#I frequently know it's not but my emotions still latch on and pull out old anxiety thought tapes to play on loop

[vmures]

Think I may jave figured out why some of the complaints about Teen Wolf fandom members being dumb bug me so much. It's hard to tell if people are basing their criticisms of others fandom opinions on people's meta posts or their fandom creations.

Add in that certain defense squad people absolutely use fandom creations to argue that the creator is any number of things and I tend to assume that other's are basing their takes on fanworks, which don't accurately reflect a creators opinions on the show itself.

I use canon as inspiration but I don't stick to it in fan works. That's not why I'm in fandom. I like fanworks because they let me explore all the what it's and play with the characters the same way I used to play with my toys. They are storytelling vehicles.

I focus on the characters that draw me in the most and tend to write limited third person point of view. This means that a lot of times the characters opinions are what is shown. Those opinions do not necessarily reflect my own.

There are characters who just rub me the wrong way and that does show in my work, as well. Though I try to keep it nuanced and not just outright bash. I do frequently play with canon and I like playing with the complexities. So I might soften a harsh character or explore changes would have resulted from that chatacter having different circumstances. Sometimes the are out-of-character to the canon version. None of that means that I don't understand canon.

Outside of showing which characters I prefer and which I find annoying or frustrating, my fic doesn't necessarily reflect any of my thoughts on the show.

I don't tend to offer my meta takes very often because I don't like getting dragged into discourse or told I don't belong just because I have a different take from someone else. I stay away from fandom tags for similar reasons. But sometimes it crosses my dash and some of those times it feels like a kick in the gut and leaves me wondering if a mutual thinks that that negatively about me.

Now that I've realized the issue causing me to feel that way, it will be easy to try remind myself these are not the defense squad posts and that more than likely they are basing their frustrations on meta takes and not fan creations and thus is not about me.

[robininthelabyrinth]

Curse-breaker (Chapter 3/4)

- ao3 -

There were more guards than usual around the Unclean Realm, undoubtedly as a result of Wen Ruohan’s refusal to move from their gate, but that wasn’t a problem for them.

They knew all the ways in and out.

New ways, like the hole in the wall their little brother had teamed up with his best friend to carve out so that the two of them could leave little gifts and pass messages to them, and old ways, ancient ways, the ways of the dead that they’d learned from the still-lingering saber spirits that burned in rage and hate forever like an endless longevity candle.

Rage, and hated – but also love.

The saber spirits didn’t have to keep burning, keep fighting, but that was what their masters had wanted, and so they did. They fought against evil, time and time again, forever and always, and through their endless battle, in their hearts, their masters were never truly lost.

It was that simple.

It was that complicated.

It was time, they thought, to straighten things out. The saber spirits meant it as a gift, but the masters saw it as a burden; that wasn’t how it was meant to be at all – they just didn’t understand each other, steel and flesh speaking different tongues, meaning different things. The gaping chasm of understanding between life and not-life, which no one could bridge.

Well.

No one until them, anyway.

If a fish and a bird fell in love, where would they live?

On the shore, they thought. Right in the middle.

All they needed was someone to tell them that was an option.

It was time.

They passed like a formless spirit themselves through the many walls and guards in their path, heading to the sect leader’s study, as familiar to them as their own palms. Inside they found what was familiar, too: the heat-rage-pride pulse of Jiwei, resting in pride of place by her master’s side, and beside her was her master, their father, standing with his hands folded behind his back and looking out the window into the distance as if it would give him answers to questions that had eaten away at him his whole life.

They approached.

They were detected, of course.

“I already said that I didn’t want to be disturbed,” their father said, and although they had snuck close many times to hear him speaking, that beloved voice more familiar to them than their own, not daring to talk to him as they did to Huaisang who had always promised to keep their secret, there was still something different about hearing it so near, without walls between them.

They sighed happily.

“Didn’t you hear me? I said…Jiwei? What’s gotten you so excited –”

Their father turned.

His jaw dropped, eyes going wide and round as saucers, an absurd and silly look that suited him so much better than did the grim scowl and sad listlessness, interspersed with increasingly frequent bouts of uncontrollable rage, that he wore on his face more often than not these days.

What they had in mind would hurt, they knew, and equally they knew that they would not be able to act if they did not act fast – they were loathe to hurt people, much less people that they loved, and those that they loved would be equally unable to bear to see them hurt, yet both were necessary now, if they were to do what they had decided to do.

They did not allow themselves time to doubt.

They moved forward as quickly as a saber strike, sure and true, and their hands connected with their father’s chest and belly, heart and dantian both, with enough power to knock the breath out of him, taking advantage of his shock to strike when he would not even think of dodging.

In that moment of breathlessness, they latched on – latched on, and pulled.

What-are-you-doing-stop-that, Jiwei said, but even her ceaseless rage was blunted by the joy of seeing them once more.

You are hurting him.

I-am-not-I-am-refining-him-I-am-strengthening-him-as-he-strengthens-me-He-is-my-master-and-I-love-him.

You are hurting him, they insisted. Flesh is different. Flesh is brittle. Too much strength, and he will break.

Let me show you.

It hurt, of course, just as they’d expected. Not as much as when they’d shattered, though, and it was that – and perhaps only that – that allowed them to persist, using themselves as a cauldron, forcing their qi that was neither wholly spiritual nor resentful, neither fully alive or un-alive, through their father’s meridians, reshaping them as they went to be something capable of accepting the harsh, resentful, corrosive love of a saber spirit.

When they were done, their father stared at Jiwei, hearing her sing in his soul with an unprecedented clarity, feeling her love for him the way she meant for it to be felt, feeding his own love back to her in equal measure, giving everything of himself without holding back to the only thing on earth that he had ever loved without restraint.

His eyes were clear.

“A-Jue,” he whispered. “A-Jue…what is this?”

“A gift,” they said, their voice raspy with disuse. “Of many years making. I’m sorry that it took so long.”

Their father, unbreakable, burst into tears.

-

Later, when their father, his eyes still wet (though now from laughter rather than relief), told them about the ‘curse’, about his promise, about the rumors, and even about Wen Ruohan waiting for the chance to repent of his regrets, they thought about it for a while and said: “Let me see him.”

-

Wen Ruohan had done many things worthy of condemnation in his long life.

He had schemed and plotted, playing the hero and the villain both in their turn; he had fought in wars of such brutality that the current generation could not even begin to comprehend them, and he had also murdered in vile and underhanded ways, abandoning all integrity and righteousness, to ensure that such wars did not happen again. He had sought to strengthen himself by means both fair and foul, betrayed who he had to betray and stepped on who he had to step on; he had followed his ancestor’s path with his head held high until he had very nearly become a god.

He was not accustomed to regret.

Not accustomed did not mean immune: there were things he regretted, of course. The loss of his first family, the two sons and a daughter that he had failed so thoroughly that he still could not stand to hear the sound of their names, each one declared utterly taboo within the Nightless City – the wife he had married for power and then divorced in a fit of temper, driving her and her not-so-secret lover to the end of their rope in unspeakable desperation – the faithful servants he had sacrificed as pawns in his power plays and only afterwards realized how much he had relied upon them –

His brother.

His curse.

If by some miracle of fate he could choose to change a single thing in the ancient life that he had so far lived, it would unquestionably be the death of his brother.

Wen Ruohan had had quite a few brothers, in fact – his father, much like the usual style of leaders of the Wen sect, had fancied himself both empire-builder and emperor, and had had children accordingly, both his own and those he’d adopted, with all the headache-induing and often life-threatening dramatics associated with that – but to Wen Ruohan, there had only really ever been one that mattered.

Only one.

Wen Ruohan didn’t even remember any longer whether Wen Ruoyu had been his blood-related brother, sharing a father and maybe a mother, or if he’d been some child seized from another sect and given the Wen surname to help grow their power. It hadn’t mattered to him back then and it didn’t matter to him still, for all that he now prized his personal bloodline even above merit.

All that mattered was that Wen Ruohan had loved Wen Ruoyu more than he’d ever loved anything in his life, more than his sect, more than cultivation, more than power, and that Wen Ruoyu had died not knowing it. Had died cursing his name, spitting blood onto his face, fingers scrabbling at his neck in a futile attempt to choke him, wishing with his final breath that Wen Ruohan would never again know a single moment of peace.

Well, he hadn’t.

Ever the dutiful brother, he closed his eyes to nightmares, and woke to dreariness. He madly sought power enough to ensure that such a thing would never happen to him again, only for his obsessive quest to drive his few remaining loved ones into the grave; he had very nearly succeeded in becoming a god, and lost all interest in life in the process. The only joys remaining to him were his ever-growing power, his ever-expanding sect, and, sometimes, the blood and pain of other people, which he used as a reminder that he was not truly alone in this world.

And Lao Nie, of course.

Wen Ruohan had almost entirely succeeding in sealing off all of his emotions by the time Lao Nie showed up, smiling and carefree and reckless, half in love with the death he knew awaited him – showed up and battered down all of Wen Ruohan’s defenses. Wen Ruohan wished, now more than ever, that he had carried on in his attempts to make himself a true god, above all humanity, and not yielded to the siren call of friendship. Perhaps if he had been a god, he wouldn’t have been so hurt when Lao Nie barreled onwards with his life, leaving him behind not once but thrice – perhaps he wouldn’t have tried to kill him.

Perhaps he wouldn’t have nearly murdered the little boy that Lao Nie had on occasion shoved into his arms during a visit, no matter how many times Wen Ruohan reminded him that it was inappropriate – the little serious one who looked so bewildered by it all but who still called him Sect Leader Wen the way Wen Ruohan instructed rather than listening to his father’s not-quite-joking suggestions of ‘Uncle Wen’, the little crybaby that had all unknowingly once tricked Lan Qiren into a logical conundrum that had made the man’s mind splutter out like a machine falling all to bits while Wen Ruohan and Lao Nie had roared with laughter…the one that had been charming enough to make him change his mind and opt to keep little Wen Xu around instead of sending him out to be adopted into the branch families the way he had with the other children he’d refused to acknowledge, mourning as he still did his first family.

He hadn’t meant to hurt Nie Mingjue.

Not like that, anyway.

It’d taken some time for the regret to creep in – his initial bout of horror had been more shock and irritation at having hit the wrong target, the shame of making such an elementary error to hit a boy he hadn’t seen in years rather than the man standing right in front of him, and then he’d shrugged it off, thinking to himself that the loss of a son would be as good a way to punish Lao Nie as the loss of his life. It wasn’t until his spies in the Unclean Realm came back and described to him what he had wrought…

Nie Mingjue didn’t look anything like Wen Ruoyu, not really, but in Wen Ruohan’s dreams he wept tears of blood in just the same way, spitting up foam as his eyes rolled in his head, dying – dying – dead.

Not dead.

It wasn’t a curse, Wen Ruohan knew, but if there was something he could do – anything he could do – he would do it.

He had to.

“You have to let him go,” someone said, and Wen Ruohan looked up in surprise: he’d been waiting for half a day already and god or no god, his legs were numb with sitting.

He didn’t recognize the too-tall young man who stared down at him, one eyeball eerily colored red and steel grey – the young man’s clothing was non-descript and ill-fitting, mismatched as if he’d picked it off some laundry pile without thought of coordination. There was something of the Nie in his face, the breadth of his shoulders, but his features were finer and sharper, his waist more slender, his fingers lacking in the familiar calluses of the saber; he looked like he’d be a fierce war god when he’d grown into his body but that he hadn’t quite gotten there yet.

His golden core shone.

Wen Ruohan stared. His lust for power had long ago become an essential part of him, and in front of him was power, power at such a young age – if he could claim that cultivation for his own, maybe he could stop describing himself as nearly a god, could actually call down a heavenly tribulation and leap up to join the heavens in a single bound.

And then, maybe then, at last, he could have peace.

“You have to let him go,” the young man said a second time, and Wen Ruohan was distracted by wondering what he meant, not sure he understood and not entirely sure he cared. “That’s the only way. You have to let him go.”

He shifted forward, and something inside Wen Ruohan warned that he would strike.

It seemed ridiculous, though. Wen Ruohan, the finest living master of arrays, was not afraid of anything this young man might try to do – only a spiritual sword could pierce his armor, and even that, only one that took him utterly by surprise. No one would dare try to strike him.

Especially not this young man, who carried neither sword or saber.

Perhaps that was why Wen Ruohan never saw it coming – the young man’s hand moved in a jabbing motion, the way a sword would swing, and suddenly, impossibly, there was sword intent given physical form through spiritual energy, piecing through his defenses, slashing down at him and aiming right at his neck.

-

“Let me get this straight,” Lan Qiren said, rubbing his forehead. “Nie Mingjue reappeared after something like ten years out alone in the wild, and when he did he brought some sort of technique that just…fixed the Nie sect cultivation issue. The one that was killing you, and has been killing your ancestors for – generations.”

Lao Nie nodded.

“And then you allowed him to see Sect Leader Wen, who he attacked…in a way that happened to mimic some old tragedy that has apparently haunted him for years, thereby allowing him to resolve some long-held heart demon. And now Sect Leader Wen has retreated into seclusion in order to explore this moment of enlightenment further, and doesn’t intend to bother the rest of us for a while. Certainly not by continuing his schemes to take over the cultivation world.”

“That’s right,” Lao Nie said. “Though I don’t expect he’ll be in seclusion all that long; the Wen sect doesn’t practice –”

Lan Qiren held up a hand, indicating he wasn’t done and didn’t appreciate being interrupted.

Lao Nie obediently fell silent.

“And then,” and by now Lan Qiren was speaking through somewhat gritted teeth, “when Sect Leader Jin rushed over because he wanted to get in on what he perceived to be Wen Ruohan’s attempted takeover of the Qinghe Nie, your son attacked him, too – except in this case, he crippled him.”

“I did say anyone who trespassed would be killed on sight,” Lao Nie said, entirely unbothered. Because of course he wasn’t – why would anyone think that suddenly being freed of a lifetime’s death sentence would make him less reckless and shameless? If anything, his overwhelming joy had just made him even more arrogant and inclined to insist on getting his own way. “It’s been known for years, and no exceptions have ever been made, not even for sect leaders. Why should Jin Guangshan think himself different?”

“That’s a terrible excuse,” Lan Qiren scolded. “And besides the point.”

“What is the point?”

Lan Qiren opened his mouth, then stopped, thought it over, and sighed. “The point is, I suppose – are you going to the Jiang sect next?”

Lao Nie blinked. “The – Jiang sect? Why?”

“Because instead of the cultivation world breaking the ‘curse’ on your son, your son has apparently taken to breaking the curses of the cultivation world,” Lan Qiren said dryly. “And he’s already gotten four out of the five Great Sects, so why not complete the set?”

Lao Nie’s lips quirked. “Four? I can see the others: my Nie sect’s qi deviations, Wen Ruohan’s madness for power, the Jin sect’s terrible luck in getting that scheming old lecher selected as their next sect leader…but what did he do for the Lan sect?”

“It was in his name that you forced my brother out of seclusion all those years ago,” Lan Qiren pointed out. “And now I spend half of every year traveling wherever I wish, and the other half teaching; it is everything I would have wanted. Meanwhile, my brother has finally through his children learned what it means to care for others instead of rotting to death in a self-imposed grave built from ill-fated love…if that’s not curse-breaking, what is?”

[hunflowers]

The Aftermath

Word Count: 3.7k

Requested? Yes, and you can too, here :)

A/N: here she is, the little piece of the puzzle y’all have been waiting for. it’s a small part two of 1964, and it’ll take place just after their reunion at the end of the story!! i hope you enjoy it, because i missed writing my babies a lot and i hope you love them just as much as me.

pls, reblog the fics you read or heck even if you see it on your dash; it means a lot <3

good luck and have fun, in that order *nose boops*

“Happy Birthday, Rose.”

No one can explain the phenomenon of joy processed through the body and soul as Harry spoke those simple words into the air to Y/N.

It can only be described as a chill shooting down her spine, flaring goosebumps on her skin, her mouth running dry at the sight of him, or maybe the way her eyes glossed over with a glistening sheen. Pure joy.

As if she didn't already feel transported back to 1964 when sharing her many stories with her eager to learn granddaughter, she certainly did now. Seeing Harry's face, the same features that made her swoon all those years ago - though a little mature now - made her feel like she was her twenty-one year old self all over again.

It felt like a movie, as if the two of them shaped back into their younger statures, adorned in the style from way back when, embodying a world of black and white that would explode into color. Hannah and Eleanor disappeared into the future, and all there was, was Harry and Y/N like how they once were.

Before she could process what she was doing, Y/N was scurrying across the wood floor, walking the fast she has in a while, throwing her arms around Harry’s shoulders and burying her face into the crook of his neck. She could feel the rumble of his chest as he laughed, easily reciprocating the love by engulfing her in a hug, pulling her impossibly closer.

The smell of the roses swarmed Y/N’s nose, tingling her senses in the best way possible. Her brain was overpowering as it continued to be overwhelmed by the events happening, still trying to understand how Harry, her H, was in front of her.

Pulling away a few moments later - but not completely unraveling herself from his hold - she looked up at him, looking at her favorite shade of green that she tried so hard to recreate yet always failed. “Are you really here?”

“Yes! He is, Nona!” Ellie cheered from behind her, causing everyone to gape at her while also laughing. He’s really here, in her arms, breathing the same air as her.

Maybe he wasn’t a dream, after all.

Looking back up at him, Y/N smiled softly, bringing her hands up under his jaw, using her thumbs to caress the soft skin that was lined with a little bit of stubble. “I missed you,” she whispered, almost like it was meant to be a secret.

With his own little grin, Harry placed his own free hand on her cheek, using his thumb to swipe the tear that managed to escape her eye without her noticing. Instinctively, Y/N leaned her head to rest in his palm, a reflex she never seemed to have shake.

Harry didn’t have to say anything back for her to know that he felt the same way, if not more. His actions always spoke a lot louder than his words, and it also seemed that old habits hardly seem to die, even so many years later.

“Okay,” Hannah cleared her throat, trying to gain the attention of the two older folk for the first time in the last couple of minutes. “We’re meeting Aunt Carmella and Uncle Frank in twenty minutes.”

The duo separated, heat rising to their cheeks as they realized just how close they had been for those moments. Harry offered her her bouquet of roses, to which she took gratefully and scurried off to find a vase, uttering a quick, “I’ll be right back.”

In reality, yes she went to find a vase, but Y/N also needed a second to recuperate, inhaling deeply to get her heart to start slowing its rapid pace. Fifty-five years since she’s seen him.

Fifty-five.

It was a lot to comprehend. She was convinced she’d never look at him, hold him, appreciate his existence ever again. One thing is for sure, she never did stop loving him.

Y/N placed her hands down on the counter she placed her roses on, leaning her weight onto her hands as she felt the emotions roll over her like waves crashing on a beach. Her insides felt like mush. She was experiencing the come down after getting off a rowdy rollercoaster, like those she used to go on on Coney Island whenever she visited New York. Electricity shot through her veins as if she had been succumbed to the consequences of the electric chair - yet it wasn’t painful. In fact, she felt alive.

“Mom,” Hannah spoke from behind her, causing her to nearly jump out of her skin. Y/N didn’t realize she had been so lost in her own thoughts for a few moments there. Raising her hand to her chest, she turned around and let out a breath, before smacking her daughter in the shoulder.

“You can’t do that to me, Han. I’m old, I could die from a heart attack.”

“Don’t even joke about something like that,” Hannah rolled her eyes. But quickly the annoyance dissipated as she remembered why she came into the kitchen in the first place. “Are you okay?”

Y/N pursed her lips, giving her a simple shrug. “Yes and no. It’s not easy being reminded of... the love and pain I felt. How did you even find him, anyway?”

Hannah sheepishly smiled, “Aunt Carmella...”

Y/N scoffed, knowing it was exactly like her friend to be secretive about something so monumental like knowing where Harry is and how to contact him. She couldn’t determine if it was a good thing that Carmella kept this information from her, but deep down she knew it was.

As soon as Y/N gathered her wits, the foursome were out the door and on their way to lunch. They had decided to drive two separate cars, and after a bit of begging, Y/N let Harry drive them in his rental. Though, along the way it was a bit of rocky journey. “First time driving on the right side of the road,” was his excuse.

In the car ride, Y/N took the time to truly admire the man she once laid beside at night, trying to wrap her head around the fact that he was next to her again. She wondered if in his old age he would turn wrinkled and decrepit, maybe using a cane or having a hunch back. It only seemed fitting that he beat all of those stereotypes and looked like he had the health of his younger self rather than a seventy-six year old man. He’s timeless; just like their love.

When they finally met up with Carmella, it didn’t take Y/N long to scold her friend for keeping such a humongous secret from her, and working in tandem with her own daughter and granddaughter. All the Italian woman did was shrug before latching her arms around both Harry and Y/N’s frames, pulling the three of them close for a long-awaited, reuniting hug that felt like home.

“Il trio è tornato e meglio che mai. questo merita un brindisi,” [The trio is back and better than ever. This deserves a toast] Carmella cheered, clapping her hands in giddiness as she waved the waitress back over to order the most extravagant wine.

Leaning down to whisper in Y/N’s ear, Harry muttered, “And I still have no idea what she’s saying.” Y/N bumped his shoulder with hers, shaking her head gently as a small smile snuck up onto her lips.

Lunch was shared with many laughs and old stories - all per the request of Ellie. She was eager to keep learning and eager to see her nona so happy.

When lunch was over and they were all saying goodbye, Ellie practically all but pushed Y/N to go with Harry so they could go somewhere private. Hannah of course condoned her daughter’s behavior, but also told her mom it was for the best they catch up without either of them around. They needed to be alone.

That’s how they ended up at the park downtown, where Y/N used to frequent often when she used to run in the mornings or whenever she needed a spark of creativity for her next painting. 

Once Harry placed the car in park, the stagnant tension between them only rose as neither of them jumped to get out of the vehicle. They simmered, absorbed, melted into the atmosphere, basking in it before they flipped it on its head to talk about what they both had been avoiding.

It was an unspoken truce to get out of the car at the same time. The sun was winking at them through the clouds, luring them to venture deeper into the park, just like it used to. Almost as if the star was just as excited as them to be back in each other’s lives. The saying is if walls could talk, but what about the sun? Or the moon? Both kept Harry and Y/N’s moments inside of them, stored deep in their cores right next to all the other love that happened in their line of vision.

Out of instinct, the two locked hands. And they didn’t seem to mind. It felt like a magnet pulled them together, and it would take a lot of force to break them apart.

As they walked along the paved path, being passed by those on bikes or joggers, or really even anyone that walked faster. They weren’t in any sort of rush, because moments like these aren’t meant to be fast paced. They needed to simmer, absorb, and melt.

Harry decided to be the first to speak up, surprising both of them considering, well, his past. “I see the artist life treated you well.”

Slightly turning her head to face him, she laughed softly, shrugging her shoulders. “I guess it did. You predicted it.”

I can’t wait to buy your art one day.

Harry gazed down at his feet, humming a response. He didn’t have the proper words to respond to her allusion to his letter. Hearing the twinge of spite sitting on top of her words was enough for him to gauge that his letter was a sore topic for her. And rightfully so, because even he hasn’t completely forgiven himself for not giving her a proper goodbye.

Coming up on a patch of grass that was half hidden beneath a large oak tree and half in the glory of the sunlight, Harry and Y/N decided to take a seat. If they were going to throw themselves into the past, might as well go all the way and lay in the grass like they did in Florence. Albeit, they wouldn’t actually lay down because it would’ve been impossible for either of them to properly get up.

They rested their backs against the large trunk, looking out into the field and watching little kids play around as their parents kept their distance off to the side with other parents. Y/N found it near impossible to not snap a mental picture of what was in front of her, cursing herself for not bringing her camera with her. It was a beautiful day, and one she wished to remember. Not because of the dreadful conversation that was bound to swallow her whole or the man sitting beside her, but because of the landscape.

What a waste of a beautiful day.

Now, it was her turn to break the silence, because she knew he wouldn’t. He may have once, but that was all he could probably handle. “Tell me about your life, Harry. Please.”

Letting out a breath of air he didn’t realize he had been holding in, Harry twiddled with his thumbs in his lap. “Got two kids. Ben and, uh, Rose.”

Ouch.

“Five beautiful grandchildren.” He spoke shortly and to the point, finding it very difficult to open up the can of worms that is his life.

Once Harry got the call from Carmella that he was going to surprise Y/N for her birthday, he couldn’t get on a plane any faster. The idea of being face-to-face with her again after so many years was daunting and normally he found it difficult to escape his confined box of reality. But that was the thing about Y/N, she always made things seem less terrible to him.

England is his origin and where his family resides, but it hardly felt like home anymore.

His marriage with Nancy balanced on its very thin, tight rope for thirty years, but they both knew it was bound to fall off. Once he returned from Italy, it was like he was a soldier returning from war, because he in no way was the same man who left for Italy when coming home. But, they pushed on, because it was what they were meant to do.

They had two wonderful kids and they seemed like the picturesque family they were planned to be. Behind closed doors, they were anything but. He and Nancy fought a lot and their kids seemed to loathe him for reasons still unbeknownst to him. He supported them and loved them like any parent would, yet it felt like they joined everyone else in his life that wanted to keep him silent. Everyone except one person.

Once his and Nancy’s divorce was finalized, the kids couldn’t be more thrilled. All they needed was a solid reason to drop their father out of their lives. As the years went on they slowly worked him back into their day-to-day routine, but not really. Only for the sake of his grandkids was he in their lives.

It was especially hard living his life knowing his own creations couldn’t stand him just like everyone else, and that was exactly why he couldn’t agree faster to get on a plane to America.

“I officially retired last year, so m’not really doing much these days. Actually, I picked up drawing again if y’could believe it. Haven’t touched a pencil for artistic purposes since... well, since then.” Their heads remained forward, not a single glance made towards one another because it felt easier this way. 

Y/N listened intently to the drawl of his voice, engraving the words he spoke deep into her mind, right next to the dusty ones he spoke fifty-five years prior. Everything and anything he’s ever said rests idly on little bookshelves in her brain, collecting dust the longer she takes to go back and hear them over. It was nice to add new additions to her collection. “That sounds lovely, H.”

His heartstrings pulled at the use of his nickname, something only she would call him. He was only Harry to any one, both by his choice and because every one else was too prim to call him something else.

Y/N took notice to how he mentioned nothing of Nancy, and paired that with the fact he wasn’t wearing a wedding band on his most intimate finger. She thinks maybe he did it out of courtesy to not beckon any unwarranted anguish and pain for her sake - because that’s exactly why she didn’t wear hers.

When she went to put her flowers in a vase in the kitchen, she slid her engagement and wedding rings off her finger and set them down gently on the counter, not wanting to clash her two separate lives.

That’s why she had to ask about her. She couldn’t keep going if she didn’t have any sort of answer to her wondering questions that she’s had for the past five decades. “How’s Nancy?” Y/N didn’t care to actually know how she is, she just wanted to know their story.

The leaves above them blew in the suddenly apparent wind, threatening them that what they were about to indulge in was like a storm on the horizon. It was bound to come and impossible to avoid. “Dunno. Haven’t spoken to her in a couple of weeks.”

This opened the door to many unanswered questions in Y/N’s mind, sending her down on spiral of want and need for an explanation that he didn’t seem keen on giving. This closed the most important door, flooding her with relief she didn’t realize she needed to feel just a little less pain sitting next to him.

Not knowing just how to pose her next question, Harry beat her to the punch, halting her thoughts in her tracks. “We’re divorced.”

Divorced. A strange concept. Y/N never imagined divorcing her husband in all of the years they were married. It seemed trivial and time-consuming and led to no greater purpose in her mind. She could either be miserably alone, or miserable with a man by her side. The latter seemed the most comforting.

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“I’m not. We weren’t meant to be,” he chuckled, laughing not because it’s actually funny, but because Y/N knew they weren’t meant to be. It was obvious. “Just meaningless pieces in my parents puzzle.”

Hearing his broken words that he used to rant about all those years ago resurface, Y/N couldn’t help reaching for his hand again, clasping it between both of hers and holding it in her lap. It didn’t matter how many years had passed, because it was certain his parents were still a sore subject. She wanted him to know that she never forgot the hurt they put him through, and that she will always be on his side. Always.

Diverting the attention away from himself, it was Harry’s turn to pour salt into a wound he knew would sting harshly. “Did you uh, ever get married, Rose?”

When Carmella had managed to get his number a couple years after Italy, they kept in contact nearly every week. A lot of the time their topic of conversation would revolve around Y/N, and what ever new information Carmella could relay. One thing he refused to know however, was if she ever got married. He didn’t need to know, nor did he want to. But now, he supposes he does. 

“I did. He passed in February.” The 1st. Coincidental, maybe ironic. “He was a good man.”

Silence. It was nice Y/N was able to settle herself with someone deemed to be good. It’s what she deserved. But Harry didn’t want to know anymore.

Silence. They kept their heads forward, but over time Y/N’s head slowly ended up resting on Harry’s shoulder. Their hands stayed latched and their bodies radiated each other’s warmth. Y/N felt cold though. Rehashing their pasts slowly brought them closure, but it in no way healed the pain that rested heavy on her heart. “I wish things could’ve been different for us, Harry.” They deserved different than what they were given. Why do soulmates exist if they can’t be together? 

A love like theirs is folklore; unsure if it ever existed, but meant to be told for generations. “We were special don’t you think?”

“We were everything,” Harry murmured, squeezing her hands, then planting a gentle kiss to the crown of her head.

Y/N laughed again at his allusion, but she wasn’t laughing because it was funny, but because it stung like a wasp. Over and over again. “I’ve still got that stupid piece of paper, y’know. Your letter. Saved it all these years because it was all I had.”

The little anger she had left inside of her began to bubble up. Though it didn’t last very long as tears welled in her eyes, just like when she picked up the stupid paper for the first time. Grief stampeded her stomach like a herd of frightened elephants, bruising her deeply as the pain she felt from that day made itself known in the present.

“You didn’t say goodbye. Why didn’t you say goodbye?”

The wind picked up as the clouds in the sky completely covered the sun in forecast, hovering over Harry as a reminder, just in case he didn’t already know the pain he caused.

Pulling Y/N close to his chest, he let her cry, knowing it was best to not say anything at all. She wasn’t legitimately asking why he didn’t, but it felt good to get the question off her chest. So he let her cry, his own tears pricking his waterline, balancing on the edge before tumbling over and down onto his cheeks.

Just when the sun began to come out from its hiding spot, the two subsided their emotions, calming down just like the leaves above their heads. The storm had passed. All that’s left now is the aftermath.

“We don’t get forever, Rose. But we have each other now.”

Something tells them though that despite how many physical years they may have left with one another, they’ll always have forever. The thought rests easy on their minds.

With just a few more minutes of sitting in the grass and simmering, absorbing, melting, the duo decided it was time to get up. They were going to put the past behind them, starting with the fact that maybe they were too old to be sitting in the grass like they used to.

Laughs and giggles were exchanged as they both tried to get to their feet as gracefully as possible without drawing any attention to themselves. They were a heap of giggles and optimism as they retraced their steps back onto the pathway, heading back to his car.

It almost seemed like déjà vu the moment a speedy bicyclist zoomed past Y/N, nearly grazing her left side. She moved out of his way just in the nick of time, but haphazardly fell into Harry’s arms, who always seemed ready to catch her even in the most abrupt of times.

It all happened so fast yet also so slow, running parallel to the moment this exact occurrence happened fifty-five years ago. Their whole day ran parallel to their pasts, so it was only inevitable that that same electricity sparked through their bodies again.

They gazed into each other’s eyes the moment her body felt safe, that same magnet pulling them close enough that their mouths were only a few inches apart. Not a single word was exchanged as their breaths mingled together and their fingers gripped each other forcefully.

Remembering when she told Ellie about their first electric moment, Ellie immediately questioned if the two of them had kissed because it seemed like the perfect moment. Disappointingly, they didn’t.

She would hate to disappoint her granddaughter again.

So, this time they did.

It was the perfect moment, after all.

[aiyexayen]

So uh that essay about how Wei Ying takes after Yu Ziyuan? I am LISTENING

There were two things that really made me start to think about this, one was this tweet which says, "You know what we don't talk about? Wei Wuxian getting his cry-laughing from Madam Yu" and this incredible ChengXian video which sets their relationship to the tune of When Doves Cry and wrecks me every time I watch it (I just watched it now when I went to get the link and I'm whimpering).

As to the first matter:

seems fairly conclusive.

The second matter:

maybe I'm just like my father, too bold maybe you're just like my mother-- she's never satisfied

Was there this much meta thought put into one line of lyrics in a video set to When Doves Cry? Hard to say. There is now, though! Because dang, what a line. Essay under the cut.

There's a (valid) tendency to pull out the ways Jiang Cheng is more like his mother, and the ways Wei Wuxian is more like Jiang Fengmian, especially where their relationship is concerned.

Jiang Cheng wants proof of care through passion, through a willingness to fight. He will provoke and poke at things better left lying, with no shame and no regard to who else is around, dredge up old hurts and old grudges and old matters even if they're long buried or long forgiven, so long as he thinks it will get him the reaction he's looking for.

He wants Wei Wuxian to fix things by rising to the bait, rising to the challenge, giving him pushback when he says blatant lies, showing him that his shige still thinks he's worth it.

This is terribly unhealthy, of course, don't do this at home kids, but it's one of my core Jiang Cheng Truths.

Jiang Cheng shows that he cares in turn by being willing to fight, by pouring his emotion out even if those often end up as negative expressions. He's messy and unrestrained when he feels things, not all of which is from his mother--a lot of that is just Jiang Cheng--however, you can see the way he tries to rein in his emotions when he's embarrassed about caring or is trying to pretend that he doesn't care. Whether it's pretending to shrug off Wei Wuxian and walk away when they have a problem, or trying to rein in his temper at Lan Wangji on Dafan Mountain. Because from his mother, he's internalised the message that to engage in the fight is proof of care, so the opposite is also true.

And oh, when he hurts, he seeks to hurt back. That's very Yu Ziyuan of him.

Wei Wuxian, meanwhile, frequently defaults to calming and placating with Jiang Cheng. Not as much as Jiang Yanli does--but more on her, momentarily. We see Wei Wuxian complain at Jiang Cheng to not get riled up, tell him he's being stubborn and just to accept the peace offering, etc. The difference is that, at first, with Jiang Cheng, a lot of that is just general pouty childishness and Wei Ying-ing, general sibling shit.

Plus, he was still willing to fight/express himself fully. They fought a lot. He always ran after Jiang Cheng, always roped him into expressing himself, always let Jiang Cheng fight it out. He understood, at least intuitively, and he didn't back down. The benefits of having grown up together, and of being an older one/middle sibling in the dynamic.

But when things really started to break down between him and Jiang Cheng, when the conflict was much bigger, much more grown up, much more real, Wei Wuxian started modeling his behaviour even more on Jiang Fengmian in regards to Jiang Cheng, possibly seeing more of Yu-furen in Jiang Cheng and responding the way that felt natural.

(Also, a lot of his own guilt and depression/apathy/intent to die and assorted other issues came into play at roughly the same time.)

Thus, we see Wei Wuxian start to turn down Jiang Cheng more often, and back off. He shrugs it off or rejects it when Jiang Cheng reaches out, and he stops reaching out himself. He tries to placate Jiang Cheng, tries to defuse him, tries to send him away. Some of this is because he cares and is trying to show he cares by taking himself out of the situation; some because he's trying to maintain his lies; some because he just doesn't have the energy to deal with this anymore.

After Wei Wuxian is resurrected, by which point he's done what he perceives as the worst things to Jiang Cheng, this intensifies. Jiang Cheng provokes him beyond reason, lashes out, starts fights, sneers, and Wei Wuxian almost rises to the bait but he stops himself. He lets Jiang Cheng be angry and he shrinks himself down, he backs away, he disengages. A decent portion of this is Wei Wuxian himself, and his faulty perspective on the situation and on Jiang Cheng's anger and complexity of emotion and intent. Some of it is lingering relationship modeling off of Jiang-shushu and Yu-furen's relationship. Either way, he's definitely "being the Jiang Fengmian" in the situation.

Additionally, Wei Wuxian tries quite actively to model himself off of Jiang-shushu's good qualities, which is understandable given that this was his primary benevolent adult figure and liked him quite a lot. We see it in the way Wei Wuxian teaches, the way he instructs with archery, the fact he prioritises archery to begin with, the way he expresses kindness the way it was expressed to him, through encouragement or noticing people who are down and out. Things that Wei Wuxian, at least, attributes to Jiang Fengmian's character (I'm trying so hard not to make this a Jiang Fengmian salt post) even if a lot of that is just his own outlook on life at the end of the day.

But all of these kids were around both of these parental figures/people of authority. This is most clear in Jiang Yanli. We see the way she's become a mediator figure between her parents when they're upset with each other and understands them both.

She takes all the kind intent and patience and willingness to placate and calm from her father, and adds in the knowledge and understanding needed to actually use it interpersonally. She's more open with communication, can identify the heart of an issue, and effectively diffuse a lot of tension. She has middling success with this with regards to her parents, but a lot more success with her brothers. It helps her see eye to eye with Wei Wuxian, and share that spark of playfulness between them too. It helps her understand why Jiang Cheng says things the way he does, and what he means.

We also see Jiang Yanli reveal herself to be the steely, fiery daughter of Zi Zhizhu when someone attacks what is hers. She is just as much her mother's child.

So, too, Jiang Cheng is his father's son. I think this is true much more when he grows up and inherits the sect and has held it for some time in the wake of tragedy. We see evidence that he's become a well-regarded leader, and for all we see cool, flashing, calculating glares and bitten-back sneers, we see worried disciples fussing over his health. We see a mild manner that was learned, and an authority that has accrued with time, and a self-assuredness when dealing with his peers that seems more modeled off what we see of Jiang Fengmian than of Yu Ziyuan.

Jiang Cheng is a match for Zidian, through and through, but he is also steady and determined and bold, good at making and keeping allies, or else how could he have achieved the impossible in rebuilding his sect? He learned to take some of his mother, some of his father, find something left over of himself out of the wreckage of his life, and meld it all together.

That brings us to Wei Wuxian. I had, at the time of first seeing that tweet, showed it to a friend who said:

Are we gonna talk about how Wei Ying gets his cry-laugh from her? Are we gonna talk about how he learned that intense glare from her, too? Or his tendency to act swiftly and decisively even when it might not be the actual best course of action? Or his violent protectiveness of his siblings?

Inspired. And yes, we are.

Yu-furen was a figure of absolute strength in Wei Wuxian's life. Uncompromising, unyielding, impressive as hell. She had the capacity to inspire deep loyalty and was fiercely protective over things that were hers. Her son, her daughter, her family's reputation, her sect, her home, her disciple. (Yes, even Wei Wuxian was hers, too, she made quite the point about that.)

Wei Wuxian is very easygoing. But when he decides something is his, whether that's a duty or a person or whatever, it's his to protect, it's his to do anything for, even cause a scene, even start a war, even lose allies or his own life. It's one surefire way to get him to fight no matter what headspace he's in.

You can see Jiang Cheng realise/remember this in real time in the Ancestral Hall, when he can't get a rise out of Wei Wuxian by talking about himself and his family, and that stings, but he's desperate to get a rise out of him somehow, and immediately he sets in on Lan Wangji. And it fucking works. That's what gets Wei Wuxian to almost fight him. If he'd posed a real threat, and if a whole bunch of other complicated psychological shit wasn't part of the mix for everyone involved, there would absolutely have been a fight.

Wei Wuxian latched onto the Wens, yes, and they were his, too, but they weren't the only ones. Lotus Pier was his, as was Jiang Cheng. Yunmeng Shuangjie was not just a pipe dream, and Wei Wuxian's loyalty was not simply easy to sway. Yunmeng Jiang's strength, their reputation, their future, and Jiang Cheng's along with it were always on his mind.

He lied, and fought, and even left and took himself out of the picture to that end. For Jiang Cheng, and for his ability to carry on. In so many ways, Wei Wuxian absolutely took so much of his perspectives on that from Yu Ziyuan, for better or worse.

Uncompromising, unyielding, even when turned on himself. Never satisfied, always pushing for more, for answers, for solutions, for the right path, even in his own frequently easygoing and curious ways. Unhesitating, across the board. Even if it meant his own life, or his core.

There is nothing wrong with hesitating. Hesitating, worrying, being uncertain, trying to think first, trying to find the right path, and then being able to find it, or choose it anyway, is such an act of courage. That's a quality Jiang Cheng has in droves. He hesitated, when he saw the Wen soldiers coming for Wei Wuxian. And then he chose to sacrifice himself. For Wei Wuxian, there was no hesitation whatsoever. No forethought. No choice, really. Just go. I think that's very Yu Ziyuan of him.

I had to go digging to find that message my friend sent me, and I'll conclude with my response:

If we're going to talk about how Wei Wuxian is like Yu-furen, then we'll have to talk about how Yu-furen knew that. Or at least, the only parts that she ever had cause to see in him while she still lived. How he was hers even if he wasn't her son. How Fengmian's lazy favouritism was intolerable in this way, too, in the way it sowed discord where there didn't need to be any, and was a barrier between her and the things that should have been more fully hers. How the farewell at Lotus Pier was more of a betrayal than she intended. How she thought she and Wei Ying met over more even ground at that moment, because she knew he loved Jiang Cheng as much as she did, in the way she did. How she expected more from him than for him to give parts himself up in such a horrifying way. How she underestimated the actual damage that had been done. And if she'd survived to see it, she just might have been truly horrified.

[thedeathdeelers]

Okay just because I fucking love your writing unmm something about Julie maybe reflecting on how Luke was brought to her, by the universe or her mom etc, and just fucking soulmate fluff. I loved your religion drabble btw!!

thank you so much!!!🥰

sorry for the delay :$ but i hope you like it!! (ps it turned out to be way longer than i anticipated, so, ya)

pps: you can now find this on my AO3 🤗

——

i think i dreamed you into life

   It was a Julie & Luke writing session, just like any other. They were sat, hunched over their shared journal on the faded black couch, too absorbed by the words and notes scribbled on the pages in front of them to pay any attention to anything else.

   Julie had just had an epiphany, finally finding the right words to lead them into the chorus following the first verse. With a stiff neck and a cramping hand, Julie stretched her arms over her head, sitting up for a second before collapsing back onto the back cushions of the couch. She heaved a large sigh, looking around and only just registering the low setting sun. They had somehow managed to lose track of time, again, spending well over what she assumed was 4 hours working on this one song. She shook her head, a small smile on her lips as she looked back at her writing partner, still fully focused on the journal in his lap.

   They were so alike sometimes, it scared her a little. How could they be so perfect for each other when they were never meant to meet? Cross paths? She often found herself wondering about the way they were brought together, the reasons they were in each others’ lives. But then as soon as her mind wandered towards the mysteries of the universe and its guiding powers, she always ended up spiraling - no matter how she looked at it, Luke and her were somehow meant to be. Fated. Star crossed....whatever.

   Her train of thought would always start off innocently enough - she was part of a ghost band. She could see ghosts (well three particular ghosts, at least) - the only lifer who could without Caleb’s help (as far as Willie could tell). She had never really been one to believe in the supernatural, but she was now so intrinsically involved, that she frequently wondered whether everything about her life wasn’t just a dream. Maybe after years & years of practice, she had managed to hone in her daydreaming skills to a point that allowed her to create a world that sounded a little too much like she was the protagonist in a movie or a show. This couldn’t actually be real life, could it? Her life?

   The couch shifted, Luke reaching over to grab his guitar, testing out a line before placing his guitar back on the ground, and crossing out a whole section. No, she doesn’t think her mind could have ever managed to dream up Luke.

Don’t get her wrong, there were definitely moments where Julie felt just as normal as she used to. She’d forget that the boys were anything other than her lovable, goofy bandmates. Normal teenage boys, messing around and playing music in her mom’s studio. But then she would look up and see bright hazel eyes staring back at her, and she‘d unexpectedly be hit again by the storm of emotions that washed over her the first time she had accidentally walked through Luke. It was like nothing she had ever experienced before. She had felt cold, then warm, and then this peculiar feeling of being....whole. Like she had just come home after a long tiring trip. She couldn’t describe it properly even if she tried, but the only thing that came close to summing it up was home.

Julie closed her eyes, trying to recreate the feeling, bringing it back up to the surface.

Her logical side knew soulmates was just a term used to romanticise romance, she knows that, but whenever she remembers that feeling, just like she is now, she wonders whether she had somehow felt his soul in that kitchen - sneaked a peek before latching onto it. These thoughts made it harder to hold onto logic.

Ugh, she was spiralling again. Julie lifted her hands to her face, rubbing furiously at her eyes, trying to dislodge some of the thoughts clouding her mind. She could feel a headache coming on, and that was the last thing she needed right now. She rolled her head back, resting against the old cushions, and looked at the floating chairs on the ceiling.

Her mother. Didn’t her mother always tell her that there was more to the world than meets the eye? That it wasn’t always wise to think only with one’s mind, but to trust your gut, your heart?

It used to be comments like those that led Julie to believe that her mother was more than just her mother. Could Rose have been an angel in disguise all along? Fate, Love, personified? Julie would be lying to herself if she said she had never thought about her mother being the key instigator behind the boys’ presence in her life. She just somehow knew that Rose had handpicked these boys, and sent them to her. Sent Luke to her. She had known that Julie would need divine intervention to pull herself out of her slump, and who better to do that than the one person, the one soul in the universe that perfectly aligned with hers?

Julie rolled her head to the side once more, staring at Luke’s profile, his brows drawn, deep in thought. If he hadn’t died all those years ago, if he hadn’t eaten that unfortunate hotdog, this never would have been possible - they never would have met. Julie shuddered at the thought, her heart and soul aching in protest.

A connection of heart, mind and soul, her mother had told her. “They really do exist, mija” she‘d say, but Julie would only smile and nod, never truly believing that soulmates were real, that they were part of the universe’s grand design. But now-

Oh. Soulmates.

“Did you say something?”

Startled, Julie blinked herself out of her daze, realising too late that she was thinking out loud.

“N- no, no, nothing. Just uh- just thinking of the next verse, you know,” she chuckled awkwardly, avoiding Luke as she tried not to fidget. “Always working!” She pointed to her temple, immediately regretting the movement, cringing at her awful attempt at a cover up.

She could feel Luke’s unwavering gaze, focused on her as he sat up, pushing the journal onto the seat next to him. He shifted, turning towards her, even as she continued to face forward. Her cheeks were definitely getting warmer. Not good.

“Did you-” she saw him tilt his head to the side from the corner of her eye, “did you just say Soulmates?”

A lie was on the tip of her tongue, ready to burst, but as she reflexively slid her eyes to meet his, the words died out before they could be vocalised.

He was looking at her with a peculiar look in his eyes, a slightly awed expression etched on his face.

“I- I was just thinking...” She stuttered, unable to take her eyes off of Luke’s, even as her fingers fiddled with the loose threads of her jumper.

“About?”

“You know,” she lifted her hands, gesturing at the space around them, trying to be as vague as possible. “Life.”

Eyebrows shot up, disappearing under his orange beanie.

“Life? Really?”

“Yes. Life. Just..you know, how things change. Like the way you grow up thinking one thing but then something happens and it completely changes the way you see the world around you, the way your beliefs...shift.” She shrugged, trying and failing to seem nonchalant.

“Hm, deep thoughts for a Saturday afternoon.” He studied her for a second, before cocking his head to the side. “Any reason this led to the conclusion of Soulmates?”

Julie shifted uncomfortably, trying hard not to look away even as she felt her cheeks somehow growing even warmer.

“I...I was just thinking about my mom. And things she used to talk about and believe in with a certainty that always...confused me I guess. How could she believe in something so easily, when she couldn’t even see it? Feel it?” Julie diverted her gaze, choosing to look at her mom’s piano instead. Her voice took on a quieter tone, almost reflective as she continued with her new train of thought. “What if she wanted me to believe again? What if she had somehow found a way to not only get music back into my life, but to believe in love and fate and-“ Julie stopped short, her eyes darting back to Luke - his face was now frozen, showing her nothing of what he might be feeling.

Julie suddenly felt very silly.

“Never mind,” she laughed awkwardly, trying to play it off as just silly musings. “My mind was just wandering, but now I’m back and maybe we should just get back to that second verse...” Her voice trailed off, Luke’s face still giving nothing away.

Crap. She just made it weird - this is what she gets for letting her mind go down the rabbit hole that is the universe and its misguided mysteries. Way to go, Julie.

   Just as she was about to jump up and flee to her bedroom, hoping that maybe her floor would do her the courtesy of swallowing her up, Julie felt the couch dip further down to her right, Luke’s knee pressing up against her thigh. Resisting the urge to look at him, her eyes flickered to her fingers, to their journal and then back to her mom’s piano.

   “You know,” Luke spoke up, voice soft, almost a whisper, “I never gave fate much thought back when I was alive. I always figured a person forged their own fate by believing hard enough in what they wanted and then working even harder to get there.” He reached over, grabbing hold of her right hand, ceasing the fidgeting motions of her fingers. “Even when it came to my soul, I only ever considered it when thinking about music and the power it had over me and my life. If music was so important, wouldn’t it mean my soul was constantly connected to it? My instrument, an intrinsic part of who I am?”

   He went quiet for a few seconds, prompting Julie to turn her head back towards him, as his calloused thumb started rubbing gently against her knuckles. His gaze, which had been glued to her face the entire time, was now locked on their hands.

“So I always figured I was “fated”, I guess you could say, to follow that connection I had with music, and just see where that took me.” His fingers were now tracing little circles on the back of her hand. “But then we died, and became ghosts, and it changed the way I think about things, but at the same, my core beliefs remained the same. I’m still not sure about fate, and the role it plays in how things are dictated in my life, but I know that music is still such a major part of me. Because, I mean, if that wasn’t the case, how could you have possibly pulled me back from the dead and down to earth by playing our song? How could you, a lifer 25 years after I died, have been the one to pull me back, and make me feel alive again?” He shook his head before he continued. “And every time I ask myself these questions I just come back to the same conclusion,” he stops for a second, lifting his eyes back up to hers. “You embody music to me. You, Julie, have always been what my soul was connected to - not my guitar, not just music in general - but you, my own personal musical goddess.” His lips tilted up at the corners at his last words, his eyes boring into hers.

   “So yeah, I know what you mean about not necessarily wanting to believe in something unless you can see it or feel it. But at this stage, how could I not believe in soulmates when you’re right here, somehow a part of my life, 25 years after I’ve died?” He shook his head again, his smile getting a little sad. “We technically never should have met, would have never crossed paths, but fate....fate had other plans for us I guess. Our souls just couldn’t bare being separated, and the universe just....found a way to rectify that.” 

   Julie could do nothing but stare at the beautiful boy in front of her, her mind trying to process the prose he just recited to her. Almost as if by reflex, Julie slowly lifted her hands up, cupping his face and held onto him like he was the most precious thing in the entire world - because he was.

Luke mirrored her actions, his eyes soft, as his fingers traced her cheeks, wiping away tears she didn’t even know were there.

And just as she was about to let loose the words that had been rattling around in her mind ever since he had stumbled into her life, Luke beat her to it.

“I think we might be soulmates, Jules.”

FIN

[itsmeevie01]

Bio!Dad Bruce Wayne Day 4 -Habits

I just wanted to put a trigger warning up at the top. It's not very well discribed, because this was edited at 3 am, BUT. Marinette... Disassociates(?) Toward the end of this. I know that it's a little different than what people usually discribe for her, but I kind of based off my experiences I've had and experiences my best friend has had.

The sun started to peak its way through the windows as Dick Grayson made his way into the kitchen at the manor. It wasn’t often that he was able to come back for long stretches of time, but when he was, he enjoyed beating his family down. As he walked in, he blinked in shock. There sitting at the counter, was Marinette. His younger sister (who he was still mad at Bruce for hiding from him) was siting there happily chatting with Alfred as she sipped on a mug of coffee. She was already dressed and seemed too chipper for 5:30 in the morning.

 At the sound of him slinging himself into a chair, Marinette threw him a smile that made Dick squint in return. He huffed in response and latched onto the mug that was passed his way. There was a reason he made sure to be up before the others, after all.

Tim was settled with his laptop when Marinette maneuvered into the sitting room. In one arm, she had her sketchbook, a bag of pencils, and a cup of water. In the other arm, she had her computer, phone, and a tray that was holding four cups of coffee. When she set one down in front of Tim, he hummed in appreciation. She sent a smirk his way and added “a gift to the lord of the room” his responding

“Hey! Get back here Little Bit!” was met with laughter. She threw him a smile and arranged herself onto the opposing couch. He smiled at her and returned to his homework. This was his quiet time, and she knew that. Recently she had been making a point to spend time working in the same space with him when they both were busy. Both times she had come to visit since Thanksgiving, he had found himself working with the girl. Somehow, she always knew when he needed a break, and the thirteen-year-old girl made sure to pull his attention away for an appropriately short amount of time. He had often found over the last few weeks that he was sleeping better because of it too. Now, as he reached over to grab the coffee, she had brought him, he smiled. Maybe he could convince her to make a habit of this.

Every week his sister had been at the manor over the course of her winter break, Dick had been beaten to the kitchen. As he stumbled through the kitchen once again at an ungodly hour of the morning, he realized that he could hear Alfred and his sister talking quietly in the smaller dining room. As he made his way into the room, he could make out the tail end of their conversation, “-do know that they would be more than willing to let you talk about this, Miss Marinette. You do not have to carry this burden on your own.” The sound of a disbelieving snort followed.

“I know you keep saying that, Alfred, but I just…they all have such busy lives and there’s so much going on in Gotham and- “

“and you are still part of the family, Miss Marinette. Master Bruce is starting to worry about you, and Master Dick is starting to notice that you are avoiding the topic. Do not shut them out, when they can help you. This situation may need an outside touch.” When Alfred finished speaking, Dick decided that he had overheard more than he should have.

“Alfred? Are you in here?” When he called out for the older man, Dick watched with a cringe as little Marinette jumped at his voice. “Hey Net! I’m not sure if I should be jealous that5 you keep beating me down in the mornings!” as he teased her, he watched her eyes light up.

“Well, Dick, you try being the child of two bakers- “as the girl started her comeback, a groggy voice cut through the air.

“what the hell are you all doing up?” the three turned to see Tim standing in the recently vacated doorway, clutching his water bottle and looking around with bloodshot eyes. “it’s like, 2 am.” At Tim’s declaration, Marinette giggled.

“Tim? Its almost 6?” the look of shock that flashed over the boy’s face made Dick frown. Tim’s all-nighters were becoming more and more frequent. The way the teen stumbled out of exhaustion was worrying.

“Hey Timmy? Let’s get you to bed.”

In the week prior to Christmas, Bruce made it a point to try and come home earlier so that he could spend more time with both Marinette and Tim, who were both supposed to be enjoying their winter breaks. He knew, of course, that Tim had wheedled his way into doing extra course work over the holiday to cut down on time spent in school. That didn’t mean that he expected the boy to focus solely on the work. Imagine his surprise when he had come home to both of his teens settled in the sitting room working. Marinette was sketching furiously, while Tim was typing away on his laptop with a ferocity that would scare many of the villains that populated Gotham. Bruce blinked in shock before turning to find Alfred standing off to the side smiling.

“They have adjusted their habits so that they can bond even though this season is busy for the both of them, Master Bruce.” He turned back to his children and smiled at the two of them as they continued working, unaware of anything outside of the sitting room.

The next morning, when Dick came down, expecting to see his sister and Alfred, he was instead met with the sight of macaroons cooling on the counters. On the island, there were croissants, and on the stove, there were pans full of freshly baked sugar cookies. He blinked in concern and turned around the room searching. On the other side of the kitchen was his sister, standing over the sink, hands unmoving, as she gazed out at the slowly rising sun. Her eyes were unfocused, and as Dick made his way over, his eyes focused on the slight tremor that was running through her hands. “Net?” When he received no answer, he moved closer, “Marinette? Hey- “the girl moved, and Dick’s hand shot out and caught the bowl that she had been holding and set it down. Gently, he guided his sister out of the kitchen and led her into the sitting room, where they passed Alfred as he made his way down for the morning.

Once Dick had Marinette settled, he sat next to her and held out one of his hands, leaving the offer for comfort open as the girl blinked and started to look around in confusion.

One moment, Marinette had been starting on the dishes, the next, she was sitting on the love seat in the siting room next to her brother. The sharp poke in her side that had brought her out of her mind was one that she could only attribute to Tikki. As she sat there, adjusting to the change in location, Marinette took a deep breath to ground herself. She wasn’t expecting her brother to speak.

“Do you want to talk about it, Net?” The girl studied the Man sitting next to her for a moment. When she decided that she couldn’t find any hint of insincerity, Marinette nodded hesitantly and trained her eyes on her hands. They were twisting in her lap, working as a distraction and an outlet for the nervous energy that had been building up since August.

“I- “Dick waited patiently for the girl to collect her thoughts, “I love Paris, I really do. I mean- it’s the place I grew up! But. Well, recently.” She hesitated again. She looked up at him, with tears in her eyes. “everything is wrong!” The phrase tore out of her, and she clamped her mouth shut afterwards as her mind flew through damage control ideas. “I mean. Well. Everything is do tense. Too perfect. No one can feel anything!” When had she started crying? Marinette could have sworn that she had a better handle on her emotions after spending the last five months held emotionally hostage. As she started to devolve into true sobs, Dick pulled the girl into a hug, and she clung to him. For the first time in almost five months the girl was able to truly process what was going on in her home city.

When Alfred came to check on them 20 minutes later, he found the duo sitting curled on the couch. In the other doorway stood a shocked Bruce. Alfred smiled at the look of shock on the fathers face before the man strode over to join his oldest and his youngest. As Alfred turned to go back into the kitchen and finish making sense of all of Marinette’s baking, the man shook his head. Who knew that the habits that Marinette influenced would be the ones that would bring the Paris situation to light?

so, i plan on picking up in the same place for tomorrow’s prompt (overprotection) so i didnt resolve anything. i think i have the rest of the month plotted out as well! as soon as i have a day where im not stuck at work all day, im going to go through and put all of these in a master post, along with my other fic *ideas*. 

just so that i can also clear up any potential confusion, no. Damian is not yet present in this. yes. he will eventually. at this point, Marinette is 13, Tim is 15, Jason (who is going to be in the background for a bit still) is 19(ish) and Dick is either 24 or 25, i haven’t decided. I do plan on including more of the Batclan as i go...

[mythicalsecretsanta]

A Fountain of Youth (G)

This gift is for: Therese (AKA @ThereseArnesen1 on Twitter) From your Secret Santa, Harper (AKA @harper44) 😘

Read below:

Link loves his grandparents, but he doesn’t love spending Christmas with them. For as long as he can remember, he and his mother have packed their bags and driven to his grandparent’s out in the country on Christmas Eve and then spent the week after staying with them. This year is no different, though a few days before he had Christmas with his dad and the family on that side, so he’s longing for cousins this year. He got several things he wanted on Christmas morning and suffered through a long but delicious Christmas breakfast until his mom set him free to do what he wanted. Donning all his winter gear, he steps onto the porch and looks out at the snow-covered woods. 

As slow and boring as his grandparent’s house can be sometimes, Link loves the woods on their land. He’s been exploring them since his mom deemed him old enough to be outside on his own. It’s easy to get scared in the woods and Link has experienced that before back home, but here he has always felt safe. He knows these woods like the back of his hand and in his mind, they know him too. 

Footsteps silenced in the snow, he walks across the yard to an old well on the edge of the woods, stopping beside it to draw a smiley face in the snow on top of the ancient stones. Just like every time he’s here, he checks the well covering, brushing the snow off of the latch to get a good look. It’s just as rusted shut as it always is, but every time he hopes it might move so he can see inside. He used to ask his grandfather if they could open it up, but the old man had always told him no. This year, he thought about sneaking a crow bar into his suitcase, though he ultimately forgot. Shoving his gloved fingers into the tiny crack, he tries to pull it open. 

In the midst of his determined pulling, he hears a soft squeaking sound, head jerking up to locate it. Opposite from him on the edge of the well sits a little mouse, but the longer he looks, the more bizarre it appears. First, he notices that there are antlers on its head. He’s never seen a mouse with those before. The creature scurries forward a little and then sits on its back legs and stares at him. Link sees small wings on its back and its tail is much longer than that of a regular mouse. Maybe it isn’t a mouse after all. 

It squeaks excitedly, almost as if talking to him, so Link holds out a finger. The little creature sniffs it, squeaks again, and turns around and scurries off. Link is still trying to figure out what he saw when the squeaking starts up again near his feet. He looks down to find the creature there and smiles, squatting down to hold out his finger once more. It scurries off again, but this time only for a few yards before stopping and looking back at Link, waiting. So, Link follows. 

They walk for several minutes, the mouse-like creature continuing to run ahead and then wait for him. Link looks around at the silent trees, beautifully dressed in white. His footsteps are muffled in the thin layer of snow that made it to the ground and for fun he challenges himself to be as quiet as possible. That way, he better hears noises echoing through the quiet forest, birdsong like the soundtrack to his trek. 

He stops up short, realizing the creature is no longer in sight. As he looks around, he starts to think he imagined the whole thing when he sees a tail disappear behind a boulder. Link recognizes this boulder. He’s climbed atop it many times to think, sometimes even voicing his thoughts to the forest air. Hurrying around the side to catch up with his new little friend, he runs smack into someone and they both tumble down into the snow. 

“Sorry, I’m sorry!” Link rushes to say, rolling off of the person and scrambling backwards until he hits a tree. He didn’t expect for any other person to be out here, let alone a boy who looks to be his age. The other boy cowers against the boulder with the mouse creature sitting on his shoulder, green eyes wide with shock. 

His body is wrapped in furs and leathers and his light brown hair is a mess on his head, snowflakes scattered through it. Link feels like his mother when he sees the boy has no hat, gloves, or shoes, fighting the urge to tell him he needs to keep warm. “Who- who are you?” Link asks. He knows his grandmother would tell him that’s a rude question, but it’s the only place he knows to start. 

“You are Link,” the boy says, pulling the fur more tightly around himself. 

“I- yeah, but who are you?” Link asks again. 

The boy looks off to the right like he’s trying to think of something and then says, “Call me Rhett.”

He hops up and starts walking, causing Link to scramble after him and nearly jog to keep up with his long strides. “Wait!” Link looks up at him, amazed at how tall he is, and they walk in silence for a while. “Do you live near here?”

“I live here.” Rhett says, not looking at Link. 

“In the forest?” Link asks. Rhett stops suddenly, head whipping to the right. Link opens his mouth to speak, but Rhett’s finger presses into his lips to keep him quiet. As the strange boy stands still and listens, Link starts to think he looks more like an animal than a human, maybe a scared deer or an alert wolf. He pulls Link to sit down behind a huge tree. In his years of exploring, Link has decided it’s the biggest in the woods. 

With their knees mashed together, the boys sit cross-legged in front of each other, Rhett leaning in concerningly close. “I am the forest, Link.”

“Wh-what?” Link breathes, gaze flicking away from Rhett’s because it’s too intense and seeing the little creature still on his shoulder. 

“I am the forest. I have kept you safe here, Link. Do not stop coming here. You are vital to my survival,” Rhett says, hand wrapping around his arm. 

Link meets his eyes again, this time really looking into them. Now, he sees it. In Rhett’s irises he sees all the warm summer days and the hours spent wading in the creek and the moments he laid on the forest floor and just breathed. Rhett is the forest. “Okay, I won’t stop coming.”

In the blink of an eye, Rhett is gone, leaving Link sitting on the ground facing the huge tree with snow soaking through his pants. 

———-

The screen door slams behind him as he stomps down the porch steps, through the yard and past the well into the forest. He’s actually happy to be at his grandparent’s house for several weeks this summer. He’s supposed to help them out with things around the house, but his first order of business when he got here was to head into the woods. It’s been several years since that snowy Christmas day when he saw Rhett and since then he has come back more frequently than he did before, especially since he started driving. 

Scrambling up the boulder that doesn’t seem quite as big anymore, he crosses his legs under him and looks around at the trees. He hasn’t seen Rhett since that day, but those green eyes will forever be locked in his memory. Sometimes he starts to think the whole thing was just the imagination of his younger self, but every time he comes back his belief is renewed. It will be nice to come out here every day in the coming weeks. 

He just finished his second year of college and it was much harder than the first. He’d come out at school and it was great in some ways and horrible in others. Although he hasn’t really come out to his grandparents, he’s pretty sure his grandmother has a hunch and he feels so free here in other ways that not being out doesn’t feel like a problem. Here in the woods, he’s just Link. 

His opinion of coming to his grandparent’s has changed. It doesn’t feel as boring as it did to his teenage self. His grandmother’s food is delicious and it’s nice to learn things from his grandfather since his dad is rarely around. Taking in a deep breath of forest air, he lets it out in a controlled exhale, trying to rid himself of the nasty emotions this semester left him with. 

Feeling a small weight on his knee, he opens his eyes and sees the little mouse with wings and antlers sitting there. It makes him grin and he says, “Hey there! I haven’t seen you in a while!” The creature squeaks excitedly and scurries down the boulder, causing Link to look up and find Rhett standing there. His head is tilted to the side as he looks up at Link and he has a beard now. Those eyes are unchanged and Link’s grin grows. He slides off the rock and drops down in front of him. 

“I have missed you, Link,” Rhett says, squeezing his shoulder. 

“I was afraid you weren’t real,” Link murmurs, sudden tears welling in his eyes.

“But you still came. I was worried college would take you away,” says Rhett. 

“Of course I still came,” Link replies, trying not to let his tears fall. Finally back in his presence again, Link savors the feeling of being near Rhett. As he stands there, he realizes that it feels the same as when he’s standing in the forest alone, it’s still Rhett’s presence. 

“You are safe here, Link.” 

Link nods and a tear slides down his cheek, remembering how lonely and unsafe he felt in his dorm at college. Standing here with Rhett feels like the opposite. It feels like a lifelong friend to rely on in complete safety. 

“Do not cry, you are safe. I missed you,” Rhett says quietly, gently placing a hand on the back of Link’s head and leaning down to kiss his hair. A quiet sob escapes the smaller man and he wraps his arms tightly around Rhett, hugging him close and crying his fears into the soft fur of his clothes. Rhett holds him for a minute and then abruptly pulls away, grabbing Link’s hand and making him follow. He pulls him deeper into the forest than he usually goes until they stop in a clearing that Link has never seen before. 

Turning back to him, Rhett brushes his thumbs gently over Link’s cheeks to wipe his tears. “You must keep coming back. You are the forest’s keeper, Link. The winter months are the worst, please come then.” 

Link nods, “I will, Rhett, don’t worry.” Rhett cups his face and stares into his eyes, giving Link that same feeling that he did the first time, like the woods are trapped in his irises. Carefully, he leans forward and presses his lips to Link’s, making the smaller man’s knees go weak. But then he’s gone. 

Link returns to that clearing every day while he’s there, but he doesn’t see Rhett again.

———-

Ten years later, Link stands on his grandparent’s back porch with his hands in his pockets, looking out into the woods. His mother and grandmother have just left after getting him settled. Link longs to venture into the forest, but he can’t force his feet to move. He hasn’t been out there since his grandfather passed. The house is his now and he’s glad to have it. Once he established a good internet connection, it became the perfect place for a writer to live, quiet and inspiring. 

Not a day goes by that he doesn’t think of that kiss or those eyes. He hasn’t seen Rhett since that day ten years ago. He feels a little afraid to go into the forest because he didn’t make it out to his grandparent’s at all during the last three years. A cold breeze cuts through his jacket and the sky threatens snow, so on his first day alone at his new home, he strides down the porch steps and into the woods. He’s only a handful of yards into the forest when he side-steps a tree and almost runs smack into Rhett, just like the first time. The man has seemed to age with him or perhaps beyond him. His hair is long now and so is his beard. Link feels deep guilt as he observes the bags under his almost gaunt eyes. “Rhett,” Link breathes.

“You are here,” Rhett says, “You were not here for these last three years.”

He feels tears gathering in the corners of his eyes and he lifts his glasses to roughly wipe them away, stuttering an, “I’m so sorry, Rhett. I missed you.” 

This time he isn’t just thinking about seeing Rhett in the flesh, he’s thinking about the forest itself. Rhett told him all those years ago that he was the forest and seeing him today for some reason finally convinced him of it. The big man wraps him up in his arms and squeezes him to his chest, saying, “You are here now.”

Link looks up and smiles, “I’m here forever. I’m going to live in the house now.” Rhett stares down at him, trying to understand what that means. Link grins as he watches it dawn on his face and for the second time in Link’s life, the forest leans down and kisses him. A warm breeze breaks through the cold air and wraps around their embrace and both men pull away laughing. Rhett grabs his hand and pulls him toward the house, but he stops at the well. As if he’s lifting something as light as a piece of paper, Rhett pulls the cover off the well and sets it to the side. 

Link stands there with his mouth hanging open for a moment before leaning over the well and looking in. It pretty much looks like he thought it would, but maybe the water is a little clearer and a little bluer than it should be. He smiles and leads Rhett to the house. 

———-

Over the next few years, Link writes a novel about a boy in the woods. He gets involved at a local school and starts hosting a book club at his house with the highschoolers. A couple of kids take particular interest in the woods out back and Link’s husband is happy to show them the best spots. In the spring and summer those woods bloom beautifully and Link opens up his home at every opportunity to have kids and teens around. They whisper behind their hands about the nature of Rhett, but all of them love him and his odd ways and his misunderstandings of things most humans know about. 

It takes a while for Link to realize he’s no longer getting older. He asks Rhett about it on Christmas night as they’re sitting bundled up on the porch. He just points across the snow covered yard to the well. Link smiles and gives him a kiss.

[today-only-happens-once]

Ikigai

Title: Ikigai

Word Count: 5,955

Summary: Ikigai. (n.) a reason for being; the thing that gets you up in the morning. Or, five times Logan Sanders doubted himself as a father, and one time he didn’t. Human!AU, Parents!Logicality with focus on Paternal Analogical dynamics with moments of Paternal Logince dynamics as well.

Warnings: cursing, crying, lots of self-doubt, adoption, hospitals, car accident mention, vague mentions of death/dying, absent father/abuse in the form of emotional neglect (not perpetrated by any canon characters), anxiety and panic-attacks, mentions of depression, fluff, softness.

A/N: This fic kind of happened by accident almost. I hope it’s okay! Got some mixed feelings about it. I hope you enjoy. Edited by yours truly so all mistakes are mine. Shout-out to @creativenostalgiastuff for her help in brainstorming a few things for this fic.

 I.

The hospital linoleum floor is waxed so thoroughly that Logan thinks he can see his reflection between his shoes. The small room is crowded with nurses and a doctor as they prepare the person in the bed to move to recovery. Logan promises to check up on her soon. She gives him a tired but content smile. He does his best to stay out of the way, shifting along the wall to stand by the window that has its blinds drawn.

“Logan,” his husband says in a quiet voice.

“Yes?” Logan looks up, coming up suddenly short at the sight before him.

Patton’s flop of brown curls fall messily into his eyes. The fluorescent lights above them reflect in the lens of his glasses, even as his gaze is latched onto the bundle of cream-colored blankets in his arms. Nestled against his chest, Patton looks down at the newborn in his arms with something in his eyes that Logan can’t quite pinpoint. Love, clearly. But something else at the same time. Devotion, perhaps.  

“You wanna hold Virgil?” Patton asks, finally glancing up to meet his husband’s eyes. It’s then that Logan can see the beginnings of tears forming in the corner of Patton’s eyes.

Logan is an astrophysicist. His entire life had always centered on figuring out the universe and humanity’s place in it. He worked in fields of science and research, frequently writing long reports, dissertations, and essays that utilized precise words to explain complex phenomena. Logan understood how stars were created and destroyed, he understood patterns of behavior in the universe, and he situated those understandings in language understood by users of scientific research journals and the general public alike. He could write and speak eloquently on the complexities of String Theory in both scientific jargon and in plain English. Words rarely escaped the scientist.

He finds words failing him entirely now.

Logan nods, accepting the bundle that Patton eases gently into his arms. He cannot find the words to explain why the breath leaves his lungs so entirely when he looks down at the infant in his arms. He knows suddenly and intensely that this tiny little person in his arms is the most wonderful, breathtaking thing he’s ever seen in his life. Virgil.

Logan had always been a man of science. But a small part of him—distant and quiet but with complete conviction—can’t help but think he’s holding a miracle. He feels a sudden fear grip his lungs and squeeze at his throat. I don’t know how to be a dad, Logan realizes with a faintly dizzying surge of uncertainty. He tries to swallow the fear down.

“Hello,” Logan says softly to him. His voice comes out a whisper. “Welcome to the world, Starlight.”

II.

Logan hears the wail from his three-year old’s bedroom and shares a glance with his husband. The alarm clock on the dresser reads 11:32 PM in green block numbers. Patton gives Logan a worried look before they both roll out of bed and pad their way down the hall. Virgil had been having nightmares the past few nights. He rarely remembered them with any specificity, but they usually involved some kind of monster that was coming to get him.

“Daddy!” Virgil gasps from his bed when Logan opens the door. “There’s a monster.”

Logan sighs softly, moving to the edge of Virgil’s bed and taking a seat. Virgil has a blanket with the constellations on it on top of his head and wrapped around him so that only his face was visible. “Santa” had given it to Virgil in his stocking last Christmas. Virgil more-or-less carried it around with him everywhere.

His eyes are red and puffy. His knees are pulled up against his chest under the blanket, effectively turning himself into a ball.

“Virgil,” Logan says as his son shuffles closer to him, “I can promise you that there is no monster.”

“Yes there is!” Virgil insists. “I heard it!”

“Monsters aren’t real,” Logan explains patiently. “Sometimes our brains get confused, though.”

“It’s under my bed,” the three-year-old wails. Patton takes a seat by the foot of the bed, giving Virgil a soft and sympathetic look.

Logan purses his lips in thought. “I’ll check under the bed for monsters. Okay?” Virgil sniffles in response as Logan stands up from the bed and lowers himself to the floor, peering under Virgil’s bed. He sees a pair of socks, a couple of toys, and a coloring page. Definitively no monsters.

Logan jumps back up to his feet. “No monsters, Virgil.”

“You scared it away!” Patton adds on brightly. He shares a glance with Logan. It’s too fast for Logan to understand what his husband is trying to convey.

Virgil shakes his head adamantly. “You just can’t see it.”

“It’s invisible,” Logan repeats, managing to keep the frustration out of his voice. He can help best when he can rationalize away irrational concerns. Logan doesn’t know how to get Virgil to believe him. Imagination is a powerful instrument, and Logan doesn’t know to combat it.

He doesn’t know how to help his son feel safe, and something about that bothers Logan more than he’s willing to admit.

Patton suddenly straightens up a little, his eyes brightening. “I may have just the thing, kiddo. Stay here with daddy.” Patton jumps up from the bed and hurries down the hall. Through the doorway that is still open, Logan sees Patton slip into their own bedroom and close the door behind him.

Logan sits beside Virgil again, wrapping an arm around him when his son presses against his side. The astrophysicist leans his head back against the headboard. Virgil seems to relax under his arm a bit, and unfurls the blanket from around his head and looks down at the constellations on it.

“Dad?”

“Yes, Virgil?”

“What do you like best?”

Logan leans his cheek on the top of Virgil’s head, sleepiness beginning to creep back to the edges of his consciousness, and looks at the blanket in his son’s lap. “Which constellation?” he asks to clarify Virgil’s meaning. His son nods. Logan hums thoughtfully. “Perhaps Pyxis Nautica. It means ‘mariner’s compass’.” He points it out on Virgil’s blanket.

“Mar… Marin… Mariminer?”

Logan chuckles softly and kisses the top of Virgil’s head. “Mariner. It means ‘sailor’.”

Patton comes back with what Logan recognizes as a bottle of Febreze with the label peeled off. Logan frowns, his brow furrowing in confusion. Patton winks at him.

“I found it!” he announces, brandishing the bottle.

Virgil sits up a bit more against Logan’s side. “What’s that?”

Patton holds the blue spray bottle closer for Virgil’s inspection, whispering conspiratorially. “It’s Monster-Be-Gone spray. You see, your dad worked really hard to make the perfect concoction that is scientifically proven to banish all monsters! All you gotta do is spray it around the room, and then they run away.”

Over the top of Virgil’s head, Logan quirks an eyebrow. Virgil turns huge eyes onto him, and Logan schools his expression into agreement, nodding sagely. He had the feeling that perhaps Patton’s far-fetched fabrication would be enough for Virgil. Perhaps imagination itself was really the only way to solve the problem in the first place.

“Whoa,” Virgil says, awed. “You promise it works?”

“I promise,” Patton insists emphatically. “Here. Let me show you.” Patton begins dousing Virgil’s bedroom in the lavender scented spray. He sprays under the bed, in the closet, around his window, and around his door. Virgil watches him closely and intently.

There’s a beat of silence, then Virgil gasps. “It works! I don’t hear the monster anymore.”

Logan releases a small sigh of relief. Patton is smiling. “No monster can possibly stand up to the Monster-Be-Gone. Any time you think something might be there, kiddo, we’ll give ‘em a good spray and they’re 100% guaranteed to poof away.”

Virgil nods, not protesting as Logan helps him lay down and get situated under his covers again. “T’anks,” Virgil says with a yawn. “You’re the best dads ever.”

Logan feels a small squeeze in his chest as he drops a kiss to Virgil’s forehead. “I love you, Virgil.”

“Love you, kiddo,” Patton adds.

Virgil is already asleep.

 III.

Logan comes rushing into the hospital lobby through the sliding door. The nurse at the front desk looks up from her computer as he approaches, doubtlessly taken in his unusually rumpled appearance. Strands of his hair fall into his eyes but he can’t be bothered to brush them back into their usually pristine position. His shirt is wrinkled. He is still wearing pajama pants.

“I am here for my husband,” Logan says in a steady voice, despite feeling distinctly unsteady in this moment. “I received a call that he had been in an accident.”

“What’s his name, sir?”

“Patton Sanders.”

The nurse types quickly and methodically, her eyes scanning the screen in front of her. Logan glances at the clock on the wall behind her. It’s 9 o’clock in the evening. Logan had received the call at exactly 8:17 PM. He had dropped Virgil off at Valerie’s at 8:30 on the dot. It had taken him twenty-two minutes to drive here, six minutes to park, two minutes to walk to through the front door.

Logan keeps the timetable in his head because numbers are precise and certain and nothing else in his life at this moment feels that way.

“Your name?”

“Logan Sanders.”

The nurse nods. “Your husband is currently in surgery, but a doctor will be out to update friends and family as soon as they have information to give you.”

Surgery. Logan’s grip on the edge of the front desk tightens and he thinks for a moment he might be physically ill. He swallows. Nods stiffly. Turns, walks fifteen steps, and sits down in an uncomfortable chair in the corner of the lobby by the window.

Patton had been on his way home from parent-teacher conferences at the elementary school where he teaches second grade. Half an hour before Logan had received the call from the hospital, Patton had called and asked Logan if he needed to get anything from the grocery on his way home. He had promised to be home soon when he heard Virgil ask Logan where Patton was.

Thirty minutes later, when the phone rang again, Logan definitely hadn’t been expecting to hear the words “you are listed as the emergency contact for a Patton Sanders, sir?” on the other end of the line. He hadn’t known what to say except to confirm. He mostly listened.

He still hadn’t known what to say when Virgil, with a sharper intuition than a ten-year-old should have, had said, “Dad? You look pale…What’s wrong?” Logan had simply told him to grab his backpack and put on shoes.

Logan had blindly grabbed a change of clothes for Virgil from the laundry that was in the middle of being folded, his son’s asthma inhaler, and anxiety medication. He shoved his feet into shoes that were either his or Patton’s—he wasn’t paying attention—and his car keys off the kitchen counter. He called Valerie on the way, and he only hoped that she knew his empty-sounding “thank you” was out of shock rather than a lack of gratitude.

Logan twists his wedding band around his finger and thinks about Patton’s cheerful voice telling Logan that he loved him—like Patton did at the end of all their phone conversations. He’d been the one to get Logan more comfortable with the phrase in the first place, after all. Logan had said it back. He’s grateful for that.

Patton brought a spontaneity to Logan’s life that had been missing for the longest time before they met in college. His friendliness and cheery disposition had, at first, been jarring for Logan. But Patton had seemed to find something worthwhile about the astrophysicist student, and Logan found Patton to be a light of empathy and compassion on a level that Logan did not always understand but did always deeply value.

What started as spontaneity gradually became a needed constant in Logan’s life. Patton balances him. Logan had long since forgotten what life had been like before him, except that it wasn’t nearly as joyful, dynamic, or vibrant. By the time Logan proposed, he knew that he didn’t ever want anyone else by his side. That feeling had somehow—impossibly—only grown stronger since adopting Virgil.

As if on cue, Logan feels his phone vibrating in his pocket and fishes it out. He sees Valerie’s face flash across his Caller ID and feels the uneasiness in his stomach turn to ice.

“This is Logan,” he answers.

To his surprise, it’s Virgil’s voice that responds to him. “Hi, dad.”

Logan swallows hard and scrubs a hand down his face. “Virgil, are you all right?”

“Yeah. I’m just… worried about dad.”

Logan feels his eyes suddenly start to sting and he squeezes them shut tightly against the feeling. “Yeah,” he replies. “Yeah, me too.” Logan does not know what else to say. He feels like a ship without a lighthouse to guide him. Patton is that light. Patton had always been that light…

“Is… dad gonna be okay?”

Logan does not know. He pulls the phone away from his face and takes in a deep, shaking breath. He feels like he is suddenly spiraling, and he doesn’t know how to correct course. Logan doesn’t know how to be a dad without his partner. They are a team. They had always been a team. Logan doesn’t know if he can be the dad that Virgil needs without Patton to help him. He doesn’t know how to do it alone.

Logan pulls the phone back to him and is honest. “I hope so, Virge.”

“I’m scared.”

“I know.” Logan tries to swallow past the lump in his throat. He doesn’t know whether it’s better right now to tell Virgil that he’s afraid too so that he doesn’t feel alone in his fear or if it’s better to pretend to be strong to assuage the feeling of fear. Patton would know. Patton always has an intuition for such things. “It’s… okay to feel scared.”

There’s a long silence. “Can I come be with you at the hospital?”

Logan bows his head, brushing quickly at his eyes under his glasses. He suddenly and desperately wants to say yes. He wants to hold on to Virgil and never let go. Hold on and pray that Patton is holding on too. I don’t want to do this without him.

“Perhaps tomorrow. You should try to get some rest tonight.”

There’s a long silence. Logan expects an argument. Instead, Virgil asks, “Do you promise to call as soon as the doctors show up?”

“You’ll be the first to know when I hear anything. I promise.”

“He calls me brave,” Virgil says suddenly. Logan doesn’t need to ask who he’s referring to. “But I don’t feel brave right now, dad. I feel really, really…. Scared, and I know you said it’s okay to feel that way but what if I’m letting him down when he needs me—”

“Whoa, Starlight,” Logan says quickly, the rare nickname slipping out as he hears the way Virgil’s voice starts to get panicky. “Listen to me, okay? We’re gonna breathe together.” Logan walks him through the 4-7-8 breathing technique he’d discovered when researching anxiety coping methods after Virgil got diagnosed a few months ago.

He waits until Virgil’s breathing on the other end sounds normal before he continues. “Bravery is not fearlessness,” he says calmly. “Fearlessness means you aren’t afraid of anything. Bravery means that you act despite the fear you feel. You can be scared and brave. Those are not mutually exclusive terms.”

Another pause. “Okay.”

“But right now, all we’re asking of you, Virge, is to try to get some rest. Okay?” Logan’s voice is suddenly thick. He coughs slightly in an effort to clear it.

“Okay. I love you, dad.”

“I love you too, Virgil.”

 IV.

Logan watches quietly from the doorway leading out of the kitchen as Roman Prince—his sixteen-year-old son’s best friend—ends the call and stands stock still in the middle of the Sanders’ living room. The window outside shows a dark sky and the silhouette of the neighbor’s houses against the night. The only light in the room comes from a lamp on an end-table by the couch. Above them, Logan can hear the shower running from Virgil’s bathroom and Patton watching TV upstairs.

Roman suddenly hurls his phone into the brown cushions of the couch. In the silence that follows, Logan hears the shaking inhale Roman sucks through a clenched jaw.

“Roman,” he says softly.

“I’m fine, Mr. Sanders,” Roman tells him without turning to face him.

Logan glances down at his shoes, then back up at the teen standing in the middle of his living room. “Your anger is understandable.”

Roman finally turns to face him. The golden lamplight reflects against the sheen in Roman’s eyes even as he shakes his head. “I’m not angry.”

Logan is silent. He sees Roman’s hand curl into fists moments before the teen shoves them deep into the pockets of his jacket. His eyes glance to the phone he’d thrown against the couch as if hoping there may be something that alights on the screen. It stays dark.

“I don’t need him, y’know?” Roman says, and Logan wonders for a moment if he may just be talking to himself. “I’ve never needed him, Mr. Sanders. I can take care of myself. I didn’t need him when I was seven and auditioning for the first time at the community theatre. I didn’t need him at my first opening night, or any other performance. I didn’t need him to teach me how to ride a bike, and I didn’t need him to teach me to cook, and I didn’t need him for the seventeen birthdays he didn’t show up to.”

Roman starts pacing, and Logan watches him quietly from his stationary space in the doorway. “I didn’t need him when I got outted at school two years ago. I didn’t need him to learn to drive, did I, Mr. Sanders?”

Logan meets his gaze, pretending his chest doesn’t tighten with Roman’s increasing desperation.  “No. You didn’t.”

Roman gestures towards the window, stalking away from Logan now to cross the room again. “And I’m not going to need him. No sir. Who says I even want him around? What can he teach me? I got accepted into college without him. I’ll dance at my wedding without him. I’ll build a family and I’ll be twice the father he never was in the first place--” Roman’s voice wavers, and he stops talking. He turned back to Logan, and it’s then that he realizes the tears that had been building in the corner of Roman’s eyes have finally overflowed.

Roman scrubs at his eyes with his hand and sinks himself into the couch beside his forgotten phone. “I just… I feel so stupid.”

Logan’s brow pulls together, and he steps further into the room. “Why?” He immediately thinks it might have been the wrong thing to say, from the way Roman suddenly freezes.

Logan had never done well with helping people through emotional distress. Empathy wasn’t something Logan was particularly adept at. That had always been more of Patton’s domain. But he can see the way Roman is coming apart at the seams on his couch, and Logan finds himself feeling as lost as Roman looks.

Logan doesn’t know what to do, and he doesn’t know what to say.

“Because…” Roman tries, pressing the pads of his fingers into his eyes, “because I just… I wasted so much of my life trying to… to…” But Roman doesn’t really need to say the words that keep evading his grasp. Because Logan already knows.

The data was all there, as far as Logan had been concerned. He’d been noticing it ever since Roman and Virgil first started being friends when they were in fifth grade. He’d seen the surprised look Roman had given Virgil when he and Patton would ask the pair about their day whenever Roman was over at their house. He remembers their eighth-grade year when Roman tried out for the basketball team even though he’d devoted much of his life to pursuing the arts, and a passing mention that his dad had once been a high school basketball star. He made the team, but he saw the increasingly angry look in Roman’s eyes when he saw Logan and Virgil and Patton in the stands, and never the one person he’d joined for in the first place. Logan had seen the barely-hidden look of disappointment in Roman’s eyes after every theatre performance thereafter, when he scanned the crowd during the bows as if he was looking for someone.

It had been plain to Logan for some time. It didn’t mean that Logan knew what to say, but he figures he has to say something. Logan chooses to speak from honesty. Patton had always told him that was best.

“Roman,” Logan says, crossing the distance between them and crouching down to be eye-level with the teen sitting on the sofa. Roman looks up at him. Logan sighs. “I am aware that this may be… insignificant of me to say in this moment. But should you have any doubt… you are a talented, courageous, and dedicated young man. I am… grateful that you and my son became friends. And if nothing else, know that I am proud of you. Not only for your numerous achievements, but also for who you are as a person.”

Logan doesn’t know if it’s enough, or perhaps too much. He is not Roman’s dad in any official capacity, though the affection Logan feels for the teen before him does bare comparison to the love he feels for his own son. He had known Roman long enough to see him try and fail and succeed and everything in-between. He’d seen Roman get figuratively back up again and again and again, and if Roman were his son… Logan can’t help but feel he’d be damn proud of him.

But Roman stares at him with wide eyes, and Logan can’t help but feel he may have mis-stepped somehow. Logan’s lips press into a line before he opens his mouth to apologize—

And then promptly finds himself with an armful of the teen as Roman launches himself straight into Logan in a desperate hug. He can feel Roman shaking against him, can feel his shirt getting damp, and Logan only hopes that he hasn’t upset Roman further. It was the exact opposite of what he’d been trying to do.

“Roman,” he tries, “if I said something that upset you, I sincerely apologize—”

“No, Mr. Sanders,” Roman says hurriedly, pulling back and sniffling. His eyes are red and Logan can see tears still falling. Roman brushes at them, his face coloring in embarrassment. “I…” he swallows thickly, and seems to re-think what he’d been about to say. “Don’t apologize. I’m… thank you, sir.”

Logan gives him a small, kind smile. “You do not need to thank me, Roman. Especially when I spoke only the truth.”

Roman’s voice catches a little in his throat again, and he coughs. He wipes the back of his hands against his eyes. “I… Mr. Sanders, would it…. Be alright if I slept here for the night?”

“Of course. I’ll grab some pillows and a few blankets, as it can get cold in here during the night. If you want to grab a shower—after Virgil is done, of course—there is a spare set of towels in the bathroom down here.” Logan stands up, running through the mental checklist. “I generally arise early in the morning, but I promise to do my best to not wake you. If you’re hungry, there’s plenty of snacks in the pantry and you are welcome to help yourself, though I do encourage you to not eat too much as it’s already late and you should try to get optimal rest.”

Roman makes a sound that sounds almost like a laugh. “Okay. Thank you.”

 V.

Logan is doing the dishes when he glances over at his seventeen-year-old son, sitting at the kitchen table with his fingers buried in his hair. He’s scowling darkly at his homework. Logan’s quick glance over his shoulder two hours ago had been enough for Logan to know it’s chemistry homework—Virgil’s hardest class, if his passing comments to Patton during dinner last night had been anything to go by. Logan rinses off a plate and sets in the dishwasher.

Virgil had been acting unusual for the majority of the time that Logan had been home. He’d been unusually brusque with Patton when asked to set the table for dinner and hadn’t eaten as much as he usually did. He’d seemed…. tense. His shoulders hunched, barely making eye contact, barely speaking—and a tendency to be monosyllabic when he did. All indicators, from Logan’s previous experience and knowledge, that pointed to today being a particularly bad day for Virgil’s anxiety.

“Virgil?”

“Mm?”

Logan grabs a sponge and scrubs out a pot, keeping his attention on the sink. “If assistance with your chemistry would be beneficial to you, I would be more than happy to provide it.”

“I’m fine, dad.”

Logan places the pot in the dishwasher and closes it before turning off the faucet. “You do not need to be… ashamed of requiring help.”

He sees Virgil’s grip on pencil tighten. “I’m fine.”

Logan sighs. “Virgil, you appear to have been stuck on the same problem for the past hour—”

“For crying out loud, dad,” Virgil snaps, shoving back from the table. “It’s not the chem, okay? Sorry for not being fast enough at it for you, but I’m fine! I’m fine. For once in my life I actually understand this shit, I just—” Virgil is speaking faster now. His voice sounds strained. “It’s all the other shit that I can’t—I can’t understand, like why I can’t just… just… fuck.”

Virgil shoves his hands harshly into the pockets of his hoodie as his voice cuts off. He rushes out of the room and Logan hears a door slam shut. From where the bang sounds in the house, Logan quickly understands that it’s not Virgil’s own room. It’s the bathroom.

Logan frowns. There were many things that Logan didn’t understand about what Virgil just said. Strong language aside, something certainly seemed to be troubling him. Logan may not know what, but if it was a cognitive distortion, perhaps Logan could help him think through it.

Logan sighs again, drying his hands off on the towel before following after his son. The door is closed. Logan raps a knuckle against the door. “Virgil?”

He hears a faucet turn off. “Go away. Please.”

“I wish to be of assistance. But I can’t help if you don’t talk to me and tell me what is going on.”

He hears a huff of frustration. “You wanna know what’s going on, dad? I don’t even know! I’m a fuck-up of a kid with fucked up anxiety and maybe depression and I can’t even do my fucking homework without being a burden on everyone and everything. You can’t help me. Nobody can. So just… leave me alone.” He hears Virgil’s voice crack through the door.

Logan leans his head against the closed door. He doesn’t know what to say, really. When Virgil’s cognitive distortions turned inwards towards himself, Logan had always struggled to get him to disentangle them. Logan could get Virgil to look at situations and talk through them, as long as the stressors were external. When they became internalized, experience told Logan that Virgil would absently nod along and not believe a word Logan was telling him.

Logan doesn’t know how to help him in this moment. And it clenches something in Logan’s chest to admit that to himself.

Still, he can try, can’t he?

“Virgil Sanders, you are not a burden on any of us. And you are not alone, though I understand you may feel that way.”

Silence. Logan opens his mouth to continue speaking, but he doesn’t know what else to say that will help his son on the other side of the door. All the same, Logan refuses to abandon Virgil right now. Logan is not a believer in empty platitudes. He never spoke for sentiment alone, preferring to back the words he expressed with actions.

So Logan does the only thing that he thinks will show Virgil he means what he says. He sits down on the floor in the hall across from the door. And he waits.

Almost an hour later, the door opens and Virgil steps out, wiping at his eyes. He stops short at the sight of Logan sitting outside the door in the hall. Logan pushes himself to his feet.

“You… Were you out here the entire time?” Virgil asks, with an expression that Logan doesn’t know how to read.

“Yes,” Logan replies simply, confused at the way Virgil is staring at him. “I told you that you were not alone—” Logan stumbles back a step as Virgil launches himself straight into his dad’s chest.

Logan doesn’t hesitate to return his hug.

 +1

The night air is calm and quiet. A gentle late spring breeze plays with the loose strands of Logan’s hair as he sits on the front porch of the house. Crickets and chatter from inside the house create a background of sound against which distant thunder rumbles. Logan takes a deep breath and releases it slowly. Behind him, someone opens the front door and Logan hears cheerful shouting and music flood from the house and out into the night before the door closes. Footsteps creak against the wooden porch floor.

“Hey, dad.”

Virgil sinks himself into the rocking chair beside his father. Logan glances at him as he does so. In the back of his mind, Logan finds it hard to believe that his son just graduated college. It hadn’t seemed quite that long ago that Logan had been laying on his back with Virgil under the stars teaching him the different constellations.

“Evening,” Logan greets. He quirks an eyebrow. “The festivities a bit much?”

Virgil huffs an amused laugh. “Roman’s had a bit too much and is trying to convince dad to start Disney karaoke.”

Logan smiles. “It would not take much to convince him, I’m afraid.”

“Which is why I got the heck out of there.” Virgil sighs and leans back into the chair, rocking it back and forth slightly. He slips his hands into the pockets of his hoodie, staring out across the yard.

Logan glances at him. “Are you all right?”

Virgil meets his gaze quickly, then nods and looks back out at the night sky. “Yeah, actually. I’m good.” His voice is subdued a bit, but calm. He sounds like he means it. “Glad to be graduated… I think.”

“You aren’t sure?” Logan remembers the sunken eyes and tense shoulders he’d seen his son come home with on the holidays, brushing off concern and questions. College had been hard for Virgil. And stressful. Though he’d come out on the other side of those four-and-a-half years with a respectable GPA and a degree under his belt, Logan would have expected that his son would be ready to wash his hands of higher education. At least for the time being.

Virgil sighs, pausing before he answers. “I mean, I won’t lie, dad. I’m glad to be done with the tests and projects and paper-writing. But the real world is…” He trails off, shrugging.

“Intimidating,” Logan finishes for him.

“Yeah.” Beside him, Virgil rocks the chair back and forth, back and forth. The wood creaks a bit in a rhythm that blends with the distant storm they can see rolling in over the horizon line through the silhouette of the neighbor’s houses that surrounded theirs.

“I dunno,” Virgil says suddenly. “Maybe that’s dumb.”

Logan shakes his head. “On the contrary. I think perceiving the ‘real world’, as you call it, to be an intimidating space is… normal, for where you are in your life. It is more than understandable.”

Virgil scoffs, but there’s no real malice in it. “No offense, dad, but I don’t think you find anything intimidating.”

“Falsehood,” Logan replies simply.

“Yeah? What have you ever found intimidating?”

Fatherhood. “Plenty of things, Virgil. I am not as brave as you may believe.”

He can feel Virgil’s gaze on him now. Logan keeps his own trained out on the stars and the distant storm. “Bravery isn’t the same thing as fearlessness, it’s acting in spite of the fear you feel. You know how taught me that?”

“Hm?”

“You did. The night dad was in that wreck when I was ten.”

Logan smiles faintly, affection warming in his chest.  “I’m surprised you remember that,” he admits.

“I remember a lot of stuff you guys taught me. I mean, I wouldn’t be here without it, y’know?”

Logan looks over at his son. His long bangs still fall across his eyes, he still has dark eyeshadow smudged underneath them, he is still wearing the plaid-patched hoodie that he’d had for God-knows how long. Even in the dark, though, Logan can see something earnest in Virgil’s gaze that is meeting his unwaveringly. As if Virgil is trying to get Logan to understand something, except that Logan isn’t quite sure what it is.

“It’s our job to help you and support you,” Logan says softly after a moment.

“Sure, yeah, I guess.” Virgil sits up a little more, leaning forward towards his father. “But… You and dad are the best parents I could’ve asked for. I don’t know what I would’ve done without either one of you. And any time I start to get like, freaked out about the future and everything…I just…. I remember all you taught me, yeah? And it helps me feel a little better.”

Logan blinks at him. He doesn’t know what to say and there’s an unexpected lump forming in his throat that he swallows past.

Virgil glances down at his shoes and keeps talking. “I know I wasn’t always the easiest kid to manage—” Logan opens his mouth to reply but Virgil presses on—"but you never once gave up on me. You forgave me before I ever apologized, and you were patient when I was frustrated, and at every single twist and turn—and we’ve had a lot of them—you were there, dad. You let me explore the world for my own but any time I got lost, you were that compass that kept pulling me back to North. Like Pyxis.”

Logan is grateful for the dark because his eyes are stinging a little. To his surprise, he can see a slight sheen to Virgil’s eyes too. But there’s also a small smile.

He sniffles and brushes his hoodie sleeve across his eyes. “You and dad need to go on a vacation or something now that your job is done, yeah?” He gives his dad a crooked grin.

Logan runs a hand across his mouth and looks back at his son. “We are always going to be your dads, Virge. Our job isn’t over just because you’ve graduated.” Virgil huffs a laugh. Logan stands up and presses a kiss to the top of his head. Virgil leans into Logan’s form a little.

“I’m so proud of you,” he adds. He waits until Virgil pulls away first before he pulls back to head inside. “Congratulations on graduating. Welcome to the world, Starlight.”

///

Tags: @helloisthisusernametaken, @ren-allen, @quoth-the-sparrow, @princelogical, @random-pianist, @ravenclawicecream, @erlenmeyertrash, @milomeepit, @at-least-seven-pretty-potatoes, @rileyfirstname, @pinkeasteregg, @sassy-in-glasses, @vigilantvirgil, @generalfandomfabulousness, @lacrimosathedark, @thepoolofthedead, @monikastec, @heir-of-the-founders, @yourworstnightmare999, @artistictaurean, @kanejandkruge, @cdragontogacotar, @damienswifeolicitydallysgirl, @angst-patton, @savingshae, @noneed4thistbh, @awesomelissawho, @unikornavenger, @bopthesnoz, @spiralofsilencetheory, @finger-gunsss, @crownswriter123, @swlotakulady34, @gaylotusthatexists, @analogical-mess, @dolphidragon, @flix-net, @narniasfinestavengingsociopath, @friedlieb-ferdinand-runge, @bibbidy-bobbity-booyah, @procrastinations-my-middle-name, @theburntesttoast, @monroig

[darkwritingsnshit]

Living the Dream

Chapter 12

Warnings: This is a dark fic, please don’t read if you’re under 18, or uncomfortable with noncon, kidnapping, torture, smut or dark characters

Routines are funny things, schedule, repetition, they all normalize even the most far fetched of events. To say you had ‘settled in’ as Steve had wanted you to would be incorrect, rather you came to know what to expect. Nights and mornings upstairs in a lavish room, getting your body fucked senseless and covered in bruises, then drug back to the basement for a few hours. You still hated the basement most of all, it was the ever present reminder that Steve owned you, that he could throw you in a cell and forget about you for as long as he wanted; and you would have absolutely no say in the matter.

Food and water provided by Steve came at interesting times or so it seemed, though you could track the days by the nights you spent upstairs with him. The rules you had come to understand and follow, though he would occasionally leave wiggle room for a few additional seconds to brace yourself against whatever demand he placed. As long as you followed them, he wouldn’t hurt you.

Twice, you had pushed him on purpose, twice you came to regret it. When he brought you upstairs, he would occasionally pour you a drink. Drinking on an empty stomach due to being in the basement all day hadn’t sounded good, so you politely declined when he placed a full drink in front of you. This had been the wrong thing to do. You noticed Steve wouldn’t usually hit you in the face, though that day was an exception. Before you even realized your mistake, he had thrown the drink in your face and smacked your cheeks, sending you reeling, before apologizing, cleaning up and asking politely for another drink. There were knuckle shaped bruises over both cheekbones the next morning.

The other time, you had asked about your brother after Steve came home, as he had mentioned he was going to see Tony about a mess one of the teammates had created. This mistake got both of your wrists latched into Steve’s headboard, while his belt came down across your ass. It hurt for almost a week afterword, and Steve was very aware, making you sit on his lap, grind your thighs against him and took more pleasure than usual in squeezing and smacking your ass. You were his toy; you were a game. As much as you hated your life, even the most egregious of stressors can be normalized in the human mind, you had come to accept and understand this world Steve kept you locked in.

The worst part by far, worse than being tied to his bed, worse than his oppressing rules, than him fucking you and making you beg, were the words Steve made you say at least three times a day; in the mornings, when he left, and before bed. “I love you.” Before, though the concept of ‘before’ wasn’t always clear now, those words carried meaning, they carried weight. A couple exes had gotten your words, but it was mostly for your mother, father and brother. “I love you” had been reserved for someone who deserved them, someone you loved. By threat of pain and isolation, you had learned to speak the words and deliver them with a kiss, without a second thought. It was funny the things the human mind normalized.

One day Steve didn’t make you go back to the basement. You were sure you had a stroke, you were still dreaming or that this was a sick joke. But no, he offered a change; if you really, really wanted it and could prove just how much you did, you could stay in Steve’s room, chained to the headboard. You had never given a blowjob like that in your life, you were a hundred percent sure. After you were allowed to occasionally stay in his room, Steve started granting you more freedoms. He would bring you down to the kitchen to cook with him, let the two of you spend some of the evening in the living room in front of the fire. After weeks of ‘asking nicely’, Steve allowed you to keep books in his room, as a way to pass the days.

It made you sick at how happy and exited to be allowed basic freedoms made you feel, but you couldn’t squash the emotions. When Steve showed you a closet full of dresses and allowed you to wear them if you were good, you jumped in excitement and made sure you looked good for him when he came home. He seemed to like it when you did this, made his mood and temperament softer.

There were still bad days, both for you and Steve, though they came less frequently. Mornings when you would wake in a panic and had to calm your breathing so you weren’t launched into a panic attack that made you lose all reason. Steve would help you as long as you weren’t “irrational” during these emotionally charged moments, as long as you didn’t lash out and try to hit or hurt him. Any violence from you was met with 10 times as much violence from Steve, though he liked to keep the bruises he left somewhere they would be hidden with clothing. A few days he had come home in a foul mood, and you were locked back in the basement for the night, though you were never sure why. When you were, all you could do was curl into a ball and cry in the cold, hoping to god that tomorrow would be different.

It had been a good few weeks as far as you were concerned; you hadn’t needed any punishment, Steve had been home and in a good mood every night, he had even stopped chaining you to his headboard in the day time, you were free to roam around his locked room as you pleased. You had tried to get out in the beginning to no avail, something that had gotten you thrown back in  the basement for a couple days, so now you read to pass the time and sketched across the journals provided for you. You weren’t even thinking, everything seemed simple, the routine was normal to you, saying ‘I love you’ was normal, the fact that Steve was your only source of human contact was normal, you were unfazed by Steve’s actions or even when he had to punish you, you may have disliked it but you were used to it, expected it.

What you weren’t used to, was Steve coming home with presents. You heard the door unlocking, greeted Steve with a hug and a long kiss, telling him how happy you were to see him again, asking about his day. The way he held your head, the way he kissed you all made you feel good in the pit of your stomach, even the words ‘I love you’ were easier to say. What surprised you, was when he pulled a box out from behind his back, tied with a bow.

“What’s this?” You asked him when he placed it in your hands, with a raised eyebrow. Steve looked pleased with himself, eyes daring you to go ahead.

“You’re going to have to open it to see, doll.” Hands linked, the two of you sat down on the sofa as you were eyeing up the box.

“Thank you for my present Steve,” you knew the rules, always say please and thank you, when he gave you something, when you asked for something, when you wanted something, always remember your place. Steve continued smiling, as he urged you to tear the wrapping paper. Pulling away the ribbons, then the paper, you opened your present with excitement.

When you uncovered what was underneath, your blood ran cold, ice cold, for the first time in a long while.

It was a little pink box, one you recognized from your old friend’s medicine cabinet, from the time you had needed to purchase one from the pharmacy. ‘First Response’ flashed before the words ‘Early Pregnancy Test’ registered in your mind. No, no, you thought, no this couldn’t be happening, Steve may have been crazy but there was no way you could be pregnant, you had the arm implant and it wasn’t due to be taken out for another year. You set the box down on the table with shaky hands and tried to think of a way to phrase the words running through your head so you wouldn’t get hit.

“Steve,” you started slowly, “I didn’t think I could get pregnant, I have a Nexplanon in my arm.” You tried hard not to sound defiant or challenging, just confused. Steve chuckled and took your left arm in his hand, pressed with his thumb the place you saw a small scar, but couldn’t feel the plastic flex under your skin.

“I took care of that months ago, sweetheart,” he said with a smile, “way back before you first arrived. You were out cold for a while before waking up all that time ago in the basement, we don’t have to worry about something as restrictive as your birth control.”

You were sure that food you had for lunch was going to come up, right there on the carpet. This was not what you were expecting, this was new, this was terrifying. Sure, you were a prisoner in his home, but the possibility that you would get out was always in the back of your mind, kept you sane if you felt yourself going a little bit nuts. Sure, Steve basically owned you, but even so, it was your body, you had control over you, even if you chose to follow the rules, you were making decisions for yourself, and you alone would either reap or pay for the consequences of your actions. This was wrong, this was intrusive, this was a little bit more of Steve taking complete control over your life, your body. You didn’t want kids, you didn’t want his kids, you didn’t want your children to be held prisoner by a crazy man. You had to focus on breathing evenly and Steve rubbed your back. You wanted to rip his arm off for touching you. All of the hatred, all of the heavy feelings of anger, shame, disbelief came back in a flash. No matter how much repetition and routine had gotten to your psyche, the thought of condemning your own child to a madhouse was unacceptable.

“I know this is a lot, but I think we’re going to be happy with the results.” Steve was still touching you until you jumped back and to your feet.

“Happy?” You were trying to keep the anger from your voice, something was screaming at you that this was not okay, that you were going to get hurt by your behavior, that Steve wouldn’t like your attitude.

“Yes, happy.” He was raising his eyebrows at you, he was giving you a chance to sit back down an control yourself. “You seem out of sorts, you know I don’t care for this type of hysterical behavior.” Another warning, this one edged with anger, malice.

“Happy? Happy, happy, happy…” You were pacing a few steps right and left, muttering and shaking.

“Why don’t you sit down?” This was your final warning, most of your brain was screaming at you to sit down, but an unhinged voice told you differently. If you really were pregnant, he wouldn’t hurt you, right? He wouldn’t hurt your baby, his baby. You just stared at him, not complying, not sitting down, wide eyed, part angry, part shocked.

When Steve stood and towered a good foot over your small body, you began to shrink back, but not fast enough. Taking you by the arm, he drug you to his bed, shoved you down roughly and for the first time in a while, wrapped restraints around your wrists, securing you to his headboard. You couldn’t see him from your position on your stomach, your mind was racing, you could feel cold sweat on your neck.

“I thought we were past this,” he remarked from somewhere behind you before bringing his arm down across your ass. You yelped in pain, tried to wiggle away but he held you in place by your thighs. “I don’t understand, you’ve been so good. I’ve been so kind to you, you haven’t been back in the basement in so long, why do you insist on testing my patience?” you hadn’t cried in a while, but you couldn’t stop the tears from welling in your eyes. All you could think of was the possibility of a child inside of you. Half disgusted, half fearful, worried Steve would exercise the same control over a baby as he was over you, that he would hurt any child you may have.

“Steve, I’m scared,” you were able to choke out, you couldn’t stop tears from falling down your cheeks, unable to stop your voice from breaking.

“Baby, you don’t need to be scared unless you break the rules,” Steve was closer, you could feel his body heat against the back of your legs, your back, feel him getting hard against your ass. He had caged your hips with his own, had reached between your legs and felt how wet you were, you were getting his cock wet as he teased you, rocking himself between your thighs. “You know I’ll always take care of you, I’ll always take care of our babies, our children. You need to stop worrying, you need to listen to me, to trust me.”

You were shaking your head, crying hard, this was not something you could accept. Steve sighed, pressed a hand against the back of your neck, holding you down, still running his cock between your thighs.

“I was hoping for a better answer, doll, you know I don’t like having to remind you of your place.” His voice was steely, as you shook beneath him before he drug his cock past your thighs and positioned himself against your ass. Your eyes widened, you froze then began to shake harder, began to beg.

“Please no, Steve, I’ll take the test, I’ll be happy please stop!” you could hear him huff in annoyance before remarking against your skin, “I’m not going to stop dollface, trust me when I say, I’m never going to stop.

You screamed loud and hard before bursting into tears as Steve pushed himself into your asshole, unlubed and unprepared except the slick juices he had covered his cock in from between your legs.

“Stop, STOP, PLEASE!!!” you were screaming hard, choking out pleas around your sobs as much as you could, though Steve gave no response except the groans and whispered swear words as his thick cock sank all the way into you.

“Uh-uh,” he hummed out against your skin as he began to fuck you at an unrelenting pace.

He was never quick to finish, and when he wanted to punish or hurt you, he took his time with it, squeezing your throat and leaving fresh bruises against your ass. Eventually you stopped screaming and crying, became numb to the world and your pain, just laid on the bed and closed your eyes until he was done. Long after he had started, you felt Steve release inside of you before rolling off and unlatching your restrains. He held you close to him as usual, he always held you in his arms and shushed you after fucking you, petting your hair and skin until you stopped crying and your breathing calmed. He tilted your head up to face him.

“You need to get cleaned up, princess. Take that test into the bathroom with you, I want results, now.” All you could do was nod as he released you, you snatched the box off the counter and fled to the bathroom. Cleaning yourself up, trying to ignore the deep-seated pain Steve had left you in, you sat on the toilet and followed the instructions, pissing on the white stick and placing it on the counter.

“You can’t hide in there, you need to come out here,” Steve yelled from his room. When you emerged from the bathroom, Steve was sitting on the couch, patted his lap, an instruction to sit down. Crossing the room, you set the test on the table before sitting on his lap.

Three minutes. That’s all it took for this little test to decide how the rest of your life was going to turn out. You still had hope, one day your brother may return, one day you could catch Steve off guard and escape this place, there was reason not to give up entirely. Until those three minutes ran out. Until those two little lines speared on that damn test, two little lines and a grin from Steve, so wide you thought he may actually jump off the couch and start dancing. Instead, he pulled you into a hard, deep kiss, he covered your body with his, his excitement and elation evident in every inch of him. You could feel him harden again, he slung you over his shoulder and the two of you returned to bed. You hadn’t moved, hadn’t said anything, you couldn’t respond at all. You were numb, scared and horrified, but what could you really do?

“I guess we should start thinking about names, darling,” Steve was staring into your eyes before he kissed you again, kissed your skin, your neck, face, shoulders, anything and everything while you couldn’t move at all, couldn’t respond, just laid on his bed and stared at the ceiling. That didn’t matter to Steve, all that mattered to him tight now was that beautiful test on the table, the one that confirmed what he had always wanted.

For him, everything had changed. You were even more precious to him now, and he was sure beyond a shadow of a doubt, he would always, always make sure you and your children were safe and cared for. He was never letting you go anywhere outside his protection, ever again.

[big-bad-a-detective-story]

CHAPTER 06

Ah, the Ugly Duckling. Just your average hole in the wall gathering spot for the lowest of the low, just as grim and greasy as its name might suggest.

Actually, the place was named after the guy who ran it. In a place like this, you learn not to underestimate even the smallest of waterfowl.

“Something tells me they don’t serve milkshakes here.”

I could tell Felix was just as sickened and unimpressed by this place as I was. He was about to discover their lack of frozen confections was the least troubling thing about it.

“You’ve been quiet, Norman, are you monologuing in your head again?”

We steeled our nerves and we made our way inside. The dim lighting of the place wasn’t much brighter than the fading lights outside. Every face in the room turned to glance in our direction.

“Are you ignoring me?”

“Shhh,” I whispered under my breath, glaring up at him. “You’re ruining the mood!”

Some people just had no respect for the art of crafting a marketable story.

Still, even so, we entered deeper inside the bar-- curiosity our Virgil, as we were dragged along for answers that only the bottom feeders of society could provide. I sauntered up to the counter, Felix close on my tail. Perhaps too close, as I bit down a cry just as the guy stepped on it.

If my eyes had a trace of tears, I didn’t let it break my resolve as I leaned against the counter-- fedora tipped in such a way as to add a shroud of mystery to my persona.

It was the barkeep, a woman that put the UHG in ugly, that addressed us first.

“Not two faces I recognize, but what can I get you fellas?”

“A glass of milk, preferably,” answered Felix, breaking whatever rough and tumble airs we would have had. I pinched the space between my eyes, feeling the beginning of a headache coming on.

“No! No milk. We’re here to ask questions, preferably on the subject of ‘who’.  What can you tell me about Larry Lemonade?”

The fact her face lit up over the name alone was enough to spring some doubt over the validity of the plan-- Felix’s plan, I reminded myself. The barkeep grinned.

“Larry? ‘S funny guy.”

Silenced followed afterwards, doing its best to stretch into oblivion, before I realized that was the end of her answer. I shook my head to wake up my senses.

“That’s… That can’t be it. You got to have more than THAT!”

The barkeep shrugged.

“Eh, won’t be different from nobody else’s.” Must have had good ears to pick up nobody, let alone their statement. She went on: “Makes us all laugh. Did a show tune on the counter last week, paid for the drinks and dishes he broke ‘cause of it. ‘S’not so bad.”

Clearly she wouldn’t be helping in the testimony department then. I grabbed my hat in frustration, pulling the brim down on either side of my face as I repressed the urge to howl.

That was when my pal Felix stepped up to the plate.

“Ma’am, do you know if there’s anybody he talks to frequently? Or perhaps anybody that can help us get in contact with him? We need to discuss some work related matters, I’m sure you understand.”

Then he threw her his award winning smile. One that said ‘you can trust me, girl’ and was only a moment away from spilling the tea.

It almost made me proud to call him my friend. Almost. I still hadn’t forgiven him for the milk comment.

The barkeep gave a smile of her own, one with less charm and fewer teeth, and leaned across the bar. I wished she hadn’t, but what she said next made her eye-watering aroma worth enduring.

“Oh, I understand. If you’ve got business with Larry, you’ll wanna talk to Rumpelstiltskin. He’ll know where to find him.”

She tipped us a wink and generously returned to her own side of the bar top. So we had a name, and not much else ... and it looked as if this lady was done sharing secrets.

“Rumpelstiltskin, huh?” Felix replied. “And where might we find this stranger, hm?”

The barkeep gave a lazy shrug. “Oh, he’s around here somewhere.” And then she wandered away, wiping a glass I’m quite certain will never be clean.

But no matter. We had a man to find, a few clues with which to find him. Luckily, my detective skills have been honed for years. I scanned the room, senses sharp, attention focused.

“You have no idea what you’re looking for, do you?”

I shot Felix a glare. Why had I brought him along again?

“Do you have a better idea, Felix?”

He only shrugged.

“I may have a suggestion or two.”

Okay, alright, so I may have flinched a little. But could you blame me? One moment we’re standing there alone, the next, there’s a tiny man sitting on the bar stool right beside me.

“GAH! Don’t DO that.” I cried, my instincts causing me to latch onto Felix for my-- I mean-- HIS emotional well being. Yes. This seemed to make the mysterious man’s eyes squint in glee, even as he took a sip of his drink. He finished doing so with a satisfying ‘ah’.

“Apologies, detective.” Was his response, said in a way that clearly showed he was NOT. “I just couldn’t help but overhear you were looking for someone. Specifically, me.” So HE was Rumpelstiltskin! “Now what can I do for you two charming fellows?”

“You seem to know an awful lot already, you tell us.” Was Felix’s mumbled response. 

While it was true I should have been suspicious of the fact the guy knew my occupation, it was easy to assume he had heard of the likes of the Big Bad Wolf. So, I waved it off-- annoyed that my friend was trying to distract me from the matter at hand.

“Word on the streets is you were the last one to talk to the suspect I’m looking for. What can YOU tell me about Larry Lemonade?”

At this Rumpelstiltskin's impish tail swayed excitedly.

“What don’t I know? It’s my business to pick up on anything I can find, and I happened to be quite skilled at it. For example,” Rumpelstiltskin eyed Felix next to me, my friend actually shrinking some at the leer. “Mr. Fox here is keeping a terrible secret, aren’t you? Saying your special ginger scones are a family recipe. But I think we BOTH know you get them from the Muffin Man down on Drury Lane.”

I was just about to complain about this information-- who cared about something as trivial as all THAT-- when I was startled by sudden wails.

“It’s TRUE,” sobbed Felix. “I could never perfect the recipe! It was a harmless crime, it didn’t HURT anybody!”

Rumpelstiltskin took pity on the guy, procuring a handkerchief from who-knew-where as he passed it along to my blubbering pal.

“Oh, there there. I’m not the guy to judge you on that. I happen to know all about harmless crimes. And then some.” 

It was then that lecherous leech looked in my direction, dulled yellowed teeth shining in the dimly lit tavern. 

“However, you asked about my good pal Larry. What do you need to know, detective? His waist size? His favorite place he frequents for lunch? What about how Larry’s relationship is coming along with that pretty little nanny he can’t seem to keep his eyes off of?”

This guy was a grade A sneaky snitch, I was almost as impressed as I was wary. But crooked moral compass or not, this was exactly the type of guy I’d been looking for.

“I don’t care about any of that. Less talk of nannies, I need to know about grannies. One in particular, in fact.” I leaned in closer, and I continued in a lower tone, lest I be overheard.

“What can you tell me about Larry’s involvement with the sudden disappearance of Old Maybelle Fawcett, and a little girl wearing a bright red hood?”

The little man let out a short, deep chuckle I didn’t quite care for. I wasn’t a fan of that impish smile, either.

“Oh, I could tell you plenty. But I’m afraid information like that doesn’t come cheap.”

And, there it was. They say everyone has their price. Unfortunately, I found myself a tad short.

“I see. Wouldn’t you know it, I left my wallet in my other pants.”

“You’re not wearing any pants.” Felix felt the need to point out. So helpful.

“I don’t suppose you’d take an, I Owe You?” I gave the small man my best, most charming smile, and wouldn’t you know it? 

It worked.

“Actually, yes! It just so happens I deal in, favors.” 

Rumpelstiltskin was coyly playing with his straw, just waiting for me to ask my next question. WELL, no reason to keep the guy waiting, I supposed. And it was with me- tilting to that rude reprobate’s level-- that I asked:

“What KIND of favors, exactly?”

“Oh, nothing too serious. Just a tit for tat, you understand. Gave a gal a hand after she gave me hers, helping her find her fortune away from that no-good family of hers. Made one guy rich by pulling a prank on him-- told him he had to wear a bearskin for seven years. And would you believe it? He did it!” At this he laughed. “Oh, that kept me entertained for a while, let me tell ya.”

That… didn’t sound so bad, to be perfectly honest. I looked down at my person-- I heard of a wolf in sheep’s clothing, but I wondered how ridiculous it would be as a bear. The man seemed to laugh all the more, causing me to remember where I was.

“Alright, mac. That sounds easy enough, but what do you WANT from ME?”

“Simple: a promise.”

Rumpelstiltskin touched my cheek, patting it like one might pet their dog. Insulting, was what it was! Rumpelstiltskin pinched my snout, causing me to jolt upright from the abuse even as he continued carrying on conversing.

“I’ll give you a map to Larry Lemonade, all at the simple price of promising to do whatever I ask of you. You won’t know when, you won’t know how. You’ll just get a call to meet me at another time for a drink.” He punctuated this with a sip, the gurgle echoing within the glass. “An easy payment, for the lives of two, wouldn’t you say?”

Felix scoffed at this.

“You… really aren’t going to take that deal, are you, Norman? It’s far too vague. He could ask for ANYTHING!”

I looked my pal in the eyes, his own harden look lessening at what was no doubt the gravity of my own. I turned to Rumpelstiltskin, his hand reached out lazily as if this really did mean nothing to that scumbag. I growled, even as I grabbed it.

“I hate to say it, but DEAL.”

Rumpelstiltskin tittered.

“Oh, detective…You made the right choice.”

[jeanstoppable]

20th & 21st OF OCTOBER

~change the channel~ (substitute)

~island in the sun~

(A/N: I cannot, for the life of me, make these prompts shorter. But anyways, here’s some more of my Cyberpunk oc and a bit of world building)

WARNING: Mentions of Drug Use/Dark themes

The door shut with a soft click, the metal barrier cancelling out the harsh and turbulent noise of the downpour outside, as a clear ping pierced the silence of the room, signalling the automatic lock being completed.

I tossed the drenched sling bag somewhere on the floor, hearing it land but not bothering to check where, and started peeling the equally wet jacket off my torso, leaving me in a sleeveless black top.

I should take a shower first. I thought. But my legs didn’t move towards the bathroom to my far right, instead my eyes were fixated on the desk beside my bed, and then gradually brought them up on the old painting displayed right above it.

Later. This can’t wait. Heart and mind decided, I shuffled over to the desk in a sense of urgency, grabbed the painting by its sides and then plucked it from the hook. Flipping the frame around, a black plate covered the back of the canvas. With familiar ease, I slid my fingers across the upper corner edges and found the latch, successfully unfastening the plate to unveil a couple of worn-out journals hidden inside. Untouched.

A breath of relief escaped me, my fear of the notebooks being discovered momentarily disappearing.

I picked out the one I’ve been using as of late—the tenth one if I recall correctly, since I’ve already used up every bit of space from the others—and opened the journal where it had a bookmark.

The yellowed blank pages were a frequent sight as I ran a hand across the smooth surface while my other hand pulled a pen from a cup that was also holding a heap of markers and then started writing my thoughts—

It was a common enough phrase.

“CHANGE THE CHANNEL”

It doesn’t pique interest, at least to...someone like me, so it shouldn’t raise any suspicions, right?

I hovered the nib of the pen slightly above the paper, thinking if I should continue to write about the news we’ve received today. It was shocking enough that I even had to pinch myself a couple of times to see if I was dreaming or not because the news wasn’t just good nor great---it was the best fucking thing I’ve heard in years and it also just happens to be the one we’ve all been waiting for.

Setting down the pen, I reached for the hidden compartment again, took the very first journal I owned and then absently flipped through the filled pages, the crisp, crinkling sounds tenderly jogging my memory.

I stopped at the beginning of the notebook, a reminiscing smile graced my lips as I traced the old ink with the tip of a finger.

Don’t let anyone steal this.

I snorted, of course, this was written on the day I got my ass beat and left without so much of a coin in my pocket—thus, I was forced to resort to stealing. Strangely enough, this journal was the first thing I stole and to this day, I can’t seem to remember the reason why but I do remember how awful the act made me feel, the feeling lasted for days.

Nonetheless, those feelings subsided after getting accustomed to this lifestyle. Crime practically lived and breathed under my skin, these hands and feet of mine becoming my very own accomplices.

I closed my eyes as the usual barrage of emotions washed over me: disappointment, disgust, anger, hate—so much hate and all of it was directed at the only person I can blame at the moment.

Well to be fair, not once did I deny the indisputable fact that I hated how my life turned out, how everything turned out considering that there’s no one even left to impress, no one to see me pretend as if I wasn’t so horribly broken-down on the inside.

I hated how I was still here, anchored by some self-righteous bullshit I’d placed like a burden on my shoulders that one miserable night, a burden that still stubbornly carries the promise of changing the lives of so many other people.

My gaze landed on the scribbled date at the top of the page.

It’s been 6 years since the incident.

I breathed out my nose unevenly and closed the book with a snap, pushing it aside as I returned to the previous journal and picked up the pen to finish today’s log.

It’s happening.. It’s finally happening.

Today marks the fucking day of something revolutionary as we received reports, genuine physical reports, of a planned coup in all of five districts. And I know there had been a lot of them in the past and those who participated lost their lives after being executed on the spot… However, this time around, my gut tells me otherwise.

I think I mentioned this in my previous logs; it’s about the power balance shifting. It began to tip since last year and it hasn’t stopped till now. I fiercely believe that the power will eventually find its way back to us, as it rightfully should.

This was a long time coming after all. Years and years of effort had been put in just to dethrone those who forcefully robbed us of our lives and not just that---Our identities.. Our Family and friends. The voice itself of the public.

Letting out a tortured laugh, I wrote the end of the log:

CHANGE THE CHANNEL

Simple, dismissive and yet it holds the power of treason. It speaks the word of rebellion. I’m not afraid anymore because this phrase will take us one step closer to freedom.

. . .

“...Are you sure this is the right place?”

“Positive.”

I cast my partner a skeptical glance.

“...I’m 80% sure.” He nervously admitted, purposely avoiding my prodding eyes.

A huff of disbelief slipped past my lips as I demanded from him, “What did the message say anyway?”

“It was a recorded message programmed inside a toy, it only said the time and the address before self-destructing. But like I said, I don’t think I got any of the information wrong.”

“Maybe you misheard or missed something because this—”

I swallowed the sentence and did another scan of the building in front of us, our position from an empty terrace across the street granting us to overlook the supposed meeting place, the rendezvous as it turns out was a grand and luxurious night club.

It seemed that access was only given to those in the upper class but since it was fairly new and as far as rumors go, I heard it has an eccentricity to it, so the club wasn’t bustling like the other similar establishments scattered in the district. Still, entry to the venue remains as a privilege only to those who can afford to waste money, in this economy.

I eyed the flashy neon sign just above the main doors with slight distaste and a growing curiosity.

Island in the Sun

The name certainly snatches attention.

After seeing a bunch of people dressed in stylish clothes walk out, I run a hand through my hair, suddenly feeling a tiny bit insecure about what I’m wearing.

Hell, nothing about my attire was fancy by any means so I shot my partner another worried glance, “Do we really have no further means of communication with them? Do we really have to enter through the front? Can’t we just, you know, sneak inside a window? I mean, we don’t—we’re not—”

I gestured to his clothes and then mine, “We’ll stick out like sore fucking thumbs.”

“You do make a sound point.” He murmured and then lowered his goggles to finally address me, his grey orbs illuminated by the numerous bright neon signs, “I never expected our sponsor to be this...shameless? They’re practically waving their wealth in our faces, makes me wanna take a swipe at them.”

“Arman,” I quietly sighed, “What are we getting ourselves into?”

Is this what having cold feet feels like?

My partner surveyed me for a instant before having the nerve to roll his eyes, “Just treat this as one of our regular heists, Sonya. Aren’t you the least excited to experience what it’s like partying with the upper class?”

I stayed silent, not bothering to tell him that I did have prior experience, and just rubbed my temples, a headache forming at the prospect of how tonight will go.

“Time for a channel change.” My partner winked, his wise words partnered with the small gesture cracked my lips into a smile.

He then put a hand under his chin, thinking carefully as he relayed more of his thoughts, “And maybe get laid by the end of the night.” This time, I was the one to roll my eyes and got a glower from him in exchange.

“You could use it as well… When’s the last time you—”

“Shut the fuck up, Arman.” I tried snapping back but it turned into a laugh instead.

He only grinned toothily, looking guilty but proud, “Less nervous?”

“Let’s just get this over with.”

“Wait.” He said all of a sudden.

I raised a brow in question, my hands already gripping onto the rails, poised to scale down at any moment.

“Clothes.” Arman waved a hand and I grimaced.

“Ah yeah, right.”

A terse silence passed before we both launched smirks at each other, the same heinous idea forming in our minds as he pointed towards a closed clothing shop a few blocks away.

“What say you for one more heist this evening? It won’t be as grandiose as the previous ones, I’m afraid.”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

. . .

Your ass looks nice in that.

Yeah? I’m taking this one then.

...Well?

Your ass always looks great, Arman.

So you’re saying mine looks better? Thanks.

Wear a skirt and then we’ll talk.

Oh, Sonya, just watch and learn.

. . .

I leaned against a street light, scrutinising our target club while waiting for my partner to finish finding the ‘perfect outfit’ as he called it, his words not mine. In the end, I settled for a wine coloured fitted dress with a criss-cross pattern exposing my back, a black corset on top, a semi transparent blazer for my shoulders, and then I picked out simple knee length combat boots—in case the deal goes awry and we had to flee.

Hearing footsteps behind me, I peeked over and my jaw dropped as soon as I laid eyes on Arman.

He was wearing a skin tight turtleneck black dress, showing off his lean but toned figure, a beautiful velvet burgundy blazer that looked amazing on his broad shoulders and then his shoes were thick polished combat boots, almost same as mine, the only difference was his heels were an inch higher, making him look taller than he normally is.

I whistled in pure awe, “Damn, Island in the Sun is about to get a whole lot hotter.”

A smug expression graced his handsome features when he walked past me, swaying his ass deliberately, “Told you so,”

I huffed at his haughty but rightfully placed attitude and caught up to him, looping an arm around his, “Well, won’t you tell me—am I your designated arm candy or are you mine?”

“Why can’t we just be both?”

We toned down the volume of our conversation when we neared the establishment, Arman breaking off as he walked up to the main entrance. It was as we expected, one of the large bouncers blocked him immediately and then pointed to the side towards the long line of people waiting for their own turn.

Arman straightened his shoulders and crossed his arms, “We have an appointment with your employer.”

The bouncer examined my partner from head to toe, not looking the least convinced although the second after, he pressed a button on his collar, “Can you direct me to the boss’ line?”

“Hey!” A voice shouted off to the side where the line was, “Wait in line like the rest of—”

I whirled on whoever was speaking and gave them my most vicious glare, that person stopped in the middle of their sentence and then promptly averted their eyes. I scoffed at them.

“Boss, there’s two individuals here that say they have an appointment with you.” The bouncer said, nodding while listening to his receiver and then finally turned back to Arman, “I apologise but the boss doesn’t have any more appointments for tonight.”

Arman took this information calmly and then leaned in, a hand covering his lips as he whispered something to the bouncer, keeping his voice as quiet as possible.

The bouncer’s eyes widened, stared at Arnan and me before ultimately stepping aside, handing us two glowing yellow bracelets, “I’m sorry for the delay, the boss is expecting you.”

My partner brightened and accepted the bracelets, holding me by my wrist as he ushered us past the main entrance. Still confused about the whole ordeal, I reluctantly put on the accessory without saying a word, the bracelet giving a weird sting when it made contact with my skin, and then followed Arman inside.

“What was that?” I asked the moment we’re left alone.

“Did you forget why we’re here?” He quipped back cheerfully and the realisation struck me later than I would have liked.

“...What do you think this is for?” I changed the subject to both our glowing bracelets, raising mine to my eye level just to get a good look at it.

“I don’t know. Gimmicks?” Arman absently rubbed his, faintly knotting his eyebrows and then started inspecting the empty hallway we were walking through, “For a club named Island in the Sun, it doesn’t seem very hot.”

We reached the end of the hallway and the doors opened upon sensing us, revealing another set of corridors, three to be exact that split into different directions: There was muffled music coming from our right, while there’s really faint sounds of people chattering to the left, and then nothing from the one ahead of us.

I took a step towards the middle corridor, figuring it was where we needed to go but Arman blocked an arm in my way, “Don’t you want to check out the other rooms? We might as well explore before we get kicked out after our appointment.”

My expression definitely disapproved of the idea and he could see that, although I think I might’ve surprised him when I agreed to his request, “No more than five minutes.”

His grey orbs gleamed with excitement, “I’ll go this way,” he pointed to the right, “Take the left.” With that said, Arman pivoted and headed for the direction with the music, and I walked towards the left corridor.

The doors were glass so I’d seen what was inside while waiting for them to open.

I scrunched my brows in bewilderment at what awaited me. The room was massive so to say and furthermore, it has a second floor filled with—What were those? There were these weird opaque bubbles that had a hatch on the front with a keypad beside it and almost all of them were lit, vague silhouettes of people moving to and fro inside but nothing more than that.

My eyes landed on the pit with a glass dome in the centre, a couple of people were lounging on long circular couches whilst socialising with each other. I was so focused on the bizarre scene that I didn’t notice the doors sliding open and the cyborg standing off to the side, making me almost jump when it had announced itself.

WELCOME. WOULD YOU LIKE TO PROCURE AN ISLAND?

“I---uh, what...does that mean exactly?” I awkwardly rubbed my nape, feeling the need to occupy my shaking hands as I peered up at the cyborg.

WOULD YOU LIKE ME TO DEMONSTRATE HOW OUR ISLANDS WORK?

I simply nodded and the cyborg’s eyes immediately flashed bright, projecting a hologram into the empty space between us, leaving me to watch in wonder as a 3D model of one of the bubbles appeared.

ESSENTIALLY, OUR SPHERICAL ISLANDS ARE DESIGNED TO SERVE AS ADVANCED PRIVATE SUITS FOR SPECIAL CUSTOMERS. ITS CURVED WALLS ARE BUILT-IN WITH HIGH POWERED LED SCREENS THAT LETS YOU PROJECT ANY KIND OF SCENERY YOU’D PREFER AND IT’S ALSO COMPLETE WITH FURNITURE THAT CAN SATISFY TO EACH AND EVERY ONE OF YOUR NEEDS.

The holograms changed and now it showed one of those glowing bracelets.

WHILE YOU’RE INSIDE THE CLUB, WE WILL ALSO EXCLUSIVELY PROVIDE YOU WITH OUR CLUB’S HOTTEST PRODUCT TO MAKE YOUR NIGHT BETTER AND MORE ENJOYABLE.

I frowned, asking warily, “Product?”

I’M PROHIBITED TO EXPLAIN ANY FURTHER DETAILS OF THE PRODUCT. HOWEVER, YOU CAN FIND OUT FOR YOURSELF THROUGH ONE OF OUR ISLANDS, THE PIT, OR IN THE PARTY ROOM.

Something cold settled in my stomach, “The party room...it’s the room opposite this one , right?”

CORRECT. NOW, THAT YOU ARE AWARE OF OUR CLUB’S COMMODITIES, WOULD YOU LIKE TO PROCURE AN ISLAND?

I shook my head, about to refuse the offer when a question crossed my mind, “...How much is one island?”

The cyborg turned off the projection and turned its gaze downwards, scanning my bracelet through its lens.

NO PAYMENT NEEDED FOR VIP CUSTOMERS.

“VIP...?” My throat dried up as I covered the bracelet on my wrist with a hand, “I...won’t be taking an island, thank you.” The cyborg merely bowed and then went back to its corner, waiting for someone new to serve.

“Shit, I have a bad feeling about this.” I said to myself, returning to the intersection from before and making my way towards the party room.

The moment the doors slid open, the music hit me and my eardrums in full blast. I winced at the intensity of it and more so at the large crowd dancing and grooving to the loud beat. It was difficult to even hear my own voice. I internally groaned, how am I supposed to find him at this rate?

Keeping my eyes sharp despite it being extremely dark and the occasional blinding strobe lights, I moved through the mob of people pressed against one another, awkwardly bumping into some people dancing and then sometimes getting pushed back. I bit my lip, refraining from picking a fight as I held on to my rapidly waning patience.

All of a sudden, someone slapped a hand to my ass and the leash briefly snapped—I quickly rounded on that person, a fist almost flying out when I saw that the hand belonged to a man a couple of inches shorter than me with a greasy sneer on his face.

“Do that again...” I fisted his shirt and followed with a violent promise, “And you’ll go home left-handed.” I threatened, my voice brimming with spite.

Once I saw the frightened understanding in his eyes, I released him and turned away. “Arman, you better show yourself right now.” I growled.

Finally, I spotted a familiar burgundy jacket behind a pillar and I set my sights on it, carelessly pushing my way through, ignoring the curses and rude remarks of the people I shoved because I have had enough of this.

I shouldn’t have to search for him.

As I got closer to the pillar, I only noticed then that he was making out with someone. Oh you’re dead. My fingers shot out to grab the shoulder of the man I’ve been searching for, ready to cuss at him till his ears fall off.

“Oi! What the fuck happened to five minutes?!”

I halted as I met face to face with a stranger, and not at all my partner, “A-ah, I’m sorry I thought you were—“ My eyes flicked towards the person standing beside them.

“Arman!” I shouted, obviously relieved to see him alright but then remembered I was still pissed off, “What the hell? I was looking all over for you!”

His eyebrows creased for a moment before a loopy smile graced his lips, “Sonya! I’m sorry, I got a bit distracted…” Arman’s gaze trailed off to the side but at the same time, he gripped the waist of the man he kissed earlier closer to his body.

I gawked at him. Honestly speechless. But then I lashed out a hand to circle around his wrist, the one with that damned bracelet, and discovered that the yellow glow was at half now.

This was their exclusive product.

I fumed as I took out a spare light from the pocket of my blazer and yanked his head down to my level, “Let me see your fucking eyes.”

I shined the light on them and noticed how bloodshot they were, his pupils were unusually blown wide. I cursed again, letting out my frustrations, “Arman, you’re blazed!”

“What?! No, no, no. I-I haven’t taken any.” He stumbled over his words, making me doubt him even more.

“Excuse me.” A new voice piped in.

I flipped my attention to Arman’s...date? Lover? Who the hell cares, I completely forgot he was even there, “Aren’t you being a bit rude? Who are you anyways?” The man asked snobbishly while squinting at me.

I glared back, a dangerous smile framing my painted lips, “I’m his girlfriend. Who are you?”

“Sonya!” Arman yelled in disbelief.

The man mouth hung open and then tried explaining himself, “I-I’m—“

I held up a finger, “You know what, I don’t give a rat’s ass.” Locking an arm around Arman’s, I pulled him away from the man and roughly dragged him across the dance floor and towards the exit.

Once we got back to the main hallway, I let him go and stared him down with my arms placed on my hips, “What was that, Arman?” I gritted out, trying to be as calm as I can without blowing a fuse.

“Give me a minute.” He panted, “It’s so damn hot, ugh.”

“What are you saying, you’ve only been in there for less than twenty minutes.” I looked at him confused but then clearly saw the heavy perspiration forming on his skin, “Hey...you’re sweating really bad.”

“I’m sorry, Sonya.” He apologised, breathing large gulps of air while leaning on the wall, “I’m sorry you had to cover for me back there.”

My gaze softened as I stood beside him, “It’s nothing…”

“I know I really screwed up for not being careful, but I swear—Sonya, I swear I didn’t take any drugs.” Arman gripped my arms, looking me wildly in the eyes.

“Don’t worry..I believe you.” I assured him, wiping the sweat off his forehead, “It might’ve been that stuck-up date of yours, did you notice him touch your bracelet while you were together?”

He opened his mouth and then clamped it shut, a deeply disturbed expression slowly contorted his features, “Yeah...Yeah, he did.”

I let out a rough exhale, controlling the rage that sweeped me off, now twice as strong, “If I ever see that fucker—“

A hand on my shoulder pulled my attention back as I faced Arman, letting him see the murderous expression on my features.

“The appointment.” He reminded me softly.

“...Right…right. Are you sure you’re okay now?”

He pushed off the wall and gave me a tiny smile that broke my heart.

“...You know, you’re giving Tilly a run for her money—I mean, showing up to a sponsor’s meeting high? Not even she has the balls to do that.”

Arman chuckled, a dark look passing his expression as he bitterly said, “I bet that they’re expecting us to attend already intoxicated.”

I hummed in agreement, “So, our first sponsor’s a drug enthusiast, huh?”

“Ready?”

“Yeah, let’s go.”

TBC

(A/N: I WAS SUPPOSED TO INCLUDE MEETING THE BOSS BUT ITS TOO LONG wowowow, these prompts are now integrated into my story, I swear I didn’t mean for it to turn out like this—but ANYWAYS. I’m kinda living for this unhinged oc of mine, and this duo?? I had so much fun writing about theit dynamic. However sad to say, this will be the last of them for now... as it goes, i must move on to other ignored ocs PEACEEE)

[toonstarterz]

BECAUSE I’M NOT POPULAR, I’LL READ WATAMOTE: CHAPTER #166

Baseball season is in the air! Thankfully, you don’t need to be a fan of the sport to like this chapter. So long as you enjoy the stupid antics of a bunch of socially awkward teenage girls, there’ll be plenty of fun to be had. And of course, it wouldn’t be Watamote if they didn’t include a bunch of expertly intricated plot threads and natural character development as well. With all of Nico Tanigawa’s passions coming together once again, I can say that this chapter is definitely in top form.

So without further ado, let’s play ball!

Chapter 166: Because I’m Not Popular, I’ll Go Cheer

Tomoko getting flabbergasted just by Katou existing never gets old.

You know, I always had the impression that Tomoko wording things in the most perverted way was just a gut reaction due to her mind being perpetually in the gutter. But now, I feel like her answer here is just too on the nose to be anything but deliberate. IdiotPerv!Tomoko is hilarious, but TrollPerv!Tomoko is too powerful. 

Consequently, Tomoko can’t say shit without it biting her in the ass.

Okada with the save. Sure, she probably didn’t want to look like a slacker from Katou either, but still. If Katou’s the mom friend, then Pineapple-chan’s the exasperated, but supportive onee-san friend.

I just realized that this is a standard routine with these two: Yuri will say something tactless and Mako will call her name out in admonishment. If this has been going on since they first met, then Mako has boundless patience and/or is the absolute best friend that no person should ever take for granted. Not that 

Yuri does...mostly.

Y'all can tell that baseball fan Ikko had a blast drawing the backgrounds in this chapter.

Speaking of which, I’m 212% certain that Komiyama’s role in this chapter is to be the mouthpiece for Nico Tanigawa’s baseball fanatism. Given that it’s technically in-character (for who is basically their self-insert), and baseball chapters can only feasibly happen every hundred chapters or so, I’m fine with the mangakas taking these little indulgences.

Hey, let the girl live a little! Komi’s gotta cram ten chapters worth of dialogue she won’t get into one.

Pardon me, Tomoko, but you seem to have left your self-awareness by the entrance to the stadium.

Naturally, Tomoko hates that Komiyama isn’t making a fool of herself in front of her mom-crush. It’s easy to forget that so long as you don’t set off her berserk buttons, Komiyama is actually quite...normal. Like, being amicable with others and casually humble-bragging is her default state. 

Nico Tanigawa’s artistic habit of putting nicknames under faces always amuses me.

There’s being upset, and then there’s being petty. We all know that Tomoko is aware that Itou is in the band, and any other day, she wouldn’t hold that against the girl. But because she’s salty over Komiyama acting cool, her sensibilities revert back to Year-1 Tomoko logic. 

Now, if I were a more crass person, I could make the assumption that the majority of those underclassmen were a combination of girls admiring Fuuka’s “cool beauty” status and boys wanting to check out an attractive senior girl in a cheerleading outfit, discrepancies notwithstanding. 

But I won’t.  

Oh yeah, Miho. Based on the above cheers, she seems like your average popular girl, but if you recall, she got a kick out of Katou’s “offers” to Tomoko. That said, I wouldn’t be surprised if she had a bit of a mean streak in her.

Btw...armpits? Okay, then...

You’d think that by now, Tomoko would learn some subtlety before pulling shit like this.     

Normally, I’d call Tomoko out for shenanigans since I thought she was mostly over the whole “slut-shaming” thing. But given how she wasn’t thinking this when the girls in her class wore cheerleading outfits during last year’s sports festival (that we know of), I can only assume that this is more of Tomoko’s jealousy due to Fuuka’s friendship with Katou.

Either that, or Tomoko just doesn’t want to admit she finds her hot.

I think we’re all in agreement that Ucchi’s gonna lose massive points for this.

On the other hand, the image of Emoji Girl screaming about Tomoko’s crimes through a megaphone is peak absurdity, and I’ve been laughing my ass off for twelve minutes. 

In all seriousness, I’m kind of glad that Tomoko is finally getting her way overdue karma for all her skirt-peeping. Sure, it’s all been played for comedy, but that doesn’t change the fact that its sexual harassment, or the fact that she’s more than likely gotten away with it for being female.

It’s all fun and games until your stalker calls you out on it.

LIES.

You know...maybe it is Tomoko’s fetish. She’s done it so frequently, and it’s always been portrayed as just another one of Tomoko’s “quirks”. But given the context of all those occurrences, having a skirt-peeping fetish actually sounds very plausible. Thank you, Yuri, for that insight. 

Looking at Katou’s expression, it might be her fetish, too...

Seeing Tomoko get more and more mortified as everyone keeps dogpiling on her shame makes for quite the cathartic reading. 

Add on to the fact that Komiyama, the biggest perv of all, is the most dignified at this moment just makes this whole chapter an absolute treat.

Considering that Tomoko basically just got outed as a pervert in the middle of a crowd of spectators, she’s taking this quite well. First-year Tomoko could’ve had a legit panic attack if that had happened, but now, she actually has enough nerve to retaliate. Sure, Tomoko had some decent ammo with the Tanabata wish, so she likely had more guts than she would’ve been, but it’s still impressive nonetheless.

Sasaki Fuuka–putting a new spin on the term “victim-blaming”. 

Komiyama can be the reasonable one while Tomoko is the crazy pervert, or Tomoko can be the reasonable one while Komiyama is the crazy pervert.

But the universe just can’t have both be reasonable or perverted at the same time. 

As someone who knows jacksh*t about sports, I have to admit that this is an interesting fun fact if it can be applied to the popularity of real-life sports teams and cheer squads.

I could totally see this becoming a meme in the Watamote fandom. Anyone?

These moments of zero dialogue, sometimes a whole page’s worth, excel at immersing the reader into the story. Suddenly, you’re not just reading about characters in a story. You’re now experiencing first hand what’s like to be at a baseball game, with a few familiar faces from the band and cheer teams making it feel a lot more lively. 

If it weren’t for all the wonderful peeps on Reddit, I never would’ve caught that this is the same baseball manager we’re seen periodically since the beginning of the series. You know, the one Tomoko did that fake dub for?

Perhaps I’ll call her...Beta!Nemo. 

A PSA to all you non-sports fans: You can now pretend to be interested in your favorite high-school teams just by tuning into your local service provider.

Go, Harajuku Makuhari!

You know, I think I mentioned before that I wasn’t sure what Komiyama’s career prospects were.

Now I’ve got a clue.

Yo, I could feel that pain from my screen.

For a second, I thought this was Reina, given we can’t see her eyes and that she’s manspreading (sounds like something she would do). But then I pictured her actually signing up for cheerleading and...yeah, no. 

Not to sound all pretentious if you already know, but cheerleading really is one of the most difficult, dangerous, and underappreciated sports there is. In addition to all the physical risks, you have to maintain an endlessly cheery disposition, even when it’s hard. That’s why I call it the “customer service job” of the sports industry.

The go-to method to keep your in-story sports team at peak realism: 

Unwavering mediocrity. 

As opposed to them hurrying up and win? Quite the pessimist you are, Tomoko...

not.

As startling as it is to hear these words come out of Tomoko’s mouth, it’s not entirely unfounded. For all her negative worldviews, crude behavior, and general apathy, the one thing that has always been constant about Tomoko is that she knows things can be better and she wants things to be better. She never got the chance to really strive for it back then when she had nothing to latch onto. But now that she’s got friends, Tomoko realizes that she can feasibly make some of those ideals a reality.  

Their unbridled admiration is sweeter than diabetes.

Insert long-winded discussion of a related social phenomenon that probably exists, but the author is too lazy to research here. 

She...didn’t deny it. 

Character development...I guess?

I was wondering where Tomoko would draw the line on her slut-shaming towards Fuuka. Granted, it’s probably easier to feel empathy when you can see that shit happening from other people rather than yourself. 

But seriously, Katou? Pimping out your friend? You terrify me more and more with each passing chapter. 

See what I’ve been getting at? Tomoko knows that realistically speaking, her summer is probably not going to be anything extraordinary. Inconveniences will occur, moments of boredom will arise, and missed opportunities will transpire. But as I’ve reiterated time and again, even those “plain” experiences can become delightful memories when shared with those you care about.

That’s going to be a crucial feeling from this point on, it looks like. ‘Cause based on Yuri’s expression, she may have the most difficulty resonating with that kind of emotion. Let's see just how Yuri handles an expanding social circle–Tomoko included–that’s a little more bright-eyed than she is. 

We’re in the seventh inning stretch of Tomoko’s third year, and time will only tell if it ends in a victory.

[mrs-geuse]

Distraction (Hank Anderson x Reader)

Warnings: Pretty fluffy, some kissing involved, some NSFW thoughts.

Pairing: Hank x fem!reader

Summary: Reader was turned down for a job and Hank comes to drink away some woes. Things get steamy. 

           Hank hadn’t heard from you all day and it was really starting to piss him off, mostly because he was worried. Worried where your headspace was, fully aware of where it could be. And, damn it, he was scared; scared of losing you too. He’d given you a grand total of four calls in the last hour and none of them were answered.

           “You seem to be distracted, lieutenant,” Connor’s voice broke through his thoughts. Hank shot him a look. “I’ve asked you several questions and you have not responded.”

           “Jesus, Connor, we closed the case. What other questions can you have?” They were on their way back to the precinct to finish up paperwork.

           “My questions pertained to y/n,” Connor corrected. Hank stilled, glanced at him, then back to the road. “Did she get the job?”

           Hank sat silent for a moment then let out a quiet, “no.”

           Connor gazed curiously at him. “I don’t understand. She was there for seven months.”

           “Substituting for seven months,” Hank corrected. “Apparently that didn’t matter to those assholes. They picked somebody else.”

           Connor gazed out the window as the precinct came into view. “Has she contacted you since?”

           “No.”

           Hank parked, shut the car off, sighed.

           “You seem worried about her, lieutenant. You care for her.”

           “Shut it, Connor.”

           “Your cheeks are reddened, are you fevered?” his hand rose toward Hank’s forehead and was instantly smacked away.

           “Quit it,” he grumbled, shoving his way out of the car then slamming the door.

           Connor was a few steps behind Hank as he stormed toward the building.

           “It is completely understandable that you care for her well-being, Hank, she’s-”

           Hank spun on his heels before they went inside, grabbing Connor’s shirt collar in his hands.

           “Don’t you dare pretend like you know what’s going on here,” he snapped at Connor. “I don’t even know what’s going on here…” his grip loosened.

           Connor paused, considering what to say. “I can quickly make the report and scan the documents on. You should go to y/n.”

           Hank stepped back, considered Connor for a moment. Yeah, go see y/n. He half expected you to slam the door right in his face.

           “Alright,” he begrudgingly agreed. “But don’t fuck this up or it’ll be on my ass, ya hear me?”

           He bought you a bottle of white wine. He knew it was your favorite because the one work outing you agreed to go to with him you’d ordered a pinot grigio. As he drove, Hank reflected on that night. Gavin had been all over his ass that night, eyeing up his arm candy – clearly surprised that you’d showed up with him. To your defense, he’d practically begged you to go. Everyone else showed up with someone on their arm and he was always the first to leave, the least interested in the social gathering aspect of maintaining a career. It was one of the few nights he actually didn’t hate existing.

           Four raps on the door, he paused and shuffled from one foot to the other. Glancing back at his car in your driveway, Hank strongly considered going home to see Sumo, getting some rest.

           Yet he knocked again – giving it one more chance. Damn it, he would never drink the wine. Maybe he should just leave it…

           The door opened as the thought crossed his mind and Hank suddenly felt entirely uncomfortable.

           You stood in the doorway, tiny black shorts on, a tank top…looking completely forlorn.

           “Hey…” he spoke cautiously, scratching the back of his neck.

           “Come in,” you quietly offered, stepping aside.

           Hank noted the empty wine glass on the coffee table, the TV on, box of tissues beside an empty wine bottle.

           “I…brought you another,” he handed the wine to you. “I’m sorry about the job.”

           Sadness and then anger crossed your face but you took the bottle into the kitchen. Hank slowly followed you, careful to not say the wrong thing.

           “I thought I had it, Hank,” you sighed as you grabbed a whiskey glass for him. Your hands fumbled for a bottle.

           “I know, y/n. I know. Me too.”

           You sigh, completely defeated as you poured him a hefty glass of whiskey. Hank came up from behind you and you hadn’t even realized he’d gone to fetch your empty wine glass from the living room. He knew where your wine opener was, had been over a time or two before to drink away your sorrows together. Some days were just too rough.

           You turned to him as he opened your wine and your heart swelled in your chest. Quietly, Hank poured your wine and pushed the glass closer to you. The look he gave you made you want to curl up in his lap: the pitiful eyes, the sad expression.

           Your arms wrapped around him before you even registered the thought. Hank stilled at your touch, clearly surprised. He tentatively eased his arms around you, placing his lips to the top of your head.

           “I still can’t believe after all this time they didn’t pick me…It hurts,” you sobbed, letting the emotion fall from you in waves. “They dicked me, Hank.”

           You felt him nod against the top of your head, running his hands up and down the length of your back.

           “They’re fuckin’ idiots. They’ll be sorry.”

           Your hands balled into fists against the back of his shirt and you felt so frustrated with yourself for crying in front of him. Your coworkers had made it seem like you’d had the job – like it was a given – you’d worked there for seven months, put in your best effort, and now here you were with nothing to show for it.

           You pulled away as quickly as you’d latched onto him. It was embarrassing to have him see you like this.

           “I’m surprised you’re here, Hank, I know how much you like to go home after work.” You tried to change the subject.

           Hank nodded as he picked up the whiskey you poured him and followed you into the living room.

           “Actually, Connor kinda…uh…suggested I come.” Hank stumbled over his words. You couldn’t help but smirk at that. Of course he did. Who else could push Hank in such a way? “Besides, I took my lunch break at home so I could take care of Sumo.”

           The two of you settled on the couch, mindlessly flipping through channels until something caught your eye. Honestly, you wanted to get your mind off the day but it kept drifting back to the betrayal you felt. You’d given your heart and soul to this job in hopes that it would produce something for you and instead when it came down to the final interview: you and someone else, they chose someone else.

           A sigh left your lips and you noticed Hank glance your way, mouth a hard line. Your eyes looked hollow he noticed and he took a long gulp of his whiskey, trying to burn away the nervousness he felt around you.

           Soon your wine glass was almost empty and Hank started to stand up to get the bottle but your hands pulled him back down.

           “Y/n, what-”

           You buried your head in his shoulder and snuggled up to him unabashedly. Hank stilled, breath caught in his throat. The wonderful warmth he offered was such a comfort to you and you placed your hand on the center of his chest, closing your eyes.

           Slowly, he moved his arm above you on the couch to make it more comfortable for the both of you. He hummed softly and the rumble of his chest made you blush.

           “Tell me about your day,” you suggested.

           Hank paused, realizing that you were just trying to distract yourself.

           He chuckled. “Not much to tell. Connor being annoying as shit, putting shit in his mouth. Greasy lunch. A homicide. Same old.”

           You laughed quietly at that, imagining the comical scene of Hank rushing over to scold the android for tasting things at the crime scene, as you’d heard happened frequently.

           “Still not used to it?” you asked, absentmindedly playing with his shirt.

           Hank grumbled. “Nope. Never will be. Weird fucker…”

           Another laugh sounded and Hank was thrilled that he could bring joy into this day for you. Feeling you pressed against his body made him very aware of how right this felt, but he said nothing.

           “Thanks for staying with me, Hank. I’m glad I’m not alone tonight.”

           “Me too.”

           You quietly considered your options: stay there or pull away. Being wrapped in his arms was the best form of comfort you’d found all day: beyond the wine and the few others friends you contacted there was something about Hank’s being that made things a little less gloomy.

           You decided to stay like that a little longer, until Hank couldn’t take it anymore. When his fingers started tracing circles on your arm, you began to wonder if this was comfortable to him too.

           And then you glanced up at him from under your eyelashes. At your movement, he broke gaze from the TV to look at you.

           It felt like it happened in slow-motion. One second you were admiring how handsome he was and the next you had your mouth pressed to his.

           He let out a surprised noise before easing into the kiss, pulling you in closer to him. He tasted like whiskey and it was an interesting mix with the wine taste on your tongue. You craved the distraction, was grateful for him for so many things in your odd friendship. The crush had been there for a while now – festering – waiting until the right moment. Apparently the right moment was the night you lost a potential job…

           “I’m sorry,” you found yourself saying between kisses. “I shouldn’t have-”

           “Oh, no, sweetheart,” he chuckled. “You’ve no idea how long I’ve been thinkin’ ‘bout that…”

           You felt heat rush to your cheeks. “R-really?”

           Hank nodded slowly, looking bashful for a few seconds.

           “Look, I feed you wine and you’re all over me!” he joked. At his comment, you pushed his shoulder in humored frustration.

           “I’ll show you ‘all over’!” you called as you pulled yourself up into a straddling position on his lap.

           Hank looked dumbfounded by the turn of events and you noticed the pinkness to his cheeks intensify. As much as he’d like to act confident you were sure his heart was hammering in his chest – you knew him too well to expect anything less from him.

           “You better watch it, y/n…” he groaned, taking in the look of you on his lap like this. You swore he was trying to pull his hips back. Your mind wandered…

           “Or what?” you said lowly, giving him a fiery look.

           “Don’t tempt me, woman…” he dropped his voice low too and you shivered at the sound.

           “But, Hank, I wanna!” you fake pouted.

           Hank leaned in and kissed you deeply, placing a hand behind your head.

           An alarm went off and you jumped at the sound, pulling away with a gasp.

           “Shit…” Hank grumbled as he fished in his pocket for his phone. His eyes squinted when he looked at the bright phone. “Aw, great…Sumo.”

           “Everything okay?”

           “Yeah…Connor put an alarm on this stupid thing so I know when to feed Sumo.”

           “Oh…” your voice trailed off at the thought of him leaving soon. It was probably getting late.

           Hank tossed his phone to the couch and pulled you into him again, kissing you deeper than he’d done all night. You felt the need, the heat…

           You definitely felt him hard beneath you when you pushed him down on the couch and it floored you – the perfect distraction.

           Your little make out session continued with you being straightforward, slowly unbuttoning the top few buttons of his shirt and kissing your way down his chest. Hank’s breath hitched, his mind wandering to where your mouth was headed.

           Oh, fuck…

           As you were on the final button of his shirt, your lips hovering just above the button of his jeans another alarm went off on his phone.

           “Oh, God damn it!” he cussed, fumbling for the phone which had fallen to the floor.

           You smirked against his skin, glancing up at the flustered expression on his face. Biting your lip, you smiled at him when he shot you an exasperated look.

           “Everything alright over there?”

           Hank growled at that, throwing his head back against the pillow beneath him.

           “Damn it…” he sighed, seeming to consider something. “Come over,” he blurted, instantly feeling ridiculous for doing so.

           “W-what?!”

           “I can’t leave Sumo alone. Just…come over,” he bit his lower lip as he looked at you. “Please.”

           It took you no time to agree.

           What a perfect distraction.

[taiyang-too-long]

A man and his Qrow

Taiyang had always loved the smell of fire, something about it comforted him. Perhaps it reminded him of all those nights camped out on missions with his team, sharing laughs and stories under the stars. He snuggled into his pillow with a slight smile. What a wonderful smell to wake up to. Fire.

...fire?

He snapped up out of bed "Fire!" He cried out, sprinting towards the black smoke he could already see pouring into the hallway.

Had he left the stove on? The coffee pot? Oh gods he couldn't let anything happen to the girls.

He burst into the kitchen, extinguisher in hand finding not the raging inferno he expected but instead a lanky, dark haired man desperately smacking a flaming skillet with a towel in what could be assumed to be an attempt to smother the flames out. Taiyang sighed deeply as he grabbed a second skillet and covered the first with it, before switching off the stove.

The bleating of the smoke alarm wasn't the peaceful morning sounds he had hoped for. He opened the nearby window, letting the breeze clear the room of smoke and carry it outside. He turned back to the man, arms crossed.

"I can explain" Qrow began.

"Oh I'm sure you can.." Taiyang said rubbing his temples. "Please go right ahead"

Qrow paused. Then gestured to the skillet.

"Breakfast" he said.

Taiyang sighed and lifted the second skillet. The fire had suffocated leaving only a black circle that perhaps had once be a pancake. He gave Qrow a questioning glance.

"What?!" Qrow exclaimed indignantly "it's edible!"

"Oh?" Taiyang shot back "then by all means ...dig in"

They held each other's gaze for a moment until Qrow, not looking away, tore a piece off and popped it into his mouth. He grimaced immediately but struggled through and chewed the food.

"See?" He said between coughs "it's -ulg - it's fine.."

Taiyang put a finger to Qrow's chest agitation creeping into his voice

"You've been here all of five minutes and already trying to burn down my house!"

"I was just doing something nice you idiot!" Qrow snarled not backing down.

"Well next time don't bother!" Taiyang retorted

"Blonde numbskull!"

"Melodramatic whiner!"

"Brainless oaf!"

"Dusty pigeon!"

With each statement the men drew closer to one another until they stood forehead to forehead growling. Their expressions dark and angry.

Taiyang was the first to break. his snort shattered he mask of anger he had been pretending to hold. Qrow was soon to follow with a snicker. The laughter grew until both were leaning against the counter to hold themselves up. It was hard to say at what point exactly in there time together, was the moment those jabs and insults became more a game than any legitimate criticism but nonetheless they found themselves slipping into it time and again.

"You laughed first" Qrow managed to get out "I win"

"Anyone would have to laugh if they saw a face like yours" Taiyang said getting himself back under control.

Their laughter faded but was echoed by the small giggles of Ruby and Yang who were peaking around the doorway. The two girls only nine and seven respectively may not have entirely understood the exchange between the men but they had seen it play out like this enough times to know it was just grown-ups being silly.

"Hey you munchkins" Qrow said dropping to a knee, his arms outstretched.

"Uncle Qrow!" The girls cried in unison leaping into his embrace.

Qrow smiled holding his nieces,as they hurriedly babbled questions about where he'd been? What kinds of monsters did he fight? Did he bring them any presents? Qrows characteristic broody expression softened as it always did around the girls. They had a warmth and enthusiasm whenever they saw their favorite uncle that could melt even the most frozen of hearts, but Taiyang noticed the wince he had made as the girls latched in around his shoulders.

"Alright girls" Taiyang said a hand on each of their heads. "Why don't you get dressed and then we can all go to the park or something"

The girls jubilantly ran off, screams and cheers of excitement filled the house as they did. Taiyang watched them go with a soft smile. They were his everything. He looked back as Qrow rose to his feet with a grimace,

"How bad?" Taiyang asked bluntly

"I'm fine" Qrow said waving him off.

Taiyang sighed and motioned for Qrow to follow as he walked into the bathroom. He retrieved the first aid kit from within the closet there in and set it on the sink.

"Sit down and take off your shirt" Taiyang said spreading out the kits contents in front of him.

"But Tai.." Qrow said quietly. Covering himself with his arms in mock modesty "..what about my innocence..?"

This prompted nothing but a stern slightly bored stare from Taiyang. Qrow grumbled and unbuttoned his shirt, tossing it into the bathtub and sat on the toilet his back to Taiyang.

His shirt out the way. The problem was apparent. A sizable gash in Qrows right shoulder. Taiyang put his hand on Qrows back, taking a good look at the wound. It wasn't serious but it was too large to let it heal on its own. It looked about a day or two old. Taiyang sighed. This is how it always went. Qrow would leave on his missions and come back torn to shreds, Tai would patch him up and he'd run off to his next adventure. Taiyang felt a scowl grow on his face, damn bird just always had to make him worry.

His eyes caught sight of the flask in Qrows hand just moments before the man took a swig. Swallowing it's contents with practiced ease.

"A bit early for drinking isn't it?" Taiyang said

"Oh my dear friend" Qrow laughed taking another gulp " it is never too early"

Taiyang held out his hand. "Mind if i have some?"

Qrow held the flask above his head letting Taiyang take it. "Knock yourself out"

"Vodka?" Taiyang asked taking a whiff of the open flask.

"You guessed it. triple distilled and pure as snow. perfect for-" Qrows words were cut off by a stream of curses as Taiyang poured the alcohol onto the open cut and wiped away the excess with a bit of cloth.

Tai closed the lid to the flask and tossed onto the mans lap a grin played across his face. Qrows drinking was hardly something new, and Tai new better than to push him too hard about it. Still at least he could put some of the booze to good use and keep it out Qrow's stomach. His drinking had gotten worse over the years and had peaked after-

Taiyang stopped himself mid thought. He couldn't think about that, about her. Not right now. Only later, when he could be alone in his cold empty room would he allow thoughts of her. He had worked hard to reign in his grief. To properly care for his daughters. It hadn't been easy but compartmentalization of his emotions had helped. His feelings had a time and place and they were when his daughters could not hear or see the pain he still felt.

"You know as much as i love playing doctor" Tai said threading a needle, eager to bring his mind back to the now. "A hospital could do a much better job"

"A hospital?" Qrow scoffed finishing the contents of the flask. "The last thing a bunch of sick people on their deathbeds need is someone bringing them bad luck...besides you do just fine.."

Tai sighed, knowing he wasn't going to get anywhere with this topic. He focused on his task. Qrow didn't even wince as the needle poked through his skin. It's hard to say whether that was a result of his inebriation or his impressive pain tolerance, but he remained still and quiet as Taiyang worked to pull the flesh of his shoulder back together.

His first aid skills had certainly improved thanks to Qrow. The mans piss poor luck usually left him with plenty of cuts and scrapes. As Tai cleaned off the newly stitched wound once more he looked it over. Feeling a bit proud of his medical prowess. Gently he placed some bandaging over the stitching hopefully to keep infection at bay.

'There, all better" Tai said heading out of the bathroom

"What no lollipop?" Qrow called after him

"Your insurance wont cover it"

After heading to his room to change into something a bit more appropriate for an outdoor outing than his pajamas, Taiyang returned to the kitchen to find Qrow leaning against the wall. mug in hand, looking out the window at Ruby and Yang running around the backyard laughing loudly as the game of tag went on. No doubt waiting for the adults to come whisk them away to the day of family fun.

Qrow didn't need to turn away to know that Tai had entered the room. He brought the mug of coffee to his lips and took a long drink, knowing he needed to sober up a bit before spending time with the girls.

"How have you been holding up..?" Qrow asked not looking away from the window

Tai didn't answer right away as he walked to the window alongside him. Qrow held out his mug and Tai took it gladly, the warm porcelain nearly as comforting as the bitter drink it held. He sipped the coffee silently glad to find it not spiked with anything.

In the months since Summers death, Qrow had at first attempted to put as much distance between his teammates family and himself as he could, sure that his semblances would bring nothing but further misery to the grieving man and his children. However as the depth of Taiyangs emotional damage became more apparent Qrow had made a point to drop by frequently.

"Better.." Tai said quietly.

He glanced over at the tall, thin man. Even when not looking directly at him, he could see the mostly hidden concern in his pale red eyes. It brought a sad smile to his face. Qrow was never very good with emotions. A trait, it seemed, all the Branwens shared, but his actions spoke volumes. He had been there for Tai when he had no one. When he felt lost and alone it had been Qrow who saved him from the darkness that encroached upon his mind and heart.

Qrow nodded. " good"

There was a long bit of silence before Qrow spoke again. Leaning over the windowsill using both hands to prop himself up.

'I.. should probably head out after we get back from the park or whatever" he said.

Qrow was already worried. Nothing besides the small fire had happened yet but who knows what trouble could be caused if he lingered too long.

"You could always stay.." Tai said softly

Qrow sighed, taking one hand away from the window to rub his weary eyes. Before he could explain why that was a terrible idea he felt Taiyangs hand lay overtop his own on the windowsill. Surprised the bird man look down as the hand tightened its grasp gently. Tai wasn't looking at qrow, his eyes were on his daughters, still playing in the yard.

"Its alot easier when you are here" Tai said with a soft smile. " i understand why you want to go..but this is always your home..so.. Don't stay gone too long."

Qrow scoffed as he turned his hand over interlocking their fingers. Stupid blonde idiot, stupid adorable girls. It was going to make him go soft.

"Come on" Qrow said "we can talk about it after the girls get some fresh air and sunshine"

[salaciouscrumpet]

Whumptober Day 21

Whumptober Day 21 Prompt: “Laced Drink”

So, uh, this one ... kinda got away from me a little? By which I mean it’s over ten pages long, and I didn’t quite know how to end it. I had fun writing it, though, and sharing some more of the worldbuilding I’ve been doing for my series.

CW: Offensive language

Characters: Charlie, Luke, Kate, miscellaneous others 

“What do you mean, you lost her?” Charlie hopped around on one foot, trying to wriggle his way into his jeans, his phone cradled between his ear and his shoulder. “She’s in a fucking Camaro, it’s not exactly subtle!” 

Devon’s voice on the other end of the line was frustrated and bordering on angry, and Charlie immediately regretted snapping at her like that. He wasn’t angry with her, just the situation. Beside him Luke struggled with a pair of pants before realizing they were Charlie’s and therefore wouldn’t fit, and with a huff of annoyance he threw them across the room and stormed off in search of his own clothes. They had undressed in something of a hurry and their bedroom was a disaster. If they’d known there was going to be an emergency call from Devon they would’ve taken more care with their things. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Charlie said quickly, before Devon could – rightfully so – get offended with him. “I’m just … Do we know how long it takes to metabolize?” 

“He didn’t say,” Devon replied, and it was clear that she was every bit as worried as Charlie. Charlie heard some muffled talking in the background, a man’s voice raised high and whiny, but he couldn’t make out what was being said. He assumed Devon and the others were still questioning their suspect. He wished he was there to do it himself. “I don’t think he knows. He was just the delivery man.” 

“Come on.” Luke’s hand latched around Charlie’s arm, hauling him out of the bedroom. Charlie let himself be led, even as he finished zipping up and snagged a T-shirt off the mirror by the door. The shirt was Kate’s, which meant it was both too short and too tight – it also had a picture of Princess Leia in the Rosie the Riveter pose on the front, with the caption “We Can Do It!” in big bold letters – but he couldn’t be bothered trying to find something else to wear. Nobody was going to be critiquing his fashion choices while he was out frantically trying to find his potentially sick and dying best friend. 

Luke and Charlie thundered downstairs and out the front door, leaving Bear in charge of the farmhouse. (Charlie couldn’t even remember if either of them locked the door, and honestly he didn’t care – let Bear eat anyone who tried to come inside uninvited, he and Luke had better things to worry about.) Luke had had the foresight to grab his keys, so it was to Luke’s truck that they raced, Charlie still trying to pull on his sneakers and Luke pulling a T-shirt – inside out and backwards – on over his head. 

“Do we have any idea where we’re going?” Luke asked, even as he started the truck and began backing out of the driveway. Gravel crunched under the truck’s wheels, loud against the otherwise quiet night. It had been a perfectly lovely evening: starlit, maybe a little on the chill side (perfect for cuddling, which Charlie had been happy to do right up until the moment Luke started whispering filthy suggestions into his ear), with only the crickets for company. Kate had gone out to play pool with some friends down at the Crablouse, and Luke and Charlie had had the house to themselves. Everything had been going swimmingly and Charlie was well on his way to getting laid when Devon had called to say that someone had dosed Kate with something and that she’d left the bar in a hurry, and now they had no idea where she was or even what was happening to her. 

She couldn’t have been feeling any ill effects when she’d left, or at least not anything that would have impaired her driving abilities. Kate had a fairly intense dislike of anyone who drank or got high and then drove; there was zero chance that if she was intoxicated, she would have hopped into her car and taken off. Devon had said that Kate claimed to be feeling restless and that she’d been irritable before she’d left, and while those emotions didn’t exactly make for the most cautious of drivers – and Kate wasn’t what anyone would call careful to begin with – it wasn’t the same as being drunk. But they had no idea what she’d be given or how it would affect her, only that the person who’d given it to her, by way of a laced drink, had intended for it to be debilitating. 

The truck peeled out of the driveway, dirt and gravel flying. Of the three of them Luke was normally the most cautious driver, but now he drove like the supernaturally-enhanced super-soldier he was, heightened senses and reflexes utterly focused on getting to Kate – wherever she was – as quickly as possible. 

Charlie was just about to admit he had no idea where to begin the search when his cellphone rang, the ringtone immediately identifying the caller. 

“Katie?” he said, as soon as he had the phone to his mouth. 

There was silence on the other end – well, not silence exactly, but no one spoke. Instead, Charlie could hear music playing in the background, Savage Garden crooning about how truly, madly, deeply they were in love. That had to be coming from the radio of Kate’s car, because Kate was utterly unapologetic when it came to her appreciation of cheesy music from the ‘80s and ‘90s. Kate didn’t believe in guilty pleasures; she liked what she liked, and if other people didn’t agree with her, they could go fuck themselves. (Her words, not Charlie’s.) She had a particular love of boy bands: Backstreet Boys, New Kids on the Block, NSYNC, Take That, you name it. 

“Kate?” 

A rustle, and then: “Charlie? What’s goin’ on?” Kate’s voice was slurred and too bright, with a note of surprise that didn’t make any sense, given that she was the one who had called him. Still, the surge of relief he felt at hearing from her was nearly enough to bowl him over. 

It’s her, he mouthed at Luke, before saying, “You called me, Katie. Where are you?” 

“I did? Are you sure?” Kate giggled, a strange, high-pitched sound completely unlike her normal laughter, and then started singing along to the radio. By now the song had moved on to Madonna, but instead of singing along to Express Yourself Kate was singing – off-key and slightly out of tempo – the lyrics to Lady Gaga’s Born This Way, and while Charlie had to admit the two songs were similar it was definitely Madonna he could hear playing over the radio and he knew for damn sure that Kate knew the difference. 

“Kate, focus,” Charlie said, while Luke gripped the steering wheel and swore under his breath. “Can you tell me where you are? Are you still in your car?” 

Silence again, and then – 

Retching? 

Charlie listened, phone clutched tightly enough that he swore he could hear the case crack, as Kate coughed and retched on the other end. In the background Madonna was still singing, but the sounds of Kate being sick drowned out the Material Girl almost entirely. The last time Charlie had heard anyone vomit that much it was when one of the new Alliance recruits ate a package of expired hotdogs on a dare, and that had been like watching the head-spinning scene from The Exorcist. 

One thing, though: if Kate was throwing up, she couldn’t be driving, could she? Charlie couldn’t imagine how anyone could drive while puking, especially not if they were vomiting as violently and frequently as Kate seemed to be doing. So that was a good thing, right? That she had probably pulled over somewhere, and wasn’t driving around out of her mind, god knows where? And she was clearly near the car, since he could still hear the radio, which meant she hadn’t gone off into the woods somewhere. If Kate had wandered away on foot there was very little hope of finding her, but her car – a very recognizable old Camaro she referred to as ‘asshole tax’ – pulled off to the side of the road somewhere would give them something to look for. 

“Hurts, Charlie,” Kate mumbled into the phone, and Charlie’s heart lurched. 

“What hurts, Katie-Kate?” he asked carefully, wincing when Luke shot him a panicked look and nearly drove them off the road. Luke quickly corrected the truck but Charlie was keenly aware that his boyfriend wasn’t paying nearly enough attention to his driving. “Where are you, sweetie?” 

“There’s a … a tree?” Kate sounded uncertain, but it didn’t much matter: they lived in rural Ontario, there were a lot of trees everywhere. He was about to say as much – gently – but Kate continued, haltingly, “My head, Charlie, it feels like somethin’s trynna claw its way out …” 

Charlie chewed on his lip and tried really, really hard not to consider the fact that in their line of work, Kate’s statement could in fact be literal. He didn’t know what she’d been dosed with, but he could think of several nasty monsters that had some way of making themselves or their offspring small enough to climb inside a woman’s body and eat its way through to her brain. And he could think of dozens of other things that could simply feel like that – and none of them were good. Add in the vomiting and her earlier euphoric behaviour – plus the irritability and restlessness Devon had described – and the list of things that could be wrong with Kate grew exponentially. 

Luke suddenly started thrusting his own phone in Charlie’s face, once again swerving dangerously as he did so. Charlie took the phone from him, giving him an incredulous look when he realized the damn thing wasn’t ringing or otherwise trying to get their attention, so what the hell was he trying to do? 

“Find my phone!” Luke said excitedly, gesturing towards the cellphone in Charlie’s hand with one elbow. Before Charlie could point out that his phone was in his freaking hand Luke clarified, “The app, Charlie! The app! Kate’s phone is connected, you can find it on the Find My Phone app!” 

And since Kate was using her phone, presumably they could find her, too. 

“You’re brilliant, babe,” Charlie said, and managed to keep himself from adding Now pay attention to the damn road before you get us both killed. Keeping his own cellphone tucked in against his ear so that he could continue talking to Kate, he activated Luke’s phone and keyed in the PIN, thumbing the Find My Phone app on. He remembered one of his colleagues complaining about an ex-boyfriend who tried using the app to stalk her – he had installed it without her permission – and saying that she thought it was creepy that he, Luke and Kate all had their phones connected through it, but this was more or less exactly the kind of scenario that had inspired them to do so. Not that he was about to tell Kristie that the three of them had the app on their phones in case unknown enemies decided to mess with them; there were some things the receptionist at the vet clinic didn’t need to know about his life, chief among them being I’m a witch with healing powers who belongs to a super-secret organization of supernatural creatures and we all fight monsters together. Let Kristie think he was just overprotective about his partners; she wouldn’t be wrong. 

Just as he saw Kate’s phone come up – and to his immense relief he saw that she wasn’t far; she must have been on her way home – he heard a sudden commotion from her end of the line. He couldn’t quite tell what was happening, but Kate made an unhappy noise and then there was the unmistakable sound of flesh impacting against flesh. Kate cried out and the car horn let out a short beep that was loud enough for Luke to hear. 

“What’s happening?” Luke demanded, and something buckled in the steering wheel where his fingers were clenching too tightly. 

“I don’t know,” Charlie admitted before frantically shouting into the phone, “Kate? Katie? What’s going on? Are you okay?” 

There were muffled voices in the background, a man saying “Give me that!” followed by Kate letting out another pained sound. She had to be out of it if Kate was the only one who sounded like she was getting hurt. 

“Hurry up,” Charlie said urgently, trying to will the truck to suddenly develop nitrous oxide or nitrogen or whatever it was that street racers in the movies used to make their cars go extra fast. For all that Luke had been distracted and reckless it was a good thing he was the one driving, because of the two of them he was the one who stood a better chance of getting them to Kate quickly and safely. That, and it was Luke’s truck, and he knew it better than any of them. 

The sounds of violence increased, making Charlie wish that he could reach through the phone and obliterate whoever was after Kate. He also wished, rather frantically, that he could actually see what was happening, because all he could tell was that there was some kind of fight going on and Kate – already suffering the ill effects of whatever her drink had been laced with – appeared to be on the losing end of things. 

Then, the man’s voice again, this time much closer-sounding: “Give me that, you fucking bitch!” and the call disconnected. Charlie stared at his phone in horror as he heard Luke let loose a string of curses in a mixture of English and Armenian. Charlie was grateful that from his angle he couldn’t actually see the speedometer on the dashboard, because he was fairly confident the truck was going far faster than he would be comfortable with, and yet he still wanted it to go faster, dammit. All he could hear was the anger in that man’s voice and the faint sounds of pain Kate had been making, and if they didn’t get there soon – 

Sirens in the distance. 

Charlie instinctively looked in the rearview mirror, but there weren’t any emergency vehicles behind them – not that he could blame the police from targeting their racing truck. He could definitely hear sirens, however, and they were coming from the direction they were already headed in. He didn’t know whether to scream, laugh or cry – would the involvement of regular mundane authorities help Kate in any way, or was it just going to lead to a bunch of humans getting killed by whoever had targeted her? 

Luke’s cellphone started ringing, startling Charlie so badly he nearly dropped it. For a moment he was tempted to ignore it – unless it was Kate, he didn’t want to talk to them – until he saw the name and number flashing across the screen. 

“It’s Ben,” he said. Ben Ainsley was one of Luke’s oldest friends; the two of them had grown up in the Knights of Oberon together. Ben was still a part of the Order but was one of the few Knights who remained on good terms with Luke, even after Luke was removed from the Order. It was unusual enough for Ben to call Luke out of the blue; the fact that he was doing so just as Kate was in danger couldn’t possibly be a coincidence. 

“Answer it!” Luke hissed, just as the truck rounded the corner. 

Up ahead Charlie could see the flashing red and blue lights of emergency vehicles, as well as what looked to be a police officer setting up one of those emergency orange barricades to block the road off. There were two cop cars, both with lights flashing, a couple of SUVs, and a fifth vehicle, a dark truck of some sort. All five vehicles were empty, although one of the SUVs and the truck both had all their doors wide open. 

As soon as the call connected Charlie could hear Ben’s voice, talking to someone in the background. Then, before Charlie had a chance to even say hello, Ben was speaking. “Looking for someone?” 

“Oh thank god, you found her,” Charlie said, almost dropping the phone in his lap in his relief. His hands were shaking, and beside him Luke loosened his tight grip on the steering wheel, guiding the truck towards the police barricade. As they got closer Charlie could see men and a couple of women in uniform milling around, all of them standing near the barricade, and further up ahead he saw a familiar black car gone head-first into the ditch. His panic dropped a few ticks as he said into the phone, “Is she all right?” 

Luke pulled his truck right up to the barricade and two of the police officers rushed forward, clearly intending to order him to turn around and leave until a tall, broad-shouldered man with a cellphone held up to one ear came and interrupted them. Charlie immediately recognized Ben, who – nearly as tall as Luke and just as well-muscled – would have stood out almost anywhere.

Seeing them, Ben lowered his cellphone and waved the officers off, hurrying over to the driver-side door of Luke’s truck. Charlie watched the cops warily, not quite knowing what to make of their presence. The Alliance only had a few loose connections to mundane authorities, mostly through people like Ardyn and Rishaan, who had jobs connected to law enforcement. The Knights of Oberon, on the other hand, often took great pains to ensure they had solid ties throughout the regular human community, either by having their own members join – politics was a favourite, which was where Luke’s parents had envisioned him going – or by befriending (or blackmailing) mundane humans with the right connections. If the police were here, now, blocking off the road and turning back travelers, it seemed likely they were working with the Knights – which meant the Knights were somehow involved in whatever had happened to Kate. 

Charlie didn’t want to jump to conclusions, but the knowledge that Luke’s parents would have been happy to arrange for Kate to be incarcerated on trumped-up charges or otherwise excised from their son’s life made it easy for those conclusions to be reached. If that were the case, however, he didn’t think Ben would be a part of it. Ben was a loyal Knight, but there were some lines he wasn’t willing to cross, as his friendship with Luke attested. 

Ben waited for Luke to open the door, then immediately started talking, cellphone shoved in his jeans pocket. “She’s sick and a bit roughed up, but we’ve got someone taking a look at her.” His eyes darted in Charlie’s direction as he added, “You’re more than welcome to tag in if you want.” 

It was tempting, but Charlie knew whoever the Knights had brought along would be just as good at healing magic as he was, if not better. It was far more common for the Knights of Oberon to have Fae-blooded members – witches like Charlie – because of their centuries-long alliance with the Seelie Court. Only witches could be charmers – magical healers – which meant there were far more healers allied with the Knights than with the Alliance, who tended to have more sorcerers, fomoir and other supernatural creatures. The Alliance was more diverse, but the Knights of Oberon had more specialists. 

“We just want to see her,” Charlie said as he hopped out of the vehicle and followed Ben and Luke past the orange-painted roadblocks. “What happened?” 

“Why are you here?” Luke asked, and while he didn’t sound suspicious, exactly, there was a certain note of wariness in his voice. He trusted Ben, who he’d known for close to three decades, but he didn’t necessarily trust the other Knights; it was likely he had also come to the same conclusions Charlie had, regarding his parents and their potential involvement. 

But Ben’s words put those suspicions to rest immediately when he explained, while escorting Charlie and Luke past the police, that the Knights had been following a self-professed “demon hunter” who had been using a homemade concoction against people he believed were demon-blooded. In most cases the only ill effects were that his targets got a little drunker than they expected; he had been mixing in large doses of fairy blood, along with some substances the Knights’ hadn’t yet discerned, and the blood of the Fae had a tendency to get people high, especially when combined with other intoxicants like alcohol or illegal drugs. (There was a healthy black market trade on Fae blood and similar supernatural drugs.) In some cases, however, the would-be hunter had gotten lucky and chosen a target who actually was demon-blooded, and the unknown substances in his concoction reacted with the sorcerer’s or fomoir’s blood in such a way as to leave them severely ill and weakened – and in the worst cases, led to their deaths. 

“Why didn’t the Knights let the Alliance know our people were in danger?” Luke asked, his hands clenching and unclenching into fists. He looked at Ben, a hurt expression on his face. “Why didn’t you let me know Kate was in danger?” 

Ben raised his hands in a gesture of surrender, his own expression one of sympathy and regret. “I know, man, I know. I’m sorry, I just got put on this today.” He looked around cautiously and lowered his voice so that both Charlie and Luke had to lean in to hear him as he added, “You know what the Elders are like. It wasn’t gonna hurt any of our people, so they didn’t see any point in reaching out. If I’d known sooner, man – Luke, Charlie, you know I would’ve told you the second I realized Katie might be targeted.” 

It was always strange for Charlie to hear anyone who wasn’t himself, Luke, or Kate’s mother refer to Kate as “Katie,” but Ben was probably one of the few other people on the planet who could get away with it. Although he and Kate hadn’t liked each other initially, Ben had been the one to let Kate know the Knights had written Luke off back when he’d been abducted by the Scions of the Unforgiven, and he’d given her and the Alliance the intel they’d needed in order to rescue Luke. Kate had introduced Ben to Charlie as “the only Knight who isn’t an asshole,” and that introduction had stuck. 

As Ben led them through the cluster of people – more people, in fact, than Charlie had initially realized, and that told him just how seriously the Knights were taking this situation – they finally reached Kate’s battered old Camaro. The engine was still running and the lights were on, and Charlie could hear faint music playing over the radio, something poppy and uplifting with a good beat. Beyond Kate’s car there was an ambulance, its lights flashing, and a pair of paramedics were standing over a collapsible gurney – and on the gurney, finally, was Kate. 

Charlie’s heart leaped in his chest at the sight of her. She looked rough – she was, in fact, barely conscious, and the lower half of her too-pale face was covered in blood – but she was alive. One of the paramedics, an older woman with greying hair pulled back in a braid, had her hands on Kate’s abdomen, feeding brilliant gold magic into her. Charlie didn’t recognize the woman but he could sense that she was using healing magic, and it made sense: a lot of witches tended to fall into professions that would enable them to use their magic to help others. Just as Charlie had become a veterinarian, it looked like this woman had chosen to become a paramedic. He knew other witches who worked in home security, enhancing security systems with warding magic, or horticulture where they could use their magic to encourage plants to grow, all things in a similar vein. Sorcerers – the demon-blooded counterpart to Fae-blooded witches – tended not to follow the same pattern, but as their magic fell to the more destructive side that was probably for the best. 

“Katie,” Luke breathed, coming to stand beside Kate’s gurney, looking like his knees were about to give way beneath him. Charlie knew exactly how that felt, because he was feeling much the same way. Luke turned to the charmer, a pleading expression on his face. “She’s gonna be okay?” 

The woman gave a tight nod, her fingers moving in a graceful pattern over Kate, the golden glow dripping off her fingertips like sunlight. As Charlie watched some of the bruising on Kate’s face disappeared and she seemed to settle back against the gurney, the tight lines of pain around her eyes and mouth fading a bit. Luke tried to keep out of the way so as not to interfere with the paramedic’s work, but the woman gave him a little jerk of her chin, indicating he could move to the head of the gurney. He immediately did so, running one hand through the sweat-dampened curls over Kate’s forehead. Charlie held back, letting Luke have the space he needed; he, at least, could see through his magic that Kate was going to be all right, whereas Luke had only the paramedic’s assurances. Charlie promised himself time to fuss and mother-hen Kate once they had her back at home, to make up for his inability to do so now. 

“If it’s all right with you guys,” Ben said, making an apologetic face, “We’d like to get some samples of Kate’s blood. Normally I’d ask her for her permission, but …” He gestured vaguely in Kate’s direction, his meaning obvious: she was barely conscious, pale eyes glassy and vague, and there was no way she could be considered capable of giving any sort of meaningful consent. 

“Why?” Luke asked, immediately suspicious. 

Charlie already knew the answer, however. “They want to study the drug used on her.” He set one hand on Luke’s wrist, giving it a gentle, reassuring squeeze. “Her blood will give them a better idea of how the drug worked, why the Fae mixture affected her the way it did – and maybe help them try to find an antidote?” The paramedic nodded, barely even glancing at them as she continued her work. 

“Exactly,” Ben said, shooting Charlie a grateful look. 

“Yeah?” Luke said. His hand was still on Kate’s forehead, but his eyes were fixed on Charlie’s face, trying to gauge his intent. It spoke volumes as to his mistrust of the Knighthood, that he needed Charlie to reassure him, even with Ben being the one to make the request. 

If Luke’s mistrust bothered Ben, he gave no indication, and that made Charlie think even better of him, if that was even possible. Ben knew precisely why his childhood friend would have misgivings about the Order, and he clearly felt no anger with Luke over it. The Knights of Oberon had been the ones to burn that particular bridge, not Luke or Ben. 

“Yeah,” Charlie said, squeezing Luke’s wrist again. He could have been the one to give permission for the Knights to take Kate’s blood – it wasn’t like the Knights of Oberon were the kind of organization to give a damn about legalities like whether or not Luke and Charlie had medical power of attorney or anything – but sensed that Luke needed to be the one to agree to it. 

“Yeah,” Luke echoed. He nodded slowly, turning back to Ben. “Yeah, you can do it. But.” His tone turned menacing, his expression hardening, “If I find out Kate’s blood is going to be used against her, I’ll know who to blame.” 

The other paramedic – a man, his physique similar enough to Ben and Luke that Charlie felt it was safe to say he was also a Knight of Oberon – made a sort of scandalized noise at the threat in Luke’s voice, but the woman just smirked as she continued working on Kate. Charlie suspected she had had a few unpleasant run-ins with the Knights herself, such that she would understand how justified Luke’s threat was; for all that the Seelie Court and their related members were considered allies of the Knights, unless one was actually a Knight oneself – or a member of an Incarnate family – they were still seen as lesser. Not that there were many Knights so foolish as to say such things directly to a Seelie Courtier’s face, but it was a safe bet that the paramedic had heard them before. 

“We’ll submit it anonymously,” Ben said quickly, completely unoffended. “Nobody needs to know whose blood it was, and I can make sure the incident reports about this are anonymous, too.” He fixed the male paramedic with a hard stare that cautioned the other man that his words were not a request. 

Charlie was about to ask if Ben could make sure to pass on the Knights’ findings when another man came over to join them. Like Ben, this man was one of the assembled people not wearing a uniform of some type; unlike Ben, he was barely more than average height, but just as well-built. Charlie immediately recognized him as Grant, an older Knight – by about a decade – who often worked with Ben. Grant was, according to Kate, an asshole, but not a complete asshole; he had a tendency to be a little lax with the Order’s rules and regulations, and had also been one of the few Knights who chose to stand by Luke following his exile. 

“They’re all lined up and waiting for you,” Grant said to Ben after giving Charlie and Luke a tight nod of greeting. 

“Oh, excellent,” Ben said, and the expression on his face turned purely predatory. He gave Luke a small, hard smile. “You want to come meet our wannabe demon hunters?” 

“Fuck yes,” Luke breathed out – and the look on his face gave Charlie chills. 

Apparently the other paramedic saw the same thing, because he immediately piped up. “We’re supposed to bring them in for interrogation, not murder them and drop them in the canal somewhere.” 

“No worries,” said Grant amicably. “We’ll leave enough of them to interrogate.” 

The paramedic opened his mouth to argue, then seemed to think better of it, raising his hands in a gesture of defeat before climbing up into the back of the ambulance in search of something. 

A part of Charlie wanted to go with Grant and the others to talk to the people responsible for hurting Kate, but a bigger part of him needed to stay with Kate, especially if Luke was planning to leave her side for any reason. Luke gave him a questioning look, but Charlie just nodded, the two of them swapping places so that Charlie could stand at Kate’s head while Luke headed back into the throng of emergency workers with Ben and Grant. Now that he knew where to look, Charlie could see that some more Knights – at least, he assumed they were all Knights – had a quartet of men on their knees on the ground. There were no weapons being pointed at anyone, but even at this distance Charlie could see that the men in question weren’t going to be stupid enough to try and run away, not with this many people gathered around them. 

Still, it seemed like that sense of self-preservation only went so far, because as Luke and the others approached one of the men lowered his hands – the four of them had been kneeling with their hands behind their heads – and started arguing with the Knights standing nearby. Charlie couldn’t quite make out what he was saying – and then he raised his voice. 

“We know that little bitch isn’t a real person,” he was saying, and oh, Charlie recognized that voice. That had been the voice he’d heard over the phone, the one that had been snarling at Kate before the line had gone dead. “She’s a monster walking around in human clothes, and she deserves everything we did to her.”

“Oh shit,” murmured the female paramedic. Charlie suddenly decided he rather liked her. 

Across the way Luke broke free of Ben and Grant, moving with a sudden explosion of predatory grace as he charged at the man who’d spoken. As Charlie watched, Luke hauled back one clenched fist – and let fly. 

The sound of impact was loud enough that Charlie heard it from where he stood, even with the jumble of emergency radios and Aqua singing about being a Barbie Girl in the background. Luke punched the man solidly in the face, and while it was clear to Charlie that his boyfriend had held back – clear, because the man wasn’t killed outright – it was still enough to knock him out with one blow. 

The other three would-be hunters immediately cringed away and began babbling all at once, all three of them eager to impress upon Luke – and the rest of his company – that they didn’t share their unconscious friend’s opinions of their demon-blooded target, and that honestly, this was probably all just a huge misunderstanding, please don’t let the scary man kill me. 

The male paramedic popped his head out of the back of the ambulance, eyes narrowing as he surveyed the scene in the distance. “Uh. Should we do something about that?” 

“Nope,” said his partner, not even looking up from her patient. 

Charlie grinned at her and rubbed his thumb over Kate’s cheekbone, where a large bruise was steadily growing smaller under the woman’s healing magic. Yeah, not everyone affiliated with the Knights of Oberon was a complete asshole, he decided.

[discomfort-food]

Terrible, Beautiful, Maddening (a Hegeleth fic) 2/?

Summary:

“The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear.” ― H.P. Lovecraft

The second oldest is love.

Canon-divergent at the end of Azure Moon.

Read on AO3

The Sword of the Creator pulses warm in her hands as she swings it above her head, once, twice, lashing and striking the masked mage in front of her. The crackling violet magic at his fingertips is extinguished as he slams into one of the columns adorning the throne room. He slumps to the floor, leaving a crimson streak on the cold marble.

The nightmarish creature across the room snarls, hurling a blast of screaming magic at them. “Dimitri! On your right!” She yells, but he is already dodging, rolling, and leaping back to his feet to plunge Areadbhar into the chest of another imperial soldier. The air is acrid in the wake of the blast and burns her throat. 

They cut their way closer to the hovering form once known as Edelgard. The beast’s tail lashes in frustration as yet another burning blast is dodged by Dimitri. This time, however, he is a hair slower, and the end of his cloak takes the blow, burning a crescent shape into the end of it. He swats at the smouldering blue fabric and in his distraction he doesn’t notice one of the imperial soldiers raising their axe behind him. But she does.

“Drop!” Immediately he complies and she lobs a bolt of lightning from her hands, knocking the enemy off their feet and they move no more. 

She rushes up to him, dodging magic cast from the remaining clutch of mages in the center of the room, and reaches her hand out to bring the prince back to his feet. Together they run behind the nearest pillar a few feet away. 

“Thank you, professor,” he grunts, wiping a smear of blood off his face with the back of his gloved hand. She’s been wounded herself, her left arm burns where an errant fireball grazed her, and she’s bleeding from several gashes from blades that made it past her armor. She conjures up a basic healing spell, patching their wounds with a glowing white light. Mercedes or Flayn will have to take a closer look later, but for now it does the job.

“We must finish this, Professor. The Edelgard we once knew is long gone.” She nods, but can’t help feeling like there could have been another way to avoid this twisted path of fate.

--

Byleth woke to the steady plip-plop of water in a mostly-full bucket. The best inn in town didn’t have to worry about keeping its roof leak-free when it also happened to be the only inn in town. The drips, not as frequent as the night before, signalled the downpour had decided to let up. 

She blinked the sleep out of her eyes as she visually located her sword, propped against the bedside table. An old habit drilled into her by Jeralt: “Always know where your blade is, and always keep it within arm’s reach, especially when among strangers.” At the thought of strangers, her brain registered the second body in the bed beginning to stir next to her.

“Mornin’, you,” the woman next to her whispered, ghosting her fingers over Byleth’s muscled abdomen. “How’d you sleep?” 

Byleth grunted and closed her eyes again.

The woman-- did she say her name was Odette? Odelle? It didn’t really matter, she supposed-- tried again, this time, tracing a finger up a particularly jagged scar that followed her collarbone and reached toward her heart. “How’d you get this one? Looks pretty nasty.”

Byleth huffed, rolling over and swinging her legs over the side of the bed in one fluid motion. The room had a draft, and the cool air against her bare skin chased away the last remnants of sleep clouding her mind. “I need to get going,” she intoned, running her hands through her pale hair. 

A disappointed hum came from behind her. “Yeah, I get it.” The bed shifted with the removal of weight. She could hear the sound of clothes being found and pulled back on behind her. 

Byleth massaged her forehead, contemplating the floor. “Um… Thanks.” It came out awkwardly, she had never been good at these things. She doubted it would be any less awkward if she was able to process emotions properly.

The shuffling of clothes paused for a moment, then resumed. Floorboards creaked towards the door, and the latch opened with a click.

“I hope you find what you’re looking for, mercenary.” And she was alone in the room.

--

She peers around the pillar they’re using as cover. The remaining forces between them and Edelgard have dwindled to a handful of masked mages. They circle around a single one who Byleth presumes is their commander. She can see by now most of them don’t have enough energy to cast spells at them from their distance. Their leader, however, is more difficult for her to read. She notes that he is not wearing the standard issue imperial mage uniform.

“Focus on taking out the weaker ones around the edge. I’ll engage their leader. Ready?”

Dimitri nods an affirmative. She raises her sword and darts out from behind the marble column, Dimitri following suit from the opposite direction. The mage closest to her raises his hand to release a spell, but before he can let it go, she is on top of him and he collapses. 

Now, standing so close to their leader, she can see how his dress differs from the others. Rather than the standard imperial black with red trim, his black robes are detailed in gold patterns. Looking closer, the patterns remind her of eyes staring back at her. Like a whisper of a forgotten dream, a familiar feeling that she’s seen something like this before brushes her mind.

But this is not the time nor place to ponder forgotten memories, and she is immediately dodging a purple bolt of magic from the mage’s outstretched hand. She slashes at him, but his heavy cloak takes most of the damage.

He laughs as he dashes backwards away from her, his masked face distorting his voice into a mocking tone that grates on her ears. “Oh my, it looks like her Majesty’s plan isn’t working out as well as she’d anticipated!” He laughs as another magical blast from Edelgard shrieks over his head, narrowly missing her.

“Graaaagh!” With a roar, next to her, Dimitri pulls his lance out of the last of the surrounding mages. He pulls his arm back and launches it at the retreating mage. Just before it hits its mark however, the mage snaps his fingers and Warps away mid-cackle.

--

The rain finally ceased a couple hours after leaving Belfort. Byleth was grateful; her water-resistant cloak was unfortunately not water-proof, and enough dampness had made its way underneath to make her a bit more than mildly uncomfortable. 

Around noon, the sun managed to make an appearance, and a warm breeze did its best to dry her. The fields of ruined crops sloped gently downward ahead of her, and in the distance she could see a river crossed by a wooden bridge. Upon reaching the bridge, however, she turned left and walked along a faint, narrow path that followed the winding river, as the innkeeper in Belford had directed her: “Ayuh, just follow that path there, say about three miles, an’ you’ll run into ol’ Ulag. Fair warnin’, he’s gone quite mad livin’ out there on his own since his wife passed, goddess bless her soul.”

As Byleth made her way along the path, low bushes changed to small trees, which eventually gave way to a loose grove. She could tell this path was old, but infrequently used, with the occasional rotted fencepost poking out of the ground at an angle, and overgrowth that had begun to retake what it once owned.

The first sign of human life she came upon was a wooden board nailed to a knotted tree. “No Trespasing” was carved into it in shakey gouges. She ignored it and continued on.

The next warning was a series of animal skulls impaled on rusty lances stuck in the ground. 

Finally, a lopsided stone shack came into view through the trees. She sidestepped an obvious tripwire set a few inches off the ground, a quick glance showed her it was attached to several strings of bones hanging from the surrounding trees that would make a good deal of noise if they were disturbed. She walked closer towards the building, eyes searching for the resident.

“That’s far enough, missy,” a voice croaked from behind her. Spinning around, she could not locate the source of the voice until she raised her eyes above her.

Sitting several feet up in a tree was an old man pointing a drawn bow at her. “Can ye’ not read?

Disregarding his question, she spoke, loud enough for him to hear her up in the tree. “Are you Ulag? I was told you had seen a strange creature around here a month or so ago.”

The man’s bow went slack as he peered at her. “A ‘strange creature?!’ Bah!” He hawked a glob of spit at the ground. “That’s no way to talk about a man’s wife, you know!” 

Byleth blinked. “Your wife?”

Ulag squinted at her, “Aye, my wife. You deaf as well as blind, too?” He dropped out of the tree, landing on his feet with the grace a man of his age should not have possessed. “Who are you, anyway? Did they send you to spy on me?” His posture grew slouched, and his eyes darted around, searching for some unseen threat.

“I don’t know who they are,” she monotoned. “Can you tell me about your wife?”

 At the mention of his wife, his demeanor changed again. He sat back on a log, eyes misty amd far away. “Oh, she’s just the loveliest, the sweetest girl a man could ask for. She has soft, white hair, and has always loved to dress up in that pretty gown of hers. That’s how I knew it was her, of course.” 

“You knew?”

“Well of course I did! I’d be able to recognize my own wife, wouldn’t I? Who are you to come here, asking so many questions, anyway? You’re not trying to seduce her are you?” He jumped up from the log in a frenzy, waving his bow. “Don’t test me missy! Ol’ Ulag’s still got fire in his bones yet!”

Byleth stepped back a few paces, unfazed. “I’m not seducing anyone. I’m tracking a creature that may have passed through this area several weeks ago. The innkeeper in Belfort mentioned you told him that you saw something unexplainable in the woods here, which caused me to investigate.” 

Focused again, Ulag shook his head. “The only unexplainable thing here is you insisting my wife is some sort of monster! I saw her clear as day! Well, it was night. But it was a full moon! She was there, I swear on my life!” He gestured toward a clearing in the trees where several stumps of broken trees poked out of the ground like tombstones. 

“You only saw her the once?”

“There I was, sleeping in my bed. Next thing I know, Everett over there,” he pointed over his shoulder at possibly the oldest donkey Byleth had ever seen, “he starts screaming bloody murder. Now, I figure it’s a bear, ain’t seen one in a while but sometimes they get brave. So I grab my old pot and a stick, you know just to scare it off, but when I turn the corner, there she is! I know, I know, they all say ol’ Ulag’s damn near pickled himself in drink. But so what?! I ain’t got no kids, ain’t got nobody no more. Everett here’s not the best at conversation neither.”

Byleth interrupted his rambling, trying to keep the old man on topic. “Ulag. What did you see?”

“Oh, oh right. I saw her! Veiled in moonlight, a golden halo atop her head, and wings of an angel. But she startled me so, I dropped my pot, and quick as a whip, she was gone, back into the darkness.” His voice cracked and Byleth realized he had begun to tremble. “Ever since she got sick, terribly sick, she’s been hiding from me. She’s shy, you know. But now that I saw her I know she’s watching out for me. I just wish she’d come home...” His voice trails off into a whisper.

Byleth had heard enough. “Thank you for telling me of this. Take care of yourself, Ulag.” Circling him, she moved to return the way she had come. 

“Wait,” He spoke as she passed him. “Won’t you stay for a cup of tea?”

Wordlessly, she continued walking.

--

“No! But..” Edelgard’s cry echoes through the chamber, laced with fury and frustration, her eyes searching for any sign that the mage still remains in the room, but it is in vain.

Dimitri picks up his lance from the ground and points it at her. “To be changed beyond all recognition. That is what lies at the end of the ideals you served so diligently. I have no pity for one such as you. If that is the future you hoped for, then you deserve no compassion.” The creature remains silent, her features set in determination.

He charges up the stairs towards the emperor, and she follows a few paces behind. Her calf muscles burn from exhaustion, and she knows Dimitri must be in an even worse state. Edelgard hangs in the air above them, haloed in harsh light streaming from the stained-glass window behind her, a twisted illusion of an angel.

They reach her, and in tandem, swing their weapons. She lets out a snarl, swatting them with clawed hands wreathed in violet magic. They strike again, and again. Her thick, hide-like armor withstands most of the damage, even from their holy relics, but more and more gashes break through, each one punctuated by a gasp of pain. 

Curiously, she notices a pattern. When both of them rush to attack together, Edelgard favors defending and retaliating against Dimitri, allowing the Sword of the Creator to pierce her armor. Desperately, she fights on, trying to ignore the way the monster’s burning red eyes bore into her unbeating heart.

--

“It was just the strangest thing. Never seen anything like it in my life. Pa said it must have been the wolves, but I’ve seen wolf tracks and those weren’t made by any wolf I ever heard of.” 

Byleth was standing just outside a stone-fenced corral, currently home to half a dozen squealing pigs. The farmer, a young man barely out of his teens and sprouting a patchy beard, continued to shovel foul-smelling mud over his shoulder as he spoke.

“If not wolves what would you say the tracks looked like?” Byleth asked, but she already knew what his answer would be.

“That’s the thing, see. They almost looked like they were made by a human, as if they were walking on their toes, with their heel raised up, you know? But of course the size of them would make them stand fifteen, twenty feet tall.” He scoffed, shaking his head. 

She nodded, confirming her suspicions. “Thank you for your time.”

He squinted at her in the late afternoon sun, planting his shovel in the ground and leaning on it. “You’re trying to find this thing, yeah? If you know what it is, I’d be grateful if you told me. Myself and others around here can’t hardly afford to lose more livestock, not with things spread thin as they are right now.”

Byleth shrugged noncommittally; “It’s been moving steadily north for the last few months, so I doubt any of your pigs will become a second course meal.”

“That’s comforting, but you still haven’t told me what it is. A bear?” He wiped a line of sweat off his brow, leaving a brown smear across it.

“A bear.” Even she knew her response was less than convincing. A pale lock of flyaway hair blew into her vision. As they stood there, a dark stormfront had rolled in from the east, the sky there nearly black. “Wind’s howling.”

“Aye. Better get a hustle on if you’re looking to make it to a dry bed in time. Next town’s an hour’s walk from here.” 

With that, Byleth set off. The information she received from the farmer was nothing new. One of his pigs, or what was left of it, had been found a week ago, torn to shreds. Mysteriously, there was no way he could tell how the pig managed to escape it’s pen or if the predator had broken in, as the gate had still been locked securely that morning and there was no sign of a broken fence. It was as if something had simply plucked the animal from over the top of the pen.

Byleth had been collecting reports like these for several weeks, a mutilated farm animal here, some strange tracks there. Other than Ulag, the only other person who witnessed the creature was a young girl who had decided to take a shortcut through the forest from her grandmother’s house. She hadn’t stopped crying for three days. 

Gradually, the time between sightings and Byleth’s arrival shortened, from almost two months at the beginning, until now, where she estimated she was less than a week behind. At first, most people only reported tracks, or dogs howling at some unseen presence in the forest. Occasionally a single cow or sheep would go missing, the only exception occurring on the same night the young girl saw the monster in the woods. A whole herd of cattle had been destroyed shortly after. Most had not been eaten at all, but torn apart seemingly by pure rage. This incident was most concerning to Byleth, and after that she had quickened her pace and endeavored to close the distance between her and her quarry.

All of these sightings loosely meandered north, and now Byleth was somewhere in the western reaches of Varley territory from what she could tell. In the distance, she could see the foothills that would roll into the mountain range that divided Fodlan and where Garreg Mach monastery was nestled deep within. 

A fat raindrop landed squarely on her nose, breaking her from her silent contemplation and she knew she would not make it warm and dry to the town that night.

--

They fight for several torturous minutes, neither side gaining substantial ground over the other. They are much faster than Edelgard in this form and strike her more often than not, but her armored body is able to withstand the brunt of their blows. 

Next to her, Dimitri’s movements grow more harried; he has taken more hits than her and he holds his body at an angle that implies more than one of his bones is broken. For a moment she can see a flash of the old Dimitri, the ghoul that she found lurking in the Goddess Tower months ago. With a strained yell, he leaps at Edelgard, his lance miraculously finding purchase between the plates of armor at her shoulder and tearing a gash across the spot where glaring red energy shines through.

Edelgard screams, the wound leaking an inky black liquid, and reflexively reaches her hand out, her whole palm enclosing Dimitri’s arm that holds Areadbhar, and flings him across the platform they stand on. His body land out of sight with a sickening thud that echoes through the room. She calls out his name, but there is only silence. She offers up a quick prayer that he is not dead, in the slim chance that Sothis can somehow hear it.

She turns back to Edelgard, bracing for a strike, but it does not come. She realizes that while she was distracted by Dimitri’s fall, the emperor could have taken several opportunities to strike her. But she did not. Rather, Edelgard floats in place, trembling with exhaustion. Her face is downcast, almost expressionless but for a slight frown. 

“Facing you, I grow weak.” 

The words reverberate sorrowfully and a pit grows in her stomach with the knowledge of what she must do. She raises her sword, and a clawed hand lifts to strike.

--

With a quick spark, flint met steel and her campfire was set ablaze. Byleth had finally reached the edge of Fodlan’s central mountain range, and she had set up camp on a flat overhang halfway up a mountain at the mouth of the valley. 

The sun was just beginning it’s final descent on the horizon, and from her perch above the valley she could see the vibrant colors of the trees, indicating the Wyvern Moon was nearly at its close. As if on cue, a flock of wyverns swooped over the far end of the valley, heading south, not wishing to be the last ones caught in the chill of the Red Wolf Moon. 

She pulled the tie out of her pale hair and let it fluff out; it had begun to grow longer than she normally kept it but for reasons unknown to her, she had yet to cut it and instead had been tying it back. She couldn’t remember ever wanting to cut her hair at all, in fact. As a child, Jeralt would give her a trim once in awhile to keep it out of her eyes, and later on she only kept it at a manageable length to avoid getting in the way during battle. She supposed now there wouldn’t be many battles the future Archbishop needed to involve herself in. Perhaps she would let it grow out. 

Byleth leaned back against a tree, munching on the last of her bread she had bought two days ago at a small mining camp, the last sign of civilization since entering the mountains. It would only be three or four more days to Garreg Mach, although that would be rough travel as there were no roads on this side of the monastery. She supposed it was fortunate that she had naturally ended up so close to where she would have to return anyway, but a faint feeling of melancholy still settled in her chest.

The sun finally dipped below the valley walls, and Byleth reached for more firewood to increase the blaze. Normally, it would be unnecessary to make a fire this large, unwise in fact, as being high up on the mountain would make one a shining beacon for any potential bandits or thugs. This time, however, she wanted to be seen. Even two days away was too close to civilization for her liking, especially after witnessing the destruction of the cattle herd that was triggered by getting too near to one small girl. 

No, this campfire was a warning. 

She waited and listened, and the sun dropped lower, taking the last colors of daylight with it. Not long after the stars had appeared in the sky, she heard what she was waiting for. On the opposite side of the valley, the sound of trees, snapping, and crashing to the forest floor echoed through the night. The sounds grew fainter as they moved further away, until there was silence again.

Byleth slipped into dreams, regretting that her journey was nearing an end.

--

This time, she extends the Sword of the Creator to its full length, swinging it up and around the floating figure in front of her. It wraps itself around the towering creature and tightens, eliciting monstrous gasps as each section of the blade digs itself into flesh. She wrenches the sword downward and Edelgard is dragged to the ground, crashing to her knees.

She bites back the taste of blood in her mouth and only just now realizes a sharp pain in her chest. In the struggle, a clawed hand has pierced through her armor, through her chest where her unbeating heart lay. 

She looks up at Edelgard, who still towers over her even kneeling. The creature struggles against her binds weakly, but it only twists itself tighter; a morbid serpent wrapping around its prey. 

Glowing red eyes meet green, and despite the war, despite not knowing if Dimitri still lived, within the black depths she can still see the eyes of the girl she saved all those years ago from a bandit attack. 

She can do this no longer.

With a flick of her wrist, she withdraws her sword, releasing the monster before her. She raises it up again, and Edelgard flinches, anticipating a final strike, but it does not come. 

The Sword of the Creator extends, reaching towards a new target. It arcs beyond the platform they stand on, and reaches the stained glass window high above them. The glass shatters, showering them in multicolored shards. The sudden increase in light pains her eyes and she closes them for a moment. She is tired, so very tired.

A cold, yet burning sensation fills her chest as the claws within it are withdrawn and she stumbles, now she is the one on her knees. She can feel her vision grow hazy as a wet warmth bleeds from her wound, staining her white collar crimson. She sees wings outlined in the blurred light of the window, and the last thing she remembers is drawing on her last reserves of magic to call down a Ragnarok spell just a few feet away where Edelgard had been moments before.

Then, there is nothing.