. Daneel sticks out his hand.) Daneel Akares. They/them/theirs. I have a potentially strange series of questions to ask you. Wesley: (smiling, sitting back in the chair with finger guns) Shoot! Daneel: (hearing the screams of their friends as they exploded; immediately panicked, ducking under the table) Who's shooting?! Wesley: (surprised, talking to them slowly and calmly as he sits on the ground with them) I'm so sorry--I thought you knew that slang term. I just meant to go ahead and ask me the questions you want to ask. No one has weapons here. You're safe. Glasses: I'm sorry. (Daneel is hugging their legs to their chest) I'm still processing a lot of stuff from the Occupation. Wesley: That's okay. (He scoots around under the table to sit side by side with Daneel) What did you want to ask me? Glasses: (looking around) Do you know someone called "The Traveller"? Wesley: (shocked) Yes. He and I know each other well. Daneel: He saved my life. I think he was looking for you, though. Wesley: What makes you say that? Daneel: He called me by your name. He said he was "here to help find her." Wesley: I know when that was. I'll never forget it. Stardate 44161.2. The day my mom disappeared. Daneel: Did the Traveller find her? Wesley: Yes. It was one of the scariest times of my entire life. Daneel: I had a bomb inside my chest. He defused it. Wesley: I'm so sorry. (Daneel puts their head on Wesley's shoulder, still shaking a little.) Do you want to come to my quarters and get to know each other? Daneel: I would like that. However, you should know first that I am not romantically or sexually attracted to you. Wesley: (laughing) Nor I you. Come on, let's go. (Wesley gets up, dusts himself off, and offers Daneel his hand to help them off the floor. Daneel accepts.)

Conference room: KJ, Data, Ro, Miles, Bev, Tasha, and Tom

KJ: Data, report. Data: We have devised a solution. As soon as the threat of assimilation is neutralized, we will beam as many drones as possible into our six cargo bays. Galantium Byzantride will filter in through the environmental controls. Once the treatment is complete, Seven of Nine will take a sample drone, input the command to regenerate, and then we will head back to Utopia Planitia. KJ: How long will it take for the treatment to take full effect? Ro: Only an hour. It's a wonder no one has tried this method before. KJ: Tasha, I want security teams on those cargo bays nonstop until we get back. (Tasha nods.) Doctor, will there be any side effects that would affect the reconstruction surgery? Bev: There is a 30% chance of death with our current surgical routine. Data, Seven, The Doctor, and I will have to perform several holographic simulations in order for this to succeed. KJ: Understood. Lieutenant Daneel, are the Bussard collectors prepared? Daneel: Ready, Captain. Miles: Once the Galantium is collected, Dr. Crusher and I will need to coordinate on how to make the vaccine airborne. Bev: I have a plan in place for that--I'm in the final testing stages. KJ: Good work. Daneel, start the collection process. Ro, when we start the collection, drop the shields and immediately start recharging them. Tom, as soon as we're done, I want to be out of here. Ro and Tom: Aye.

Bev and Miles in Engineering

Bev: (typing in several codes) So, I heard the lovely pieces you, Data, Jean-Luc, and Patrick played at Worf and Deanna's wedding. Would you like to play for mine and Kate's? Miles: Sure. I'd love to. As far as the rest of the quartet goes, you'll have to ask them. Bev: Oh, I already have. I talked to Keiko before we left. She specifically told me to mention it while you were doing something else. Miles: (laughing) That's my wife, alright. She knows I do better when my brain is otherwise occupied. Bev: (laughs. Quiet settles in) So, this couple that we're picking up. Do you know them? Miles: Do I ever. Bev: ...do I get an explanation for that? Miles: (pressing a few buttons in a final flourish) Not at the moment. It's time to collect the Galantium! Bev: You can't just leave me hanging in suspense like that. Miles: I'll tell you this much: there is no more confusing couple in all of Starfleet, and of the same token, they are the most loving couple I've ever known. Bev: (smiling) I suppose I can handle that. Miles: (touching his combadge) O'Brien to Janeway. We're ready to start collecting. KJ: Acknowledged.

(Exterior shot of the ship. The Bussard collectors power up briefly, and then from the nebula, a Borg sphere emerges.)

KJ: (understandably pretty freaked out) Ro where the hell was that thing?! Ro: I'm picking up traces of...synthetic Lyantirum? Data: The cloaking device. Ro: We're being hailed, Captain. KJ: Take the damn thing. Borg: We are the Borg. Your technological-- KJ: I killed your Queen, you directionless drones. You report to me. Borg: Insufficient. Your simple human mind cannot possibly organize the thoughts of millions of drones. KJ: You look at me, Borg ship. I am the only person to ever negotiate with you. I am the one that has gotten away time and time again. You keep chasing me around the galaxy. Years ago when I was ripped away from my crew, it seemed that I was almost immediately forced to deal with you AGAIN. You're almost as stubborn as I am. But notice that I said almost. My efforts to help you have finally worked. Borg: We have noticed the voices disappearing from the collective. KJ: Yes, and that's because of me. And a few hundred other very important people. Patrick: (looking for permission) Captain? (KJ nods) My designation was once Locutus. Does the collective remember me? Borg: The collective recognizes Locutus of Borg. Patrick: Does the collective remember the plans of the Queen before stardate 16147.3? Borg: To research synthetic Lyantirum as a source for a superior cloaking device. Patrick: And did the collective achieve this goal? Borg: Affirmative. Patrick: How?

One drone's voice comes above all the others.

Drone: Because they assimilated us.

Three drones walk to the front of the viewing area.

Data: Sissun? Chuti? Keriss? KJ: The members of the Lyantirum think tank on Mars. Drones 1, 2, and 3: We were assimilated, and then the collective destroyed Jouret IV. KJ: I thought you weren't on Jouret IV when it was attacked. Drones 1, 2, and 3: We were not supposed to be. However, our transport ship was delayed by a plasma storm. We were assimilated. The colony was destroyed. We helped form the Lyantirum transport device and the synthetic Lyantirum cloaking device. KJ: Those devices are dangerous to you and to the space you use them in. Borg: Enough. This discussion is irrelevant. Assimilation is imminent. Resistance is futile.

The communication is cut off.

KJ: Ro, raise shields. Tom, prepare evasive maneuvers. Data: (on communicator) All hands, battle stations. KJ: The Borg have engaged us.