#I’m so happy with it- it’s still under its fancy bandage for a while yet- but oh boy once it’s free!!

[sabinanotfound]

45 Prompts for Hand-Holding

I stumbled across this post and I had to do it. Enjoy... (also it’s the best experience when you switch to the goth rave mode)

45 prompts (actually 42 since I skipped the 12th and the 13th one because I wasn’t comfortable and the 26th one, because I had 0 ideas) and all are SFW.

Includes; Wilbur Soot, cc!Technoblade, GeorgeNotFound, Nihachu, Karl Jacobs, platonic!Ranboo, Dream, SapNap, Quackity (separately)

Warnings: specified before each prompt <3 credit to @creativepromptsforwriting for the amazing prompts

REQUESTS OPEN

1. Tiny hands in big hands (Wilbur Soot x gn!reader)

Wilbur was absentmindedly fiddling with your hand as the bus made its way through the traffic. “Your hands are so tiny,” he said, making you chuckle. You interlocked your fingers with his, leaning your head onto his shoulder.

2. Calloused hands in soft hands (cc!Technoblade x gn!reader) TW || anxiety

“It’s okay, you’re with me now,” you said softly, trying to calm Techno down. You took his calloused hands in yours, letting him relax and fall asleep in your embrace.

3. Cold hands in warm hands (GeorgeNotFound x gn!reader)

“Oh, and we should definitely see this place!” George exclaimed. For the past few hours he was excitedly showing you around London, but there was only one problem; the cold. When you didn’t respond, George turned to you and immediately noticed you shivering. He laughed softly before taking your cold hands in his warm ones. Let’s say, this method of warming up was your favorite.

4. Hands for the perfect ratio to each other for hand-holding (Nihachu x gn!reader)

You and Niki held hands as you sat on the couch watching a movie. You suddenly thought of how nice your hand fit in hers. “Niki, look it’s like our hands were made for each other!” you said and she laughed, pulling you into a sweet kiss.

5. Platonic hand-holding (platonic!Karl Jacobs x gn!reader)

You walked around the city with your best friend, absentmindedly holding each other’s hand and swinging them back and forth just because. Nothing mattered but your friendship and the beautiful views in front of you.

6. Running their thumb over the other’s hand (Wilbur Soot x gn!reader) TW || anxiety

As you entered the party, you regretted coming. There were way too many people for your liking. But this was your best friend’s birthday party and you couldn’t just ditch her like that. Wilbur turned to you and noticed your uncomfortable face. He took your hand in his tracing small circles on it with his thumb, letting you calm down.

7. Dancing with their hands holding onto each other (Dream x gn!reader)

“May I dance with you, my love?” Dream said as he held out his hand to you, smiling. A smile made its way onto your face as you swayed to the slow music, your hand in his.

8. Squeezing hand for comfort and encouragement (platonic!Ranboo x gn!reader)

You looked at Ranboo before making your way to the stage. He gave you a reassuring smile before squeezing your hand one last time and mouthing the words: “You can do this.”

9. Holding hands across the table (SapNap x gn!reader)

A fancy table set up at home due to the virus quickly spreading, candles light up and you two. The perfect date. You took a deep breath before putting a hand on Sapnap’s which was resting on the table. “Sap, I love you so so much. Will you marry me?” he looked at you with nothing but love and happiness in his eyes. “Yes, yes yes,” he said, stretching over the table to give you a kiss.

10. Happily doing everything with one hand even if it means they don’t have to let go (Quackity x gn!reader)

Alex stirred the pot as you chopped onions. Both doing your tasks with one hand. Ask why? Because why let go of your lover's hand when can *almost* do everything with one?

11. Not wanting to lose each other in a big crowd (Nihachu x gn!reader)

The crowd was huge. You knew there were many people who liked the same band as you, but this many people were unexpected. You held onto Niki's hand not to lose her in the huge crowd. "Niki, now I have an excuse to hold your hand at all time." you both laughed, making your way closer to the stage.

14. Grabbing hand to show them something (Wilbur Soot x gn!reader)

The Louvre was a really pretty museum, and you wanted to see everything. "Look, Wil, there's that famous painting I've been wanting to see!" you tugged on his arm as he chucked at your enthusiasm, following you to the painting.

15. Loosely holding onto each other’s hands, laying in one’s lap (GeorgeNotFound x gn!reader)

George laid in your lap as one of your hands loosely held his, and the other played with his hair. This must be what people call peace.

16. Only linking the pinkies together, not ready to let go completely (cc!Technoblade x gn!reader) TW || death, blood, angst

They had found you. Techno was too late and now there you were, laying on the floor and covered in blood. He let out a sob and the only sign of you being alive was your pinkie you had linked with his. And then your chest stopped. You were gone.

17. Holding hands while skating (Dream x gn!reader)

"I'm going to fall!" you shrieked, as Dream just smirked and held your hand tightly. "No, you're not. Look, you're already getting a hang of this!" he encouraged as you straightened your back, a little less afraid.

18. Excitedly grabbing each other’s hands during a concert, jumping up and down together (Karl Jacobs x gn!reader)

"I love this song!" you screamed over the song, as Karl nodded, continuing to bop his head to the music. You jumped up and down as the melody got faster. Your hands were linked and you were sure this was the best concert ever.

19. Playing with each other’s fingers (SapNap x gn!reader)

You sat next to him at his desk, watching as he edited yet another video. One of his hands was in yours while you fiddled with his fingers. He turned to you and pressed a kiss to your forehead. "I love you, baby."

20. Pressing the other’s hand against their cheek (Quackity x gn!reader) TW || sick reader

“How are you feeling mi amor?” Alex asked as he entered your room with a bowl of soup. “I’m feeling better, thanks to you.” you smiled at him as he sat on the bed, checking your fever. You took his hand in yours, pressing it against your cheek. “Thank you for taking care of me, I love you.”

21. Holding hands while one is balancing on a small wall (Nihachu x gn!reader)

You held Niki’s hand as she balanced on the small wall, laughing. Suddenly she slipped on a rock and landed into your arms as the both of you giggled.

22. Grabbing the other’s hand to pull them back from something (Dream x gn!reader)

“BE CAREFUL!” You felt your hand being pulled, just in time as a car flew by. Dream pulled you into his chest, hugging you as your breaths got steadier.

23. Holding hands under the table (Quackity x gn!reader) TW || someone talking shit abt Quackity

“And how’s it going with your uh...career?” Alex’s friend said sarcastically, obviously making fun of him. Alex’s muscles tensed, and you held his hand under the table, giving it a subtle squeeze. He smiled. “Better than yours.” As you two stood up and left.

24. Only realizing it when they have to let go (SapNap x gn!reader)

“Sap, it’s okay, I’m fine now. You don’t have to hold my hand. Thank you so much for the support.” SapNap looked at you, his gaze shy. “What if I don’t want to let go?” it was almost inaudible, but you heard it. You smiled, interlocking your fingers together. That’s a way to confess your feelings.

25. Standing in front of each other, holding both their hands (Wilbur Soot x gn!reader)

“y/n, I’ve been meaning to tell you something,” Wilbur said, holding both of your hands. You looked at him curiously, your brows slightly furrowing. “Will you marry me?” you gasped, immediately smiling. “YES, YES AND YES!” you screamed as Wilbur slid a pretty ring on your finger.

27. Passionate hand-holding (Karl Jacobs x gn!reader)

“Hii.” you said before plopping onto the couch next to Karl. You intertwined your fingers, wanting to never let go as soon as his hand touched yours.

28. Grabbing the other’s hand so they don’t fall (GeorgeNotFound x gn!reader)

“y/n, be careful, there’s a bump there,” George said as he pointed to the part of the road just ahead of you. Seems like he’d said it too late, because the next thing you knew, you were falling down. But thanks to George’s reflexes he held your hand just in time, preventing you from hitting the ground. “Thank you,” you breathed out, pressing a kiss on his cheek.

29. Holding hands while running through the rain (cc!Technoblade x gn!reader)

“I told you this'd be fun!” you said as the both of you ran around in the rain, laughing and holding hands.

30. Brushing against each other, linking fingers together for a second (Dream x gn!reader)

Your breath hitched as Dream’s hand brushed yours lightly, and as your pinkies linked for a second, you started to question if your feelings towards him were really platonic.

31. Grabbing their hand to grab their attention (Quackity x gn!reader)

“Babyyyyy.” you whined as you came into Alex’s room. “You’ve been editing for so long already, you need to get some rest, and also give me cuddles.” Alex chuckled as he turned to you in his chair. “Ten more minutes mi amor.” he said, also missing you a lot. But today you weren’t having it, so you grabbed his hand and tugged on it. He rolled his eyes and chuckled, following you to the couch in the living room.

32. Not really paying attention, both doing something else, but still holding hands (Wilbur Soot x gn!reader)

“Baby?” Wilbur asked and you hummed in response, not tearing your eyes off of your book. Your hand was in Wilbur’s who was scrolling through his phone. “I love you.” you turned to him, smiling. “I love you too, Wil.”

33. Bandaging the other’s hand and not quite letting go (SapNap x gn!reader) TW || a small injury

“You should’ve been more careful.” your best friend complained as he bandaged your hand. You had accidentally broken a cup and a piece of glass had cut your hand. When Sap finished his hand lingered on yours a little longer, making your cheeks lightly heat up.

34. Holding hands while driving (Karl Jacobs x gn!reader)

Karl’s left hand was on the steering wheel and the other one was interlocked with yours. A song was playing as you sang along and enjoyed the little moment.

35. Grabbing the other’s hand to pull them back to them (Nihachu x gn!reader)

The alarm clock beeped loudly, waking the both of you up. “A few more minutes...” you whined, but Niki was already starting to stand up. You caught her hand and lightly pulled her towards you. “Nooo a few more minutes but only with you,” you said as she laughed.

36. Unconsciously searching out each other’s hand while sleeping (GeorgeNotFound x gn!reader)

Your hand unconsciously searched for George’s, as you laid half asleep. Once you did, you interlocked your fingers and drifted off to a peaceful sleep.

37. Not realizing they’re holding hands till someone points it out (Wilbur Soot x gn!reader)

You sat on the couch in your friend’s house as the party became louder and louder every minute. Wilbur was next to you and you mindlessly interlocked your fingers. “I didn’t know you two were together.” one of your friends said, passing by. Your cheeks heated up as you slightly let go of his hand, but not completely.

38. Swinging hands back and forth, skipping like children (Quackity x gn!reader)

You and Alex swung your interlocked hands as you skipped around. In the daylight, when the streets were crowded this was not enjoyable; but at night, hanging out in a park while no one was there to throw you weird glances, it was perfect.

39. Holding hands in a museum to pull them to the next exhibition (Dream x gn!reader)

“Oh look! There’s that famous exhibition!” Dream exclaimed as he tugged on your hand. You followed him, curious about what you were going to see.

40. Letting go when there is an obstacle in their way and immediately grabbing each other’s hand again when they pass it (cc!Technoblade x gn!reader)

“Be careful, there’s a tree.” you let go of his hand for a second and as soon as you passed the tree, you softly took his hand in yours, continuing your walk in the forest.

41. Loosely holding onto each other’s hand (Nihachu x gn!reader)

You and Niki walked around the city, while she excitedly pointed out some important locations. You were loosely holding her hand, fascinated by everything around you.

42. Dragging the other with them, holding their hand (Karl Jacobs x gn!reader)

“Come on baby, you have to go to sleep, you’re overworking yourself.” Karl tried to convince you. You weakly asked for a few more minutes, but Karl took you by the hand and dragged you to bed. You were thankful because if not for him you’d be asleep on your desk in a few minutes.

43. Raising the other’s hand to their lips to kiss it softly (Wilbur Soot x gn!reader)

Your first date had been awesome. Wilbur was a true gentleman. As he opened the door for you to get out of the car, your eyes met. “Thank you for today Wilbur. I loved our date.” You smiled at him and he did so too, gently lifting your hand and pressing a quick kiss on it. “So... maybe you’re up for a second date sometime?” You nodded, not missing his rose-tinted cheeks.

44. Holding hands while jumping down from somewhere together (Dream x gn!reader) TW || cliff diving

"Ready?" Dream asked, giving your hand a subtle squeeze, and after you nodded, you jumped down into the beautiful blue waters, not letting go of Dream's hand.

45. Comparing hand sizes, then linking fingers together (SapNap x gn!reader)

Sapnap hoped that you wouldn't take this as an excuse to hold your hand, but he had to give it a shot. "y/n, let's compare hand sizes." you pressed your palms together, and before you knew it, Sap had linked your fingers together. Not that you minded, though.

-

taglist: @yasaiiissleeping

masterlist

[honey-dewey]

Bomb (of the Bath Variety)

Pairing: Ezra/Reader

Word Count: 2,184

Warnings: None! 

Permanent Taglist: @phoenixhalliwell @star-wars-hell

Someone please introduce this man to the concept of a spa day. He just needs to relax in a tub with Epsom salts for the muscle pain and a bath bomb because they smell nice. He needs someone else to wash his hair for once because god knows he can’t do it. He needs to be introduced to moisturizers and other skin care products. He also needs (wants) funky colored nails. 

“Jesus Ezra!” You shouted, seeing him shuffle into the pod, covered in grime. “What did you do all day?”

“Uh,” Ezra hesitated, biting down on his glove and pulling it off. “Cee pushed me into a dirt hole.”

Cee nodded. “Can confirm,” she said with a grin. “I’m headed next door so I can bathe.”

You waved to her, watching the hatch shut once more. “And you,” you said to Ezra as he tried to sneak past you. “Get in the bathroom.”

Ezra pouted, but listened. He didn’t hate bathing, but he wasn’t super keen on it either. It was a hard task when you only had one hand, but today would be different. If you’d set it up right, today would be pure bliss for Ezra.

Starting with you turning the shower off.

“Moonlight?” He turned when you cut the water, clearly confused. “I thought I had to bathe.”

“You do,” you agreed, kneeling beside the bathtub and turning it on. “Ez, you’re taking a spa day.”

“A what now?”

You stood, slowly working a still confused but now considerably more relaxed Ezra out of his work suit, pushing the leather harness off his shoulders. “A spa day, Ezra. Where you take a day to just relax. Get all clean and done up with nice products.”

Ezra shrugged, looking into the bathtub that was steadily filling with water. “That’s gotta be some fancy tradition from your planet, because I’ve never heard of that before.”

“You were a state ward!” You pointed out, bending to grab a cardboard box of various spa day supplies you’d been saving for an occasion such as this. “You’d also never held a real book or eaten a full meal until you started prospecting.”

“Fair,” Ezra hummed. He wasn’t one to open up about his past, especially his days as a state ward. But you’d caught glimpses of the life he’d led prior to becoming a prospector. Cold bunks crammed into a room full of underage orphaned boys, all shivering. No one had a family name, and it was rare any one of them was happy, or really even survived to make it out. Apparently, at the state house Ezra had been raised at, the suicide rate was almost 40%.

But that was the past, and this was the present. You opened the box and pulled out a bath bomb, reading the label and setting it on the counter. “You like mint, right?”

“Of course,” Ezra said. “Reminds me of you.”

You smiled, turning to kiss Ezra. “Get in the tub Ez.”

Ezra, with that beautiful crooked grin on his face, removed the last of his clothes and stepped into the tub. “You know, this tub has room for two.”

“Shame I won’t be getting in,” you said. “I already bathed.”

Ezra pouted. “Moonlight, you wound me.”

“My sun, this is about you, not me.” You handed him the bath bomb. “Go ahead and put that in the water. I have some epsom salts in here, I know it.”

As you knelt down to find the pesky bag of salts, Ezra put the bath bomb in the water, gasping as it began to fizz. “Moonlight! It’s dissolving!”

“It’s supposed to,” you said, standing with the bag of salts. Ezra poked the bath bomb with a happy grin, his finger going green from the fizz. “It’s called a bath bomb for a reason. Scoot.”

As Ezra moved reluctantly from the bath bomb, you measured out two cups of epsom salts and poured them into the bath as well. Ezra was clearly disappointed when they didn’t fizz like the last thing you’d put in the water, but the slight rosy smell was enough to make up for it. “What is that for?”

“Epsom salts help with muscle pain,” you said, putting the bag down and dragging a stool over so you could sit at Ezra’s height. “I use them sometimes after we do really bad prospecting trips. Hopefully, they’ll help with your arm.”

Ezra’s face darkened, the delicate subject of his right arm, or lack thereof, causing the mood to sour. You sensed the change in the air and immediately brightened your tone. “But, that’s not all we’re here for,” you said. “Depending on how far you’re willing to let me go, we could be here for hours. I bet Cee would join us for face masks,” you added as an afterthought.

“Face what now?”

“Masks.” You held up one of the tubs of clay masks you had. “They help with your skin.”

Ezra grinned. “I shall partake in this face mask ritual on one condition.”

Rolling your eyes playfully at your poet of a boyfriend, you crossed your legs. “And what would that condition be, my sun?”

“Paint my nails?”

It was an odd request, but one you weren’t about to turn down. “Okay. Consider it done.”

You let Ezra soak for a while, sitting beside him on the stool and reading. It was a book aimed mostly at teenagers, but Ezra had said something about it being Cee’s favorite and now you were determined to read it. So far, it was pretty good.

Eventually, you put the book down and convinced Ezra to dunk his head under the water. When he came up, water running in thin streams down his skin and hair plastered to his head, you laughed and picked up a bottle of rose water shampoo.

“Lean back,” you instructed softly, laying a towel across your lap so Ezra wouldn’t soak your pants. He rested his neck on the edge of the tub, head falling back into your hands. “Comfy?”

“Could be worse,” Ezra decided. You leaned down to kiss his damp forehead, making a face when the soapy tang of the bath bomb and epsom salt water rolled over your tongue.

Sitting back up and popping open the shampoo bottle, you squeezed an appropriate amount into your hand and began to massage it into Ezra’s scalp.

The effect was immediate. He groaned, entire body relaxing as your deft fingers worked away the dirt and buildup from his hair. Ezra bathed every few days, just like everyone else, but with his once dominant hand gone, his job washing himself was lackluster at best. For him, you properly washing through his hair must’ve felt like pure heaven.

You scratched through his hair for longer than was probably necessary, keeping him in that blissed out state. When you finally lifted a plastic cup with water to his head and began to rinse the suds away, he keened softly, vocalizing his dislike of your lack of touch. You apologized, taking your non-dominant hand and sliding it up his forehead, settling it just before Ezra’s hairline to shield his eyes from the soapy water trickling down his face.

Tugging on the blond streak in Ezra’s hair, you discretely ran your fingers through it, slowly spiking it up into a mohawk.

“My moonlight, what are you doing?”

“Shit.” You didn’t stop in your actions, only finished what you were doing despite being caught. “Take a look.” You held a hand mirror out, giving Ezra a view of his new hairdo.

“Moonlight,” he said, turning to face you. It was too much. You broke down into laughter, doubled over and Ezra smiled and ducked his head beneath the water to return his hair to its plastered look.

Once your laughing fit had come to an end, you straightened and began to massage a small dollop of conditioner into Ezra’s hair. Restraining yourself from giving him yet another mohawk, you scratched your fingers over Ezra’s scalp for almost five minutes. He relaxed yet again against the porcelain rim of the tub, breathing evening out as he practically fell asleep beneath your hands.

You were slow going in your rinsing out of Ezra’s hair, trying not to wake him from his impromptu nap. He hummed, and when you put the cup down and seemed his hair free of conditioner, he reached up and cupped your neck. Pulling you close, he kissed you, lips molding perfectly despite being upside down. “I love you, moonlight.”

Smiling and pressing an upside down kiss to Ezra’s forehead, you softly murmured into his skin. “I love you too, my sun.”

Ezra got out of the tub some time later, once you’d helped him scrub dirt out of every crevasse of his body. The water was more brown than green at that point, but Ezra was clean. You held his hand as he stepped out of the tub and watched as he dried himself off, insistent that he could do it by himself.

As he dressed himself in soft sleep clothes, you called Cee in. She was eager to partake in your spa day, also dressed in her pyjamas. She had a few bandages spanning her skin, small ones indicative of minor scrapes. You counted three, one on her right wrist, one further up her right forearm, and one on her left foot. How she’d scratched herself through the boots and suit she wore on her jobs, you had no idea.

“I didn’t even know you had clay masks!” Cee said happily, opening the jar and taking a wooden popsicle stick to start applying it to her face.

“I made it myself,” you said, grabbing a second jar to start plastering the grey/brown paste to Ezra’s face. “It’s one of the only things I can make myself.”

Once all three of you had been properly covered in the clay, you began to slowly diffuse Ezra’s wet hair. Cee sat by, reading the book you’d been reading earlier. Nearly twenty minutes later, Ezra’s hair was dry and shockingly curly and the three clay masks were hardened.

“Thanks for sharing,” Cee said as you handed her a damp washcloth. “I don’t remember the last time I had a spa day.”

“We’ll have to do them more often then,” you decided firmly, passing Ezra the other washcloth. “My sun, do you still want me to do your nails?”

Ezra nodded. “Yes please.”

“Should I do yours too?” You turned to Cee, who shook her head.

“I don’t paint my nails,” she said softly. “Plus, I am exhausted. That prospect was hard as hell. Gonna go nap as soon as I’m clay free.”

True to her word, once Cee’s face was clean, she bid you both good night before leaving to go take a nap.

You took her washcloth, but Ezra stopped you before you could lift it to your face. “My moonlight, can I clean your face? Please? After all you’ve done for me, I want to make it even.”

You smiled, letting Ezra take the washcloth. “You don’t need to worry about making it even, my sun. I’m doing this because I love you.”

Despite your reassurance, Ezra gently began to rub the washcloth across your face in small circles, clearing away the clay as he worked. His hand was warm and soft, and you carefully put your forearms on his shoulders to keep yourself still.

When Ezra was done, he kissed every inch of your face he could while you writhed with laughter underneath him. “Ezra!” You shouted happily, trying to wiggle out of his grasp. “Ezra, my sun! I yield!”

Ezra pulled back, lips quirked in a smile. “I’m sorry my moonlight, but I couldn’t help myself.”

You hopped off the countertop you’d been sitting on and grabbed your small box of nail polishes. “Give me your hand,” you said, getting back on the counter and pulling out a small nail file. Ezra put his hand in your lap and sat on the stool you’d been using.

It was a gentle, silent process. You filed Ezra’s nails down, wincing at the bitten away stubs you were trying to fix. “Ez, it’s a miracle you don’t have an infection,” you said softly, finishing on his little finger. “This is bad.”

Ezra looked at his knees, shrugging halfheartedly. “I know.”

You kissed each of his fingertips, pressing one final kiss into his palm. “I love you anyway.”

That brightened Ezra’s downcast face. “I know.”

You found a beautiful mustard yellow nail polish and a glittery gold polish, slowly painting each of Ezra’s fingernails with expert precision. He was still, watching you work with a look of wonder on his face. “You’re amazing.”

Putting the finishing touch on Ezra’s thumb, you put the cap back on the gold bottle and smiled. “Thank you, my sun.”

Ezra waited a few minutes for the polish to dry before looking at it properly. The yellow color was muted, but still a nice rich shade. What really made it pop was the gold accents, reflecting the shitty bathroom lights and drawing attention.

“I like it,” Ezra decided firmly, curling his fingers and watching the gold dance.

“I’m glad,” you said, sliding off the counter. “Wanna make dinner?”

Ezra nodded, kissing your forehead and pulling you into a firm hug. “We’re doing spa days more often,” he said into your shoulder. “Please?”

Hugging Ezra, you nodded, relishing in the mint and rose water smell. “Absolutely, my sun. Absolutely.”

[ninnodesu]

The New Matriarch, ch 4.

Tw: - Fou language, I guess? - Thomas swears and trashes the basement

You

Squeal, growl, stomp. And you turn around to look in the direction of the sounds, there he is. The man your brain has decided to remember. You silently step up to him and look at him with a small discrete smile on your lips until he turns to look at you. “It’s you!” , your smile falters as he appears to flinch at your words, like you had stabbed him with something, and then he turns to leave. “Wait!”, you follow him a short distance before you start thinking that it might be a bad idea and are left standing in the hallway when you hear a door slam. You're yet again alone, looking toward where the man left in a hurry

"O… oh…" Unsure of what to do, you keep standing there, slightly swaying, listening to the snuffle of the pigs. "I'm so sorry!", you yell out in hopes of it reaching his ears before heading back up to the room you woke up in.

You slump down on the bed again, listening to the silence that once again occupies the house and finger a piece of fabric on your dress to occupy your brain. You let your body just fall to the side to lay down on your pillow, still fiddling and fingering a piece of fabric. All you do is just… exist. From time to time a small groan from the house can be heard, a wind might whistle somewhere.  

After you’ve been existing, rolling around the bed to wake up limbs that have fallen asleep, you start hearing voices, footsteps and doors opening and closing and you perk up.

People!

Footsteps up the stairs makes you sit up and tuck your knees to your chest just staring at the door before deciding to walk over to the door to take a peek outside, but before you have time to reach it, a knocking emits from it. “C-come in.”, you reply in a small voice. “Oh, you’re awake, good.”, an older lady with glasses hung around her neck enters your room “How are you feelin’, girl?”

She looks expectantly at you, waiting for a reply. “O-oh. I’m, uhm… I’m good, I think.”, you smile awkwardly at her. Scratching a bit of skin off your arm that your dress bites into, the fabric is uncomfortable as all hell.

The old lady looks quizzically at you, eyebrows raised. “You think?” “Uhm… Yes. I’m a bit… confused, truth be told.”, you look sheepishly at her, suddenly feeling really embarrassed. “What’s your name, darlin’?”, she puts her hands on her hips as she asks you the simplest of questions to any human being out there. “M-my name?”, you stutter slightly, a familiar lump forming in your throat that you desperately try to swallow. “I-I… uhm…”, you take a deep breath to try and resist the urge to cry as you quietly whisper out “I can’t remember…”.

And it’s when those words leave your mouth that the flood gates that are your eyes open up and you can’t help but to cry. It’s all you do at that moment. You don’t even try to get them to stop. It’s an ugly, hulking cry. The one that’s felt in every part of your body, the kind where you want to scream out your sadness, the one that almost makes you want to vomit. You raise your hands to hide behind, to cry behind, and soon after you feel a pair of arms wrap around you in an embrace. A soft cooing into your scalp, and a hand smoothing over your hair. No words are spoken, it’s just you in the old lady’s embrace and the sounds of your crying.

When you finally feel your tears starting to let up, and you let yourself relax, the lady releases you from her grip, but cups your cheeks and lifts your head to let your eyes meet hers. “My name is Luda Mae, darlin’.” Her smile is warm, and you can tell she’s a mother just by the way she smiles at you. You smile back and nod slightly, rubbing one eye with the heel of your hand. “Come on. You’ll feel better after havin’ a shower.”, she takes your hand in a light grip and leads you towards the bathroom. “I’m gonna see if I can’t find you a proper piece of clothing too, can’t have you walkin’ ‘round the house in those rags.”, she chuckles a bit and you can’t help but to do the same.

All you manage to do is nod and gently squeeze her hand in appreciation.

Even if the bathroom is dirty too, it’s not as bad as the kitchen and you are thankful for that fact. Your whole body starts to itch where the fabric of your makeshift dress drags due to how rough it is. You peel the bandage off carefully to make sure you don’t disturb your wound, examining it when you see you’ve gotten stitches. A small “hm” when you silently appreciate the work someone here has done to you.

You wince slightly when the water hits the wound, but after the worst pain has subsided, you relax. You hang your head and watch as dark, murky water run down your legs and down the drain. The lighter the shower water becomes, the better you feel.  For a few minutes, the only thing you do is stand there with water running down your back and hair. It feels so good to take a shower.

I don’t think I can remember when I took a shower alone last… , you sigh in relief. Picking under your nails to get grime out, scrubbing to get dirt away from your nail beds. It feels So. Damn. Good. to be clean again.

A knock on the door wakes you up from your shower dreaming. “Yes?”, you call out. “It’s Luda, darlin’. Just wanted to give ya’ somethin’ else to wear.” You smile to yourself at those words. “Oh, come in.”, even though the curtain is covering your form up you can’t help but to put your arms around you covering you up more out of instinct.

You look at the darkened figure of Luda Mae as she puts some clothing down on the toilet seat. “Pick whichever ya’ like, darlin’, and come downstairs when you’re ready. Supper will be on the table.”, and just like that, you’re left alone. You’re not entirely used to this level of free time. You knew there was always someone watching over you some way or another, but not here.

You dry yourself off and take a look at the items of clothing. One simple dress, nothing fancy or spectacular. And two types of shirts - which for you looked big enough to become dresses anyway. “Hm…”. You tried both the dress and one shirt, but in the end decided to pick the shirt. Mostly because you liked the fabric and how it felt on your skin, it was looser than the dress, which helped a lot with the wound on your shoulder since it didn’t dig into it.

And as suspected, it was way too big. You giggled at how the long sleeves reached out and over your fingertips, and the length of it reached down to your mid thighs, making you wonder if maybe you should ask for a pair of pants, but shrugging that thought away. The top button covered your chest just barely and you knew if you leaned forward too much everyone would get a clear cut view of your breasts.

On your way down to the main floor you heard the sound of what you guessed was a TV. You made your way through the house to find where the smell of food came from, your stomach rumbling and mouth starting to drool. When you finally found the dining room, you suddenly felt very small at the sight of the entire family.

Your eyes met with an older man that looked grumpy and you hid behind the door frame. “That girl ‘o yours is here, mama.”, his voice is gruff and you see the lady turn around to look at you, beckoning you to enter the dining room. “Stop hidin’ behind doors and get in here! Supper’s getting cold.”, you nod shyly and walk around the corner to sit down at an empty chair that seems to be distant enough from the old man, but sadly making you end up in direct line of sight of him. His gaze is burning your soul and you feel really naked and exposed by it, especially when you notice where his gaze is making its way.

You jump high and drop your fork when there is one loud stomp at the floor. “THOMAS! It’s DINNER TIME!”, you curl up into the chair and tuck your knees up to your chest when you get the chance while the old man isn’t looking at you, his eyes seemingly searching for any kind of sound. It takes a few minutes before you hear footsteps coming for the dining room, heavy ones.

“Where the fuck have ya’ been, ya’ bastard? Haven’t seen ya’ since we got home, boy.”, something in his voice makes a shiver run down your back, it sounds venomous. His question was just replied with an annoyed grunt. You keep your eyes on your food that you’re simply just poking around with your fork, despite the hunger aching in you. “Oh, stop bein’ a baby, Tommy. Just sit somewhere else, and let the girl eat.”, Luda Mae tells the man you’re starting to piece together is named Thomas.

Oh I took his seat… , you keep your eyes down in embarrassment.

It’s by the time the big man sits down next to you that you decide you need to do something, say something. Something!

“I-I… Uhm… I just wanted to say…”, all eyes on you. Even Thomas, you see him in the corner of your eye, but you honestly don’t dare to look at him. Not after you apparently offended him earlier. You're scared he’s mad at you for offending him, scared he’s mad at you for unknowingly taking his seat. And your voice goes from loud and clear to a whisper. “T...hank you.”, you take a mouth full of the food and feel tears pricking at your eyes again. You take another. And another. And suddenly you’re shoving food into your mouth almost faster than you have time to chew. The sight is apparently comical, as you start hearing chuckling and giggles around the table. “Easy there, darlin’.”, a hand lands on your own and a thumb rubs back and forth. You look up at Luda with happy tears streaming down your cheeks. “Don’t choke on your food! It’s enough you almost up and died when Tommy brought you in, no need to scare us again.”

You slow down enough to finish what you’ve already started chewing. “I just haven’t eaten such good food in so long, it’s amazing!”, for the first time since you got here, your smile reaches up to your eyes making them squint in happiness. Your smile is real, and genuine.

Making at least one's heart at the dinner table to jump.

Thomas B. Hewitt

The basement is dim and damp. And the moment he reaches the floor he kicks a bucket that richoces at a nearby wooden banister and lands in some far corner. Anger has taken a hold of him again. Frustration.

God DAMN IT! , he growls and plants his hands flat on one of the tables, head slumped. Shoulders tense.

"I'm so sorry!",  it's faint, but he still hears her voice calling out for him.

Shut the fuck up.

He's breathing heavily. When he heard her voice before, it was like honey, soft and warm in his ears, but now? It stung like daggers.

It was the way she said "you" that set him off. It's how everyone else always talks to or about him. He was never viewed as a person, a human being. He was almost always a venomous “you”, a whispering “him” between friends followed by snicker and giggles. Sometimes he was even an “it”. His family were the only people who viewed him like a proper human being, well except for Charlie but that was just because he was an asshole in general. “You”, “it’s him” , “that thing”. All of them negative. He grits his teeth, his fingers digging into the table, knuckles turning white.

He lets out a frustrated roar that’s silenced by the crash of the table he decides to flip over makes. His tools fly all through the basements and clank all over the space.

After the worst of his tantrum has subsided, he’s just standing there, looking at the mess he’s made before stomping over to a small secluded area of the basement. His area of the basement, the one he made during his early teenage years when the bullying became worse and he felt he needed a place where his family didn’t go. He needed something more hidden. A place where he could curl into when he didn’t want the world to know he even existed. He’d put a bed in there once, an old one. A creaky, dingy bed. Mostly just springs and a mattress, but a bed nonetheless. He flopped down on it, face first, ignoring the uncomfortable way the edges of his mask dug into his face and scars as he let his eyes fall halfway. He just sighed, one foot hanging off the bed, arms folded under his pillow.

She’s pretty, the adrenaline started to pour out of his body and tiredness hit him. He usually gets either straight up sleepy or just tired after an adrenaline rush, no matter how small.  Closing his eyes, his mind drifts off to that one sentence when her voice was still honey.

And I like her voice…

“-MAS!”, he slowly opens his eyes listening for something that sounded like a voice.

“THOMAS!”

Oh, it’s Charlie. , he groaned when he realized who it was, and drags himself up from the creaky bed.

“It’s DINNER TIME!"

Yeah, yeah. I’m coming. He yawns as he climbs the stairs up to the dining room. The whole family is gathered as he enters, looking at his seat he sees her. In one of HIS shirts.

Mama, that’s MY shirt!

“Where the fuck have ya’ been, ya’ bastard? Haven’t seen ya’ since we got home, boy.”, Thomas just grunts in annoyance to Charlie’s question, or to her sitting in his seat… or the fact that his mother gave her one of his favorite shirts. He’s not sure. He throws his mother an annoyed glance before huffing. “Oh, stop bein’ a baby, Tommy. Just sit somewhere else, and let the girl eat.”, his mother tells him. He gives a defeated whine, trudges over and plants himself on an empty chair next to her. As he picks his own utensil up to start digging into the food in front of him, she decides to speak again.

“I-I… Uhm… I just wanted to say…”, he slowly turns his head towards her, his eyes piercing into her. He’s confused as to what feelings to feel right now. Annoyance because it’s his shirt and his seat? Flustered because it’s his shirt and she actually looks adorable in it? Angry because she’s most likely just like everyone else, or at the fact that he has to think about what kind of feelings he’s supposed to have? It’s just one big confused concoction of emotions and feelings rumbling around inside of him right now.

“T...hank you.”, her voice is low, but he shrugs slightly. He takes a bite of food before turning to look at her again in utter shock. She’s shoveling food into her like a ravenous animal. Like she hasn’t eaten in god knows how long. It looks like she doesn’t even have time to chew properly, he stifles a chuckle at the sight and signals his mother with a chuckle disguised as a grunt. “Easy there, darlin’.”, he just spectates as his mother places a hand on hers before turning to look at his brother and uncle who’s both chuckling at the starving animal at the table before he himself can’t help but to release a silent chuckle, his shoulder bouncing slightly. “Don’t choke on your food! It’s enough you almost up and died when Tommy brought you in, no need to scare us again.”

He smiles to himself as he takes a drink of water. “I just haven’t eaten such good food in so long, it’s amazing!” He glances at her at first, but can’t help to fully turn his head when he sees her smile.

It’s a genuine smile. A smile that reaches her eyes. He remembers something his mother told him at a young age; “Remember, Tommy. If a person whose smile makes their eye smaller, that person is giving you their truest of smiles.”, it isn't until now that he fully understands what she meant by that.  

If he spoke; he would’ve been speechless. Something even his thoughts are at this moment. He’s not sure what to say, or even think when he sees her smile. It makes his heart jump and he’s more thankful than ever that he has his mask on as he can basically feel his cheek start to burn red.

[jaskierrrrrr]

-I don’t even know what this is, I’ve been listening to the horror and the wild for two days straight and just feeling a lot of stuff- this is set a couple of months after the fight- Geralt’s been looking for Jaskier all this time and finds him nearly dying of hypothermia??? is a summary I guess

***

Jaskier feels the cold seeping into his bones, the icy wind cutting like a knife on his cheeks and bringing tears to his eyes that freeze before they can roll down his cheeks. He shrugs his shoulders up to try and retain the sliver of warmth remaining in his chest. He can’t feel his hands that have turned white, locked around the strap of his lute that’s bouncing against his back. He bitterly mourns the loss of his cloak; his summer jacket is doing nothing to keep him warm and it’s all he can do to keep putting one foot in front of the other. He’s aware that climbing higher into the mountains is stupid and dangerous, but it’s the only path he can see through the swollen flakes falling thick and fast around him, and he’s more likely to find some sort of shelter on a well-trodden path. He’s also keen to avoid the shadowy figures that seem to flicker across the fields surrounding him, even though logically he knows they’re just a trick of the light Not that has had any luck in the hours he’s spent trudging through the snow. And now the light is fading, and all his energy is focused on just staying on the path.

He stumbles over nothing and goes flying. His hands don’t unclench in time- at this point, he’s not sure they’ll ever loosen up again- and he lands face first in a bank of snow, which soaks his clothes and makes the fading bruise on his side throb like it’s just been inflicted. His breath comes out in a startled gasp; he didn’t think he could get colder than he already was. He wipes away a trickle of melted ice from his forehead and looks down in surprise at his fingers that are coated with red. He must’ve hit his head on something, he thinks. That would explain the dizziness. Says the all too familiar sarcastic voice in his head, that Jaskier hasn’t heard out loud in months. He lets out a hysterical giggle, which quickly turns into a sob.

He drags himself to his feet- at least concentrating all his energy on walking pushes all thoughts of Geralt out of his mind- but he doesn’t get far before collapsing again. The funny thing is, he doesn’t even feel cold anymore, just bone tired. He curls up, exhausted. He just needs five minutes to rest his eyes, so his head can stop spinning and the light that appears to be bobbing in the distance will disappear.

He exhales, and his breath is ripped from him by a particularly vicious gust of wind. As he closes his eyes, the shadows dancing in the wind seem to consume him, and the howling wind is replaced with blissful silence.

***

When he wakes, he’s warm. So warm it would be insufferable if it wasn’t such a relief to not be cold anymore. He attempts to open his eyes and grimaces, which worsens the pain in his stiff and cracked face. He must look horrendous. Still, at least he’s alive.

As he manages to slowly work his eyes open, he takes in his surroundings. He’s in a small cave with a narrow entranceway that’s been partially blocked off with branches; he can only assume it’s an attempt to keep the snow out, as there’s no evidence of meltwater in the cave, despite the fire that’s crackling near the entrance. Jaskier feels a mild sense of panic when he sees his own clothes hanging up to dry; with a huge effort, he pulls himself into a seating position and throws aside the cloak wrapped around him. To his immense relief, he’s not naked- he still has his trousers on, but his sodden undershirt has been replaced with one much larger and older that’s surprisingly soft considering how worn it is. Someone’s even taken great care to wrap his hands in bandages for cuts he was too cold to feel, and there’s some kind of salve coating the bruise on his side. 

He assumes it’s a salve- he supposes there’s every chance it’s some kind of poison. That would be typical- rescued from freezing to death only to be experimented on by his saviour.

Jaskier shivers violently, disrupting his musings. The fire’s dying down, and there’s nothing to feed it, so he grabs the cloak, meaning to pull it back over his torso when he stops dead, staring at its hood. There’s a very familiar mending job hiding a tear that curves upwards like a crescent moon. It’s almost invisible to the eye thanks to the incredibly fine stitching, but Jaskier would recognise his own repair work anywhere. 

He’s still struggling to understand how it could be possible, and whether he even wants his rescuer to be who he thinks it is when the branches are pulled back, revealing the dazzling white snow that’s almost immediately blocked from view by the figure stepping into the cave, a bundle of logs under each arm.

Geralt looks exactly the same as he did the day Jaskier left, all those months ago. The only difference is that the expression of fury Jaskier had last seen has been replaced with one of surprise, those amber eyes wide and lips slightly parted. He stares at Jaskier for several long seconds, as rigid as a statue, and Jaskier can’t help but stare back. After all, Geralt already knew he was here- Jaskier hadn’t had the luxury of preparing for this moment.

‘Jaskier.’ Geralt says weakly, in a voice so unlike his own it sends a chill down Jaskier’s spine that has nothing to do with the snow.

Of course, it’s awkward. He was stupid to think Geralt would actually want to see him- saving him was just the decent thing to do, it didn’t mean anything. Masking his disappointment that’s pooling in the pit of his stomach, Jaskier nods in response.

‘Uh, hello.’

It doesn’t seem likely that Geralt is going to fill the silence that follows; he’s still unmoving next to the fire. Jaskier swings his legs out onto the dusty floor of the cave and reaches for his boots.

‘Thanks for, well… you know. The rescue,’ he says as he pulls on his boots, ‘I’ll get out of your hair now.’

His words finally seem to awaken Geralt from his reverie. He tips the logs onto the ground as Jaskier stands, trying to ignore the trembling in his legs. He can’t remember the last time he ate, but judging by the black spots in his vision, it was a while ago.

‘What are you talking about? You need to rest, Jaskier. You were lucky I found you when I did, or who knows-’ He cuts off, and something passes across his face. If Jaskier didn’t know better, he’d say it was fear. 

Jaskier’s ‘Honestly, I’m fine,’ is undermined by his legs giving out after taking only a couple of steps towards Geralt, who lunges forward, wrapping strong arms around Jaskier’s waist to stop him falling to the floor. Jaskier’s arms come up reflexively and land against Geralt’s chest. He feels the all too familiar heartbeat and wrenches his hands away. Geralt still hasn’t let go. Ignoring Jaskier’s feeble protests, he essentially hauls him back onto the makeshift bed. He stares down at Jaskier, the line of his jaw set before turning to stoke the fire.

Despite the time they’ve spent apart, Jaskier can still read Geralt’s body language without thinking. He takes in the muscle jumping near his temple, the fingernails dug into his palms, and opens his mouth to ask what’s wrong, because obviously something is, but Geralt beats him to it.

‘What the hell were you thinking?’ He growls through gritted teeth. ‘Wandering into a fucking snow storm with nothing but a lute? No food? No cloak? Were you trying to get killed?’

‘Obviously not,’ Jaskier replies, exasperated, curling up to sit cross-legged, bracing his back against the cave so he doesn’t have to crane his neck to look at Geralt, ‘I had a plan- and a cloak- but unfortunately my travelling companion decided to relieve me of both.’

Geralt frowned. ‘Companion?’ He almost sounds hurt.

‘Just some merchant I met in the tavern a few days ago. He offered safe passage across the mountains and I figured it was probably safer than making the journey alone.’ He winces and his hand rises to the bruise on his side, the memory of the boot that had inflicted it stinging more sharply than the wound thanks to Geralt’s healing salve. ‘Obviously I was wrong.’

If looks could kill, Jaskier really didn’t fancy his chances right now. He’d rarely seen Geralt this angry before, although the expression on his face stirred a bitterly painful memory from the mountaintop. It had always amazed him how strongly Geralt felt, even though he always said Witchers didn’t have emotions. Maybe it’s just the positive emotions they don’t feel, he thinks, even though he knows that isn’t true. He’s seen Geralt happy, even ecstatic before. Even heard him laugh occasionally at one or two of Jaskier’s stories. 

Although his happiness was more often related to Yennefer’s presence. The hurt rises like bile in his throat. He manages to get out, ‘well, not everyone is as chivalrous as you.’ He’s aiming for a lighthearted, jaunty jibe, but even as he says it, he can tell it falls flat, his tone betraying him.

Geralt rises from the fire, stomping over to the far side of the cave to bring his gear closer to the fire. ‘It’s nothing to do with chivalry.’ His turns his back to Jaskier, who suddenly can’t take it anymore. Geralt’s had months to get over his anger and yet he still can’t bear to look at him.

‘Oh well,’ he spits, aiming for sarcasm, ‘no harm done- what’s the worst that could have happened anyway?’ He makes a grab for his boots again, he needs to get out of here, he knows his heart can’t take another beating like last time. Geralt’s shoulders tense and he spins round, incredulous. 

‘The worst thing?’ He says, his voice cracking, eyebrows knitted together in disbelief, ‘Damn it Jaskier! You could have died. What the hell do I have to say to make you take this seriously?’

Jaskier only mutely registers what Geralt is saying beyond the first few words. The bitter memories of the last time he’d heard those words are flashing before his eyes, he can hear them over and over, the vitriol and malice cutting deeper than a knife. 

It’s overwhelming. He’s tried to suppress these memories for so long that they’re spilling over and threatening to consume him. He isn’t sure where he is anymore, the blood rushing in his ears sounds remarkably like the howling winds from the cliffs, his rapid heartbeat the footsteps he’d strained to hear but never did. He’s drowning in memories; he drops his boots and starts clutching at his throat as if silenced by the djinn once more. He feels like he can’t breathe. His thoughts are erratic and wild- he almost wishes he was back in the snow. At least that had been silent, nothing screaming inside his head. He thinks he finally understands why Geralt always seemed to prefer the quiet.

Dimly, slowly, he registers strong hands gripping his arms, pulling his shaking hands from his throat, rough and calloused thumbs running over his knuckles. ‘Breathe, Jask. Breathe,’ he hears. He doesn’t know if it’s from inside his head or not, but he listens anyway, gulping air greedily. One of the hands comes up to cradle the back of his neck, and the slow, rhythmic pulse he can feel in the fingertips pressing gently against his skin help to bring his breathing under control.

As he feels the panic in his chest quieten, he opens his eyes to see Geralt’s own amber ones staring back at him, brimming with concern and guilt. He attempts to open his mouth, wanting to say that he’s okay, but Geralt holds up the hand that was covering Jaskier’s to silence him. Jaskier’s about to mourn the loss as Geralt steps away, but he sits next to him on the bed, pressed up against Jaskier’s side.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says. His tone is soft, but tight with guilt, ‘and I know that isn’t good enough, and I’m not just saying it.’ He twists his hands in his lap, suddenly unsure. Unthinking, Jaskier takes one in his own. Geralt blinks down at their entwined hands before raking his eyes back up to meet Jaskier’s.

‘Those things I said... were unforgivable. And I don’t expect forgiveness- they were cruel and vicious, but please believe me when I say I didn’t mean them. I was angry, and I took it out on you. And not a word of it was true.’

He looks away, seemingly overcome. Jaskier waits patiently, his hand still pressed against Geralt’s. Geralt takes a deep breath, and continues.

‘I never told you how much I enjoy your company. You’re a good man, Jaskier, and I’m not worthy of you. You did so much for me, and I took it all for granted. I pushed you away, but you continued to fill the silences by my side. That day with the djinn, when I thought I’d never hear your voice again, was the worst day of my life.’ His voice cracks, and Jaskier is startled to see wetness in his eyes. He reaches up a hand to caress Geralt’s cheek and wipe the tears from his eyes.

‘The worst day, at least until yesterday. I’ve been trying to find you all this time, always a few steps behind, but when the folk in the village told me you were here, I couldn’t believe my luck. But then I saw you lying in the snow, and I thought you were dead, and I-’

He’s cut off, this time by Jaskier, who turns his body and pulls Geralt against his chest, tucked under his chin, his face buried in tangled, white hair. Geralt’s arms wrap around his waist as if he never wants to let go. 

They stay locked in embrace for God knows how long, Jaskier’s hands combing through Geralt’s hair as he speaks.

‘I forgave you,’ he starts, hesitantly, ‘before I even made it down the mountain. I think I knew, deep down, that you were just angry, but that was the first time you’d explicitly asked me to go, so I thought that you really meant it. So, I did.’ 

He chuckles softly, and Geralt lifts his head to look at him, mild confusion in his eyes. 

Jaskier bites his lip, ‘I told myself it was fine, better even. No cleaning monster guts out of your hair or getting attacked by harpies or whatever trouble you attract. But oh,’ he whispers, ‘I missed you. I missed you so much it hurt. So, you don’t need to apologise, or feel guilty, because I already forgave you.’

He’s been staring at a point above Geralt’s head as he spoke. A firm hand tugs gently on his chin, and their eyes meet once more.

‘Thank you,’ Geralt says, and the tenderness is almost too much to bear for Jaskier, who adds, 

‘Plus, you need someone to write incredible ballads about your heroic deeds, otherwise Roach will have to go without carrots.’

Geralt smiles, the corners of his mouth tugging upwards as he laughs, deep and true. The sound warms Jaskier more than the fire.He pulls Jaskier onto his side and tucks him into his chest, pulling the cloak over both of them.

‘Go to sleep, Jask,’ he murmurs, running his hands through Jaskier’s curls, ‘there’ll be plenty of time for ballads later.’

And Jaskier, who’s easily being lulled into sleep by the gentle rise and fall of Geralt’s chest, knows he’ll never be cold again.

[infinites-chaser]

watch the universe expand | mlqc | lucien/mc | a character study disguised as fic

spoilers for ch.13 and random stuff from following chapters

warning for non-graphic discussion of violence and some themes that may be disturbing/triggering re:human experimentation

The call comes as it always does, not quite like  clockwork, in the small hours of the night, when he imagines the stars  have reached their zenith in the sky, done with their rise, ready for  their coming fall.

"Lucien?"

"What is it? Can't sleep?"

"Can you tell me a story?"

The call comes as it always does, not quite like clockwork, in the small hours of the night, when he imagines the stars have reached their zenith in the sky, done with their rise, ready for their coming fall.

"Lucien?"

He chuckles, colors only she can bring out of him warming his tone.

(He thinks her voice at this time of night is what violet would look like, at least as the poets describe it, a light in the dark, the first soft edge of dawn as night gives way to day.)

"What is it? Can't sleep?"

(He wonders sometimes what color his voice is to her. Black, perhaps. Possibly grey.

He can't imagine his voice having any real color, not even to her.

He'd be surprised at the truth. To her, he's more than color, he's light.)

"Lucien?" she repeats instead of a straight answer. "Can you tell me a story?"

It's a routine they've fallen into ever since the first unfinished  one, what he'd told her about the artist and the butterfly that felt too  true to be called a bedtime story but he'd been loath to admit to  himself that it was more.

Every sleepless night, she asks for another story and manages to fall asleep before the finish.

Every night they spend on opposite sides of a shared wall, he  questions a little more of his soul, the feelings that lie within, and  finds he doesn't have any answers.

Perhaps he doesn't want to find them.

Eventually her reactions— quiet oohs and ahhs and gasps and the occasional question— always fade into nothing but quiet,  even breathing, and it's like he's been let off the hook but he never  hangs up, or at least, not for a long moment more.

"Lucien," she'd mumbled once, when the first rays of light had just cleared the horizon. "Is the story over?"

Somewhere between exams and sips of white tea, lulled into a  temporary peace by the gentle rhythm to her breaths, he'd nearly  forgotten she'd been on the line.

Still, he'd managed to keep the surprise from his reply.

"You just missed the ending."

There'd been a long silence, nearly long enough that he'd thought she'd fallen asleep again, and he could hang up, off the hook, but—

"Was it a happy ending? It's okay if I missed it, just as long as it was happy."

"...It was."

She'd made a noise of satisfied incoherence in response, and he'd  taken the opportunity to wish her a good morning, prescribe her a few  hours more of sleep, apologize, then hang up.

(He still wonders about that fuzzy morning, that long night.

If she would've questioned him more if she weren't so tired. About the story’s ending. About the length of the call.

If he would've answered. If he would've lied.)

"A story?" He repeats now, settling in the corner of his living room he knows will be closest to her.

Scientifically, he knows it isn't possible, humans simply don't have the body temperature— but he fancies he can feel her warmth, even through the wall.

Perhaps it's a trait of the Queen's gene, previously unexplored. And, well, he wouldn't be opposed to testing that hypothesis, but we digress.

It's clear as day, or, at least, as clear as a monochrome day can ever be: there's something more.

Something that catches on a corner of his heart when she makes a quiet 'un' of assent and clears her throat, the sound, tinny as it is through the  phone speaker, vivid enough for him to picture. Her hand pressed to her  mouth. Her smile, after. The crescent moons of her eyes.

"Not any story, though. Tell me about Evol again?"

Then, at his silence: "Please?"

(Irrational thoughts rise, unbidden. He'd do anything for that word from her lips. Fight an army. Raze a city.

He'd live by it,

die by it,

and at the end of the day, he still wouldn't deserve it.)

"What do you want to know?" He asks, but to his ears, it sounds like I'd tell you anything.

She hums in thought, a butterfly floating light in the breeze.

"Why do people have the Evol they have? I don't want the science, not really."

Her voice trails off, comes back stronger,

"I want your honest opinion, Lucien. Tell me why?"

and it sounds less like a question, but not quite yet a command.

He chuckles, then obliges.

Time crawls by, soft and slow, a steady seamstress stitching together  unexpected, lingering thoughts. At his words, quiet intense musings  picking at open seams and pulling at loose threads, the universe between them unspools.

Why do people have particular Evols? To answer that question, we have to first understand why people have any form of differing traits.

Biology says, at first glance, chance. A freak gene mutation on a  chromosome of interest: deep within relevant coils of DNA, an A-T  pairing shifts to an A-G. Maybe it’s deleted altogether.

('That's not very romantic,' she comments with a barely stifled yawn.

He chuckles, soft, indulgent.

'You're right. I'm sorry. You did ask for a story, after all.'

He continues.)

But. That’s not all, not when evolution’s taken into account. The  idea of natural selection has been radically transformed by its  representation in popular media to be some strange justification for the  hierarchy of society (in a quite underhanded fashion, he thinks,  keeping the poor down and beaten as if it were their natural place,  allowing the rich to get only richer as if nature and not trust funds  had secured their positions on the top of the pyramid of life. Only life  isn’t a pyramid. Not a tree, either. Not quite. More like a story,  perhaps. But he digresses.) In reality, in biology and in nature, it's  much less simple.

The theory of natural selection, at its most bare bones, is, yes, survival of the fittest. Just that ‘fittest’ doesn’t mean strongest, most cruel or most cunning, doesn’t even mean  kindest or most caring. It means nothing, really, outside of context.

Very biologically speaking, ‘fittest’ implies the organism  reproduces with the most success when compared to others in its given  environment. Traits caused by random mutations that help an organism  survive in a particular environment long enough for it to have offspring  are passed on. And if the environment stays the same, the same traits  will be favored and passed on, over and over again across and through  generations, coming to define a species and the role that species plays in the world.

Clearly, it doesn’t mean much in that sense for humans anymore. What is our ‘fit’? Perhaps we've broken free of the chain of evolution, and now lounge atop the dogpile, above the fray. Triumphant. Stagnant.

Because even though maybe we've been running as fast as we can,  evolution's never more than one step behind. What's a generation of  progress in a millennium? No more than the barest breath caught in the  endless march of time.

No, evolution still very much has us in its clutches and these days,  he wonders what it would take for humanity to realize it, as complacent  as we are— there are certain traits favored, personality and looks, but  beyond that, beyond the biology, even, isn't there more? Something we  want most in the world we live in, our given environment. What a person needs  most, forever strives for, what'll allow them to flourish in their  environment enough to have a legacy and know some part of them continues  to live on.

To meet that need would be to finally surpass evolution, unlock a new  humanity, create a new world. The Red Queen, running rampant, running  free.

(But first, Evol. The key.)

There are three theories on the nature of Evol. This is the first.

The Theory of Superhumans had been put forward by a scientist over a  century ago, through a series of research studies, his articles full of academic terms like intensive accelerated artificial selection, induced heritable genetic variation, changes in gene expression in an adverse environment, followed by the thesis, spelt out in plain words: under the right conditions, a human can develop superhuman abilities.

It had been heralded as a theory for the ages, for the books, sure to  stay with and shape the course of humanity's advancement for centuries to come— only, we know the rest.

Each term, carefully clinical, couched the horror of the truth: the  scientist, name now scrubbed from history, willfully lost in time, had  thought to try to create superhumans— the Evolved, he'd dubbed them— by  gathering unsuspecting participants, then putting them through several  trials meant to push the limits of humankind, to unlock some secret  extra ability, to finish our ode to survival of the fittest, its beginnings scrawled in the letters of our genes.

'The right conditions' had meant mortal peril. The trials had been worse than torture. Almost all the participants had died.

The surviving four (out of over nine hundred, making the success rate  of the experiment less than half of a tenth of a percent) had been sworn to secrecy while the scientist (the madman) had been  sentenced to an execution, his underlings thrown in jail, his research condemned, labelled a crime against humanity and a failure, his papers all burned.

Only, if the research had been a failure, one might wonder, why the burning of the papers? A message? Don't try this again. It was a failure. Why, then the secrecy?

The rumors, the whispers, the festering that spreads under the bandage of a wound left otherwise untreated—the experiment hadn't been a failure, it was a success.

(And maybe a young woman who survived put her hand up to the sky and  let it fade. Maybe a young man who survived let his emotions spill out  and take physical form.  Maybe one of the survivors had placed a hand on  a lost love's chest and willed their heart alive again. But they all  kept their silence, true to their vows.)

His voice trails off. Some part of him wonders if he's bored her, the rest concerned with if he's said too much.

Words he's said to her come to mind now, flashing bright and blinding in the darkest hours of the night.

'Trust your instincts.’  

‘Don’t you ever think maybe I’m the danger?’  

‘Run away while you still can.’  

He can't think of a time where they all apply as fittingly as now.

Perhaps, from afar, they'd seemed like fireworks, dark, mysterious,  alluring in a world with no other light. But this close, they're a  warning, perhaps even a lure— he's tempting her to come closer despite  the danger, he the ravenous firefly cloaked in a bright, warm glow.

Surely she can see the truth of him, as close to him as she is.  Surely, and yet, she stays, takes another step closer.

"You said there were three theories," she says, still awake, still listening. Still seeking out more. "What's the next?"

"I've told you this one before," he replies, and he means to meet  her, to challenge her to press up against the other side of their wall.  "Do you remember?'

There are three theories on the nature of Evol. This is the next. (familiar ground)

(Once, humanity built a tower and would've reached the heavens—

Once, Icarus flew too close to the sun—  

It fell. He fell.

The world goes on.)

Twenty-five years ago, a British PhD student found a book. (Let's call it The Black Swan.)

He read it cover-to-cover, then read it twice. Three times. A fourth.  Again and again, until the book's story, half legend, half truth, took seed in his mind, where it grew anew.

Twenty-four years ago, he tracked down the experiment's remaining  survivor, the woman who could bend light and shadow and fade into the  palest streaks of day.

('Have you come to kill me?' She asked, wry smile  twisting over her age-lined face. She saw his lab coat, his notes, his  eager, hungry smile. She knew them all.

He opened his mouth. She stopped him.

'Apologies. I misspoke. You came here to learn.'

He nodded, too-quickly, still eager. Still young.

'For science,' he said, the same tired argument, old words, old justifications and cover-ups reflected in new eyes. She shook her head.

'Don't say that,' she said, weary amusement lighting her distant gaze. 'It's for humanity. For a new world.'

She held out her hand. He took it.

No one ever saw her again.)

Twenty-two years ago, a hypothesis, not quite yet a theory, was formed. In it, the newly minted scientist put forth a potential genetic  basis for superpowers in humans: one gene with the power to transcend human ability, once activated and expressed. The gene was Evol, the individuals possessing it Evolvers.

In his notes he attributed the name Evolver to the term Evolved used in a decades-old unpublished paper— a single pile of ashes left of rumors and whispers and burned research papers, given new life, reformed.

(The reality is this: the woman and her body on the verge of vanishing on her deathbed, her wrinkled hands thin, wan, shades of grey, beckoning the watching scientist over.

'Let me tell you a story,' she'd said, her voice carrying and strong. 'Once Icarus flew too close to the sun. He fell. But what don't we remember? Daedalus— he flew.'

'Is this another one of your lessons?' The scientist had asked and he was still every inch as greedy, but he'd lost his eager tone. 'I assume I'm Icarus, aren't I, experimenting on and dissecting Evolvers, flying too close to God, growing too arrogant for the unforgiving sun?'

'No.' she'd said. 'Listen.'

But he didn't.

He heard only half a story. But now, the rest of the tale. The truth.

'Let me tell you about Daedalus. Let me tell you about a man like  you who thought he was special. Who thought he had what it took to  change the world.'

Icarus fell, but Daedalus flew. Human progress, but at the cost of what? At the cost of who?

Hundreds of thousands of participants of failed experiments and twisted studies greet her when she goes beyond death's door.

'It's never been for science,' she'd have said if he'd cared to listen, words burning one last time, vibrant and alive, on her tongue. 'This is for our humanity. Our dignity. Not in spite of humanity's love but because of it.'

And love is evol backwards, isn't it? Two sides of the same coin.)

Twenty years ago, the scientist published his research. The study  had been innovative, the findings thorough: each Evolver had in them a  sequence of DNA, a bare few codons that transcended evolution, pairs of A-Ts and C-Gs he dubbed the Evol gene. Its expression varied from person to person, just as one might have brown eyes, and another blue, though  he'd noted there were cases of similarity in awakened Evol in family  lines, within communities, between lovers and sometimes close friends.

These findings suggest a correlation between Evol expression and environment, he wrote. Shared experiences shape an Evol's final awakened form as much as genetics, if not more.

The only question is, what makes an Evolver, if not just genetics? Who gets the gene? Who awakens it?

Then, messier, more frenzied writing. More bold. What if we could create Evolvers?

The reading between the lines: what if we took apart Evolvers so that we could build one of our own?

Six months later, and he'd been stripped of all his accolades and funding, the remaining Evolvers he'd taken in released when they were found.

Crimes against humanity, they'd called it. He'd laughed, said it was for science. For humanity. For humanity's progress. (despite  our humanity. for anything but our love.)

"Lucien," she says, soft but insistent— she's been trying to get his attention for a while now, bringing him back out of his reverie. "You've been silent for a long time now. Are you still there?"

He blinks. Attempts a closed-eye smile, then remembers she can't see him, and covers it with another gentle laugh.

"Just thinking," he replies. "It was a good story. You told it well— better than I would've. I'm impressed."

"I just added on the ending with whatever felt right in the moment!" She protests, making the smallest noise of embarrassment. Then, even softer:

"I liked it when you first told it to me. Just, it didn't sound complete. It didn't have a lesson, really, or any sort of answer."

(Implicit in her words: Your stories never do.)

Silence. Again, she speaks, reaching across their shared void.

"I just wanted to understand it better— the story, I mean." She  pauses, and he can feel his heart pound, just a beat faster than normal.  At her next words, he can practically feel her blush.

"I want to understand you better."

He laughs again, quiet and gentle. With his heart loud in his ears, it's all he can manage to do.

"I don't know if you should."

Another warning. Another barrier, another wall thrown up. Still, she presses on.

"Tell me the last theory," she says instead of answering. "Tell me the theory that's yours."

(He does.)

There are three theories on Evol. Two official, as official as they could be, and the last is his— a pet theory, really, the kind full of conjecture and personal accounts that’d never make it off the drawing  board, much less to the first peer review.

Awakening his Evol had been easy. What came after was what had been  hard. They hadn’t told him what they’d done to him, what monstrous power they’d given, what he’d gotten— but maybe it hadn’t ever been theirs to  give, it’d only ever been his to have.

A thought experiment:

You think your ability is super speed. You take the hand of someone—  say, an old lady, crossing the street— and suddenly that ability is gone. You're shocked. Terrified, even. Maybe all your life you'd thought you were special, and didn't think specialness vanished, it was your trait, your birthright, not a thing as fleeting as an amusement park ride. Later, you pat a friend on the back, and their thoughts come to  your mind, loud and clear. You're shocked again. Almost terrified again. But then you realize: your ability was never one thing. It was  everything. (It was nothing.)

But what does specialness reliant on the existence of other special  people mean in terms of you and your existence? Logically, nothing. Your  genes are random. There's nothing like fate written into them, you have  this ability by sheer chance. Still. You are everything and nothing.  (You’re different from all the others. There’s no one else like you.)

You're a reflection of others, but in the end, what are you? What's a  genius, what’s being special or different or extraordinary, if at the  end of the day, it’s all just a single breath (a pained eternity) away from normal?

Copycat, echo, mirror. Imposter.

(You paradox, you.)

He tries to embrace the power of his Evol. Push it, examine it, test its limits, its potential.

He learns he can copy multiple Evols at the same time. He collapses  the first time he tries invisibility and telepathy together, experimenting with invisibility's time limit, telepathy's reach, ending  up in a sweaty, trembling heap on his apartment floor. For a blinding moment, a moment of stupidity (helpless humanity), he wants to share his  results— but it's just him in his apartment, him and the sound of his  racing pulse.

He strains. He trains. He learns to manage three.

When he feels the pressure in his head build to a point beyond mere discomfort, he releases the one— a forcefield he's grown fond of, the silent glow surrounding him fading to pale unadorned apartment wall. This time, his breaths are even, measured, controlled. He does not turn to share his accomplishment with anyone who might be there. He knows nobody's beside him. He knows he's all alone.

Instead, he stares down at his open palms, then closes them, the  second Evol, x-ray vision, vanishing. Then follows the last, a simple heightened perception, and the rest of his senses bleed back into grey.

(There's one power he tries to copy, one simple talent even his genius can never master. A want more desperate than any other—

He searches. He use any excuse to be around strangers, meet new people, see new faces, shake others' hands.

(Somewhere in the sea of introductions and small talk and conversation, a new personality— the beginnings of what would become ‘Professor Lucien’, polished, calm, smooth— emerges.)

He never finds it. Instead, he finds he can copy countless others, craft dreams, weave miracles, do anything and everything— all except for this one mundane ability, taken forcibly from him.

Seeing color.  

He doesn't know if he just hasn't yet found the Evol or if he has,  unknowingly, and passed it without a second thought, the Evol itself  incapable of being replicated, echoed, or worn like a glove.

He isn't sure which one's worse. He isn't sure which one's true.)

They come back to him in this purgatory— his demons, his saviors, those monsters. Black Swan.

They tell him he's special (he's learned long ago the word means  worse than nothing) that they're like him, together they'll make a  better world.

He accepts their lie. (It feels better, after all, to be somebody's weapon than nobody's anything at all.)

He plays being a killer. Dons the name Ares. Throws coldness up  between him and all the others like one of his forcefields, like a wall.

They speak of the potential of human evolution. They speak of a new  race of superhuman Evolvers taking charge of and ruling the world. All  in impassioned, hateful, dangerous words— they color his world black and  he embraces it.

Anything is better than grey, he thinks early on, perhaps foolishly, over yet another still-warm mangled body.

'Normie,' one of the other men on the mission spits, aiming a  kick at the body, low and vicious, his voice like a bloody oath. He  turns to Ares with a grin. 'We did good. Wanna grab a drink?'

Ares doesn't smile. He thinks, 'What's one more corpse?'

He returns to headquarters alone.

(They don't send him out on team missions, after.)

And now—

her.

His color. His reckoning. His proof.

(In her eyes— her strong righteous savior's gaze— he imagines the  artist's jar shattering, the butterfly soaring high, soaring free.)

"Lucien," she says, calling out to him, voice hovering, trembling on  the edge of a sob. His heart clenches, and he clutches it, wondering how  he should respond.

"Lucien."

He takes a breath, then another.

"I'm sorry— what is it? I'm still here."

Lines like "Are you okay?" or "Talk to me, please." go unspoken. Instead, she says, soft and gentle:

"Have you seen the stars tonight? They're beautiful."

"I haven't."

"Then...come to the balcony with me?"

An almost-eternity passes. But then, he agrees.

(first, a brief tangent.)

There are four men. He's one of them. But what about the other three?

The boy trapped in his past by the memory of the one he couldn't protect, his Evol and him both frozen in time.

The boy who wanted freedom from the rumors, the fighting, most of  all, from his dad, who grew wings to escape them and become one with the  breeze.

The boy who'd never been loved unconditionally and now surrounded himself with it, a part of him rearing its head to demand it.

(all other stories. for other times, other worlds.)

"You know, sometimes I think the stars must be lonely," she says, and though he doesn't dare look at her, he hears her both in real life and through the phone speaker cradled close to his ear. He feels rather than sees her move closer to his side of the balcony, closing the distance,  coming to the edge.

"They're thousands of light years away from each other," she continues. "Maybe they wonder if they're all alone, sometimes, if  they're the only light for miles in an empty, endless dark sea."

"It makes me sad, to think about it. We spend our lives looking up at the stars and casting lines, drawing constellations between them, but in reality, they're just as lonely as we are. Maybe even more."

"I'm rambling, aren't I? Sorry— it's been a long day, and it's just  this time of night, it always makes me melancholy for some reason. I can't remember why."

She laughs a little, self-deprecating. In the night's stillness, he hears the shuddering in her next breath. It takes hold deep within him, her fisherman's hook, line, and sinker, gone straight to his heart.

"Don't say that," he says, the words freed from that same place deep within him, and what he means is 'You're not alone.'

"MC."

He's at his edge of the balcony before he knows it— for the first time, it's him reaching back across the ocean between them, it's his question, his unspoken plea.  

His eyes seek hers in the darkness.

She finds him.

(His color.

Her light.)

There's a knock from the doorway, echoed over the phone. He laughs softly into the speaker, then moves in from the balcony and crosses his room to open the door. It's her.

“Lucien,” she says, and his name on her lips holds all the secrets of the universe, stars and galaxies swirling in the space between each of her breaths.

She holds her hands out to him, she, his lifeline, his compass, the one bright color of his life.

He hesitates for a moment, then takes then, gets pulled by them into her, into the warmest embrace.

(he can hear her heartbeats, echoes of songs of legend of stories, intertwined with his)

"Lucien," she murmurs into his chest. "Tell me a story? Tell me yours."

This time, he hears her as he's meant to, the words were never a  command, they were a question. A plea. Another step in his direction,  just like the knock on his door.

(he lets her in.

she stays awake for the rest of the story, stays on the line for the rest of the call.

together, they create their own ending.)

[bandaged-writer]

gasoline 03 || dazai

➤ Pairing: Mafia! Dazai x Ability User! Reader

➤ Genre: action, fluff, angst, smut, gore, violence

➤ Warnings: mentions of blood

➤ Summary: It wasn’t every day that someone dared to attack the mafia’s men, it wasn’t every day that a stranger joined the organization and it certainly wasn’t usual for Mori to get an innocent citizen killed.

➤ Word count: 4k

➤ Note: Enjoy reading + feedback is very much appreciated!

➤ previous || next

Pitch black heels clacked against the concrete at a steady pace while the breeze was gently playing with the hem of the equally dark dress you wore. It felt like the wind was greeting you after you had holed yourself up in the new apartment Mori had provided. How had he phrased it? Ah, right. Since someone was out for your life and you were a member of the mafia, it was their duty to be able to keep an eye on you. You had seen no lie in the boss’s eyes, no matter how deep your eyes bored into his - he was honest about this. 

Three days had passed since Yukino’s death, three days had passed since Mori had tended to your wound, three days had passed since your life had taken a brutal turn. 

The people passing you seemed to have no face, although you knew that all of them carried a name, a birthday and a very individual voice. They had become faceless and the words they spoke were silent, never reached your ears. Instead, the dull sound of your shoes hitting the street filled every fibre of your being along with the fear of attending your friend’s funeral and meeting her parents for possibly the last time. 

Your hands were cupped right above your stomach as your feet carried you down the street you were so familiar with, the street in which you used to live in. From the corner of your eyes, you could see your neighbors gazing out of the window, cooking or trying to feed their children. Oh, how lucky they were to have a healthy, functioning haven which would protect them from every storm. Oh, how nice it had to be not to be transparent to the world. Oh, how that luxury slipped through your fingers like water.

Suddenly, your feet stopped in front of your former apartment. Raising your gaze, you felt pain itself tug on your heartstrings and wanting to pull them apart. Breathing physically hurt as the plain white facade of the house stared right back at you, still filled with furniture and plants as if no one had died in there, as if it didn’t soak up Yukino’s blood. Your heartrate sped up against your will, but you remained calm on the outside like a doll.  

“We’re finally living together!,” a grin adorned Yukino’s small face, her dark eyes filled with nothing but the purity of happiness and a hint of exhaustion. Various colors of paint stained her cheek and clothes, hands a bit calloused from putting up wardrobes and shelves. You chuckled in response and breathed in the fresh paint. It was an unpleasant smell, but it’d soon become the scent of home. “You’re always too excited about the smalles of things,” you flicked Yukino’s forehead gently like she was a child. Pouting, she rubbed her forehead, brushed your comment off and fished her phone out of the back pocket of her now more than colorful jeans.

“Let’s take a picture! It’s our first memory in here and will remain forever.” 

You stood next to Yukino who wrapped an arm around her shoulder, her grin never fading. The corners of your mouth tugged themselves upwards into a gentle, warm smile as Yukino snapped the picture with her phone.

 “Say cheese, [Name]"!

 You tugged some of your hair behind your ear, exhaled slowly and turned your back to the place you once called home. It was too painful to visit the past, to visit the place of a happy memory when you were drowning in an ocean of thoughts, regrets and guilt. “The place which holds our first memory has become the place which now carries our last memory,” you spoke to no one in particular, the wind washed your words of sadness away as you turned your back toward the building you had once loved so much.

Out of the blue, dark dots decorated the concrete and as you stretched out your palm, you felt that it was starting to rain.  

It’d pour soon, you thought. 

Relatives had gathered around the tombstone which had become Yukino’s permanent bed, flowers of all colors glowed among the dark garments on everyones’ bodies, among the tears being spilled, among the dreary clouds which seemed to mourn as well. She had always liked bright colors, you remembered. 

“[Name]..dear..,” it was Yukino’s mother who first spotted you isolated from the crowd. She didn’t seem to mind the mud dirtying the fancy black of her shoes as she came running to you, her slender arms wrapping you into a hug and her chin finding home on your shoulder. “I’m so sorry you had to witness this,” the woman’s voice was shaking, became more fragile than fine china the more words fell from her red-painted lips. It took you a moment to find the strength in your arms to return the hug and once your arms were wrapped around Yukino’s mom, she broke into tears. 

“Why would anyone take Yukino’s life? She couldn’t even harm a fly,” she sobbed and ruined her makeup she spent quite a while on - possibly to shorten the time she would have to be at the funeral. It was understandable and you couldn’t blame Yukino’s mother. Who wanted to attend their child’s funeral? “I know,” was all you could say as the mother used you as a rock to steady herself.

“How are you holding up?,” you recognized the voice and sent Yukino’s father a faux smile which never filled the emptiness of your eyes. His strong arms gently pulled his wife away from you and she immediately wiped her eyes, leaning her weight against her husband’s body. “I’m alright,” you lied through white teeth but the more you’d say it, the more you could convince yourself that you indeed were okay. Father didn’t seem to believe you, but he never dug deeper than that. Maybe he understood your way of dealing with this tragedy, maybe he didn’t even want to know.  

“I hope the police will catch the murderer. Yukino deserves justice,” mother had regained some of her composure, but her nose was red from all the sniffing, eyes a bit bloodshot from all the crying she had to go through. You couldn’t sense any hatred in her - she was either too broken to hate or she was really that kind. Oh, how badly you wanted to tell her that the police would be no match for the masked murderer, that they’d end up drowning in their own blood much like her daughter. However, there was one thing you could guarantee the shattered parents:

“She will get justice. I’ll make sure of it.” 

Small hands found home on your nearly bare shoulders, a sad smile finding its way on the lips of Yukino’s mother. “You’re a strong one, aren’t you?,” she brushed drenched strands of your hair away from your face and cupped your cold cheek - her touch was warm and welcoming as always. A woman who was the embodiment of love and forgiveness. “You’re always more than welcome,” Yukino’s mother offered you to stay at their place, to become a temporary home, but did you deserve it after letting their daughter die in your arms?  

You had already lost your home and it was buried two meters under.

“Thank you. But it won’t be necessary,” you removed the hand from your cheek and bid your farewell to the parents. You had no right to console them after what had happened three days ago.  

And so, you had sat down on a bench not too far away from Yukino’s colorful grave with the rain pouring down on you. Hour after hour passed, guests left one by one after giving the parents a comforting hug and words of encouragement they probably couldn’t commit to themselves, yet. Why did people try to cheer up others when they themselves were in so much pain that they couldn’t believe their own words? Maybe it was the same as you telling Yukino’s parents that you were okay when in reality, you were broken beyond repair. 

Eventually, the graveyard was empty and your only company had become the rain. Dull eyes stared at the grave like they were waiting to wake up from a nightmare, but one couldn’t wake up from reality. Not when you knew that the rain soaking you was very much real, when the wind blowing by froze you to your bones, when that hole in your heart physically hurt you to the point your lungs hurt with each inhale. 

At once, the rain seemed to avoid you. Looking up, you saw Dazai standing next to you with an umbrella in his hand which shielded the both of you from the sky’s endless tears. For a moment, the brunette said nothing while his dull eyes were fixed on the grave which you were visiting with distance - like it could burn you if you got too close. 

“She was your friend, wasn’t she?,” Dazai suddenly spoke up, but the low timbre of his voice prevented you from feeling startled. In a dark corner of his heart, he felt sorry for you losing your best friend. He remembered the determined glimmer in your eyes when you had stood in front of Mori and burned whatever piece of information about your past the boss had in his hands. But now, you seemed like a shell of who you used to be, the light in your eyes burned out and what was left was someone who became transparent to the world.

“The cause of death was a cut to her jugular,” your gaze fell back to the grave in front of you as you recalled the memory bit by bit without being asked to. It felt like you were running on gasoline like a machine. “That night, I tried to cauterize it to win some time, but the cut was too deep. Yukino died in my arms before her murderer came for my life, as well,” everything was monotonous. Dazai understood why you had been drenched in blood when he found you at the pier, but now the question was how he was supposed to respond.

Blood stained his own bandaged hands, the lives of countless of people went on his account. He himself had committed more crimes than he could count. 

Maybe, Dazai shouldn’t say anything at all. 

“What do you plan on doing now?,” it nearly sounded like Dazai was offering you a way out of the mafia, to go live your life and get yourself back together or maybe he just wanted to know what you’d do now that you could use the mafia’s influence and resources. You’d probably never find out what his intention was. Briefly, your eyes looked up at the grey sky, a few rain drops found their way on your cheeks as the wind blew from a different direction.  

“I promised to avenge her. Until then, I can’t afford to die,” suddenly, it stopped raining and the sun slowly peeked through the thick clouds, dipping your form in a false halo as you put on the mask of a smiling fool. It tightly stuck to your skin as it melted into your face, the smile was a bit too angelic, too pure to be real and Dazai saw that the mask you wore threatened to become one with you.

“I see,” he turned his back to you and looked at you over his shoulder, catching your gaze. “We’ve got some things to talk about. Come.”

Sitting in the corner of a small restaurant which mainly sold crabs, sake and ramen, you rubbed your hair dry with a towel the owner’s wife had kindly gotten you after being outraged about your soaked form. You looked at your reflection in the window, trying to make your damp hair look as acceptable as possible when Dazai chirped up:“You know you’re already a sight for sore eyes, right?” This guy would never give up his attempts to woo you, would he? A huff left your lips and your fingers reached for the small menu card which listed more dishes than expected - a pleasant surprise. “Thanks for your unnecessary input.” 

“Ah, your tongue is as sharp as always, belladonna!,” the brunette threw his head back and covered his eyes with his right hand, the other one placed on his heart as the man let another rejection of yours sink in. Silently, you wondered how a dumbass of Dazai’s caliber could make it into the mafia and managed to survive that lifestyle. The more you wondered, the more you could feel a headache approaching and stopped. Gazing over the edge of the menu, you hid your pout behind the sheet of paper. “Quit acting like you’re hurt and tell me if anything on this menu is good.”  

“Everything here is good,” Dazai looked at you with doe-like eyes, a sense of innocence filled them and he nearly looked boyish. Skillyfully taking the menu card from your fingers, he pointed at the bowl of ramen, saying that you’d probably like it best. “How do you know I like ramen?,” it was a bit creepy, considering you had never shared a meal with the brunette and didn’t even know of his existence until three days prior. Dazai leaned back in his seat, a small shrug of his shoulders quickly followed. “When I followed you home, I could smell your roommate cooking ramen and people usually cook dishes their roommate could like. Especially after having come home after spending a year abroad.”  

How badly you wanted to pin this on beginner’s luck or a lucky guess of his, but Dazai’s reasoning was too accurate to be deemed as mere luck. What he had let you see was probably only a tiny bit of his wits and you weren’t sure if you were ready to see more of it. 

Your train of thought was interrupted by the waitress coming up to your table and you couldn’t find it in you to be surprised when Dazai was flirting with her. “Your hands are as tender as ever,” Dazai mused as he traced his finger along the waitress’s pale knuckles. A blush quickly rose to her cheeks and you could tell that these two were at least acquainted up to some sort of level. “Oh, quit it. Not here,” the woman giggled and bashfully pulled her hand away from the brunette’s grasp as she took his order: crab soup. She was about to leave when you caught her attention by clearing your throat and smiling at her - she was beyond unpleased. 

“Excuse me, but you forgot my order, miss,” you spoke a bit too sweetly and blinked a few times too many. The nerve this woman had. “Right, of course..”

 In the end, you could see why Dazai flirted with the woman. He got a discount and a bigger bowl than you. 

“I can’t understand how someone can be so smitten with you,” you spoke after gulping down a fair amount of your noodles and slightly burning your tongue in the process. The dish was surprisingly delicious, neither too spicy nor too bland and tickled your tongue just right. If only it wasn’t piping hot and burned your esophagus. Well, that went on you for being too greedy. “Are my ears deceiving me or are you jealous?,” Dazai took a bite of his crab, a pleased look on his face as he tasted the tender meat of the creature. Not having had his favorite food in a while made Dazai appreciate the dish more than usual. “Not in this lifetime,” you warningly point your chopsticks at the brunette with narrowed eyes and your lips forming a straight line. You’d rather die than develop a thing for Dazai who was a scaringly smart dumbass. 

From that point on, the conversation died down which you were thankful for. You could finally enjoy your meal in peace without worrying about what kind of words would assault your poor ears. The noodlesoup warmed you up from within your very core and made you feel less dead than before. In the meantime, Dazai occasionally stole glances at you, committed every reaction of yours to his memory and analyzed you from head to toe. 

You were kind to others and could love deeply - the sudden change you went through after Yukino’s death was solid evidence of that. However, beside those positive traits, he could sense the thick cloud of sadness and loneliness surrounding you like a hug and Dazai saw himself in you for a second.  

You just finished your bowl of ramen relaxed into your seat when Dazai was the one to start a conversation, one which you would rather avoid, but you know it had to happen sooner or later. “Have you seen the ice user? Any detail is important.” Your cheek rested on your right palm while your left index finger traced the rim of the glass of water you had ordered. The glass squeaked quietly once in a while. “It was a woman. The body was delicate and about my height, but that’s all I could see. She wore a mask and a long robe of some sorts.” Dazai cupped his chin in thought and nodded to himself, his hair went with the soft motion. “Any anomalies?” You told him about how Yukino’s body nearly froze yours, how the temperatures dropped and how the woman could manipulate ice to create weapons and even freeze rivers. “The description is identical to our information. It’s a good thing you fought her in combat. Then we have at least an idea of her ability.”

The ringtone of a phone interrupted the small exchange of information and made your heart skip a beat. Dazai brought his phone to his ear and you could see the brunette’s face fall as he realized that Mori was on the other end of the line. “How’s your date with [Name] going?,” the mafia boss seemed to be in a good mood if his cheery tone was anything to go by, but Dazai wouldn’t bet money on it. Seeing the chance to tease you and get another reaction out of you, he went along with Mori’s words. “Why, my date with [Name] is going well!,” the rest of the phone call was spent by Dazai only saying okay or yes - much like when a mother phoned her child, bombarded them with questions and the kid just wanted the conversation to end as soon as possible.

“This is not a date. And you won’t ever take me on one, either,” you crossed your arms over your chest while Dazai hung up on his boss. You were familiar with guys like Dazai, guys who were popular with the ladies, got what they wanted and then vanished the morning after. The story with the waitress wasn’t much different, either. He flirted with her, got his discount and never took it any further despite getting the poor woman’s hopes up. “Will you, belladonna, at least let me try to win your lovely heart?”  

You had to admit that Dazai was handsome, even quite charming. But you knew where this would get you if you gave in. “Dazai, please, save the both of us the heartbreak.” At that, he raised his eyebrows in curiosity, eyes sparked up with something you would call being challenged, maybe even pleasantly surprised. “Are you implying that I could fall for you and vice versa?” You shrugged lightly and let your eyes fall on Dazai’s face and tilted your head to the side, smirking. “Over my dead body.” 

The carpet drowned out the clacking of your heels and you noted that the hole you had burned into the fabric was gone. With the sun setting, the light painted the mafia boss’s office in an orange hue and let the river outside seem warm and welcoming for a quick dip. It was a picture perfect.

“I will only remain here until the person who killed Yukino is dead,” you sat down in front of Mori’s desk, Dazai sat next to you with legs crossed and his ears following the conversation attentively. He acted as a witness to whatever compromise you and the boss would agree on. “Until then, you’re going to keep my original job secure and once this is over, you’ll pretend like I’ve never been part of the mafia and destroy every bit of documented information you have about me.” 

Mori was impressed by your negotiation skills, figuring that business school taught you that much. Looked like your grades were neither a disappointment nor a lie. “I’ll agree with this if you agree to my conditions,” Mori smiled and rested his chin on the back of his hand. He definitely had no problem with the things you demanded from him, they sounded fair and he doubted you would ever leak the way the mafia operated - they could take care of you faster than you could blink. “All I expect from you is to be loyal and obedient. If any of my subordinates suspect you of betraying the mafia, they have the right to kill you.” Unconsciously, your spine straightened and a drop of sweat ran down your temple. You squirmed in your seat at the mere thought of everyone in this building being allowed to kill you of they thought of it as necessary. “Fine,” it didn’t sit quite well with you, but this was the cost for regaining a normal life. 

“Excellent!,” Mori clapped his gloved hands together once, reached for a file in his drawer and handed it to you. To your surprise, it seemed to be one of confidential content since it was sealed. The seal was already broken by Mori, though. “Dazai already enlightened you about our situation and information, so I want the two of you to partner up and find out who’s behind this. You’ll find more information in there.” 

You bowed more out of fear than respect before leaving his damned office. 

As soon as the heavy doors to Mori’s office fell into the lock behind you, you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. Something about this man absolutely terrified you and you feared that if you let the boss know you were scared of him, he could smell it and attack you like a dog. 

Walking down the corridor, you could feel Dazai’s shoulder brushing yours every once in a while, his steps were prominent in your ears and his cologne overwhelmed your sense of smell for a moment. You hated that he actually smelled good on top of already being gifted with good looks. “I can’t believe I’ll be stuck with you,” you groaned and opened the file, the number of the mission greeting you in thick writing. Dazai pouted, let his shoulders fall and shoved his hands into his pockets. “You can be so mean and all I did was breathe.” 

As you read through the content, you stopped dead in your tracks and broke out in a cold sweat. Eyes widened, a lump found home in your throat while your fingers were shaking. This couldn’t be true, right? Everything had to be the universe pulling a joke on you, an illusion which you were stuck in. You had suspected that your past would catch up to you, but everything came at once. Never in your entire life did you desire to see this hellish place, again. Dazai stopped several steps ahead of you as he noticed you were no longer following him. “Hm? What’s wrong?”  

“Several mafiosi have been murdered at the abandoned hospital..” 

A wicked smirk was stretched across Dazai’s lips, his gaze bore into your shaky form and a chuckle spilled from deep within his chest. This mission would definitely be more interesting than the previous ones which caused excitement to fill Dazai’s lungs bit by bit. It wasn’t every day that someone dared to attack the mafia’s men, it wasn’t every day that a stranger joined the organization and it certainly wasn’t usual for Mori to get an innocent citizen killed.

“The only place in Yokohama which is half burned and half frozen. Looks like you have a past with our target, [Name].”

[eevee-eclair]

Happy Pappy Patton

Written by EeveeEclair

Chapter 1

TW: self harm, depression, out of control shopping cart, suicidal thoughts and past attempt(s), (tell me if I missed one)

Random side note: I wanted to write angst and see how far I could take it. Then my brain reminded me about that post I made with Patton having two dramatic boyfriends and was like, “put that in there” and now I have a possible chapter fic to hold up! Please leave some support if you like it and I’ll write the next chapter! (Also it’s a human AU and this is NOT REMROM)

~~~

Patton stared at the wall. He’d been staring at that exact same spot for about an hour now and he was starting to get bored. The only problem was he had nothing else to do.

Well… there was the knife.

With a heavy sigh, he blinked before pushing himself into a sitting position. He looked around his room before he found where he left his knife the last time he cut. He used to cut to punish himself but now, it was just a way to clear the fog in his brain. Even then, it wasn’t doing a lot.

He stood up and walked over and grabbed it. He tilted it around, studying its sharp edges. He could see his reflection in the silver blade. He looked really pale and sickly.

Not like anyone cares. Some part of him said. It was true. After he came out to his family, they basically disowned him. He never had any friends growing up so he didn’t have any now. His only friend and family was his cousin Emile who was a therapist. He laughed a little at how ironic that was.

He pulled up his pants before sliding the cold metal against it. He barely flinched as he made his first cut. He’d become so used to it by now, it did nothing to him physically. On the inside, however, he felt the fog slowly peel away. It was satisfying in some sick way.

He kept cutting and cutting until his whole leg was covered in a layer of blood. He sighed and went to retrieve the first aid kit under the bed. This wasn’t the first time he went overboard with the cutting, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last.

He wrapped his leg in a thick layer of bandages, not bothering to clean the blood. He didn’t care if he got an infection, anyway. He was just taking up space on this lump of rock in space, so he might as well end it sometime soon. His brain however, still held on to a sliver of hope, so he hasn’t done that yet. He still had the painkillers sitting on his kitchen counter from his last pathetic attempt. He chickened out last second and watched Steven Universe instead.

Now that his brain was somewhat working properly, he realized that he needed to go grocery shopping. He didn’t like doing it because it required socializing. Socializing means people asking how he’s doing. He always lies, saying ‘I’m doing just fine!’ and he hates lying.

Patton stood up and hissed in annoyance when his leg almost gave out. He walked around and got ready to go to the store. He looked at the clock on his bedside table and saw it was almost noon. Not the latest he’s slept in, but not the earliest either.

Now that he was dressed, he walked to the kitchen, debating whether or not he should eat breakfast. He decided to just grab a banana before walking out. It was a nice day, considering the bad start. The sun was out—thankfully not too bright or hot—while the crisp autumn air blew through his hair, causing him to give a weak smile.

Patton waved at his neighbors, Dot and Larry before climbing into his car and driving to All-Mart (see what I did there?). He parked and got out, not paying any attention to the world around him.

Luckily—or unluckily in Patton‘s opinion—he made it across the parking lot safely, so he grabbed a basket and walked into the store. He walked around grabbing things he needed. He was so zoned out, trapped in his own thoughts he didn’t hear the loud ‘look out!’ before it was too late.

Patton yelped when the cart made contact with his cut leg. Looking up he saw two identical men fussing over him, making sure he was okay.

“Remus! What did I tell you about riding the cart?!” The man in red cried.

The other one, Remus, sighed. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to hit him!” He said.

Patton shook his head and put on his best fake smile. “I’m fine, kiddos! Don’t worry about me!” He laughed.

Remus bilinked. “Are you sure? You just got hit by a runaway shopping cart and you’re not hurt?” Remus asked.

Patton gave a nervous laugh. “It just caught me off guard is all!”

The other man nodded slowly. “Well, if you’re sure you’re okay, we won’t bother you about it,” he said. Then he gave a huge smile. “I’m Roman, by the way!”

Patton nodded. “I’m Patton! And I’m assuming he’s Remus?” He asked, pointing to the man in question.

Remus nodded. “Yeah!”

Patton laughed. “Well, despite hitting me with a shopping cart, you both seem like very nice people!” He said.

“You’re not that bad yourself,” Roman said, smiling. “How about we give you our numbers and we have dinner?”

Patton blushed. He wasn’t expecting to make a friend while shopping! Let alone two! “Yeah! That sounds lovely!”

Roman nodded and pulled out a piece of paper and a pen before scribbling two phone numbers on it before handing it to Patton. “Call us anytime,” he said, winking. And with that, they were gone.

Patton looked at the fancy writing and gave his first genuine smile in a long time. Things might just be looking up.

[rohad93]

Authority Online: ch 12

They had long left the city behind by the time the sun began to rise over the horizon, filling the van windows with streaks of bright warm light. 

Rose and Greg sat in the front seats, talking quietly to each other over the low noise of the radio with Steven strapped into the car seat bolted to the van floor behind the driver’s side chair.

Meanwhile, She and Celeste sat on the metal floor of the van with the bags, bobbing along with every dip and pothole in the road. Celeste’s head was resting on the blonde’s shoulder, eyes closed, though Jaune was sure that she wasn’t asleep.

She had her hands in her lap and her head leaned back against the metal, occasionally glancing at the other occupants of the van but for the most part, was lost in her thoughts. 

She had already decided that she wasn’t going to think about work at all this weekend. It would still be there on Tuesday. She’d promised Celeste that she would try her best to get along with her family, though it seemed like it was really only Rose she was going to have any problems with and she hadn’t even done anything.

She snorted to herself at that, the more she thought about it the more annoyed she was that she was being assumed guilty of something she hadn't even done. She took a deep breath through her nose and tried to reel back the annoyance that could so quickly turn into seering anger if she wasn’t careful. 

She had made a promise and she had every intention of honoring it.

Movement at her side made her eyes slide to look at Celeste, who was now looking up at her with a look that was far to tender for this early in the morning.

“What?” she asked quietly, not just because she didn’t fancy Greg or Rose overhearing them but because Steven was fast asleep in his car seat. 

“I’m just really glad you came with us,” she mumbled, reaching over and wrapping her fingers around one of the hands sitting on her thighs. 

Had she been obvious in her distaste for this kind of thing? She didn’t think she had. 

Celeste smiled, seeming to sense her thoughts, or perhaps she was merely reading the lawyer’s face.  

“Just knowing what I know about you and your hobbies, I get the feeling this isn’t really your idea of a good time.” She looked at Jaune with a knowing little smile.

Caught, there was no reason to pretend otherwise and insult the baker’s intelligence. 

“No, I’m really not the outdoors type,” she confirmed with a grimace but Celeste only smiled and leaned up to press a soft kiss to her cheek.

“I’ll make it up to you,” she promised quietly.

“There’s nothing to make up,” Jaune mumbled, squeezing back the fingers that were still wrapped around her own. “You’re happy and that’s good enough for me.” 

The way Celeste was looking at her made her insides bubble nervously, but before the baker could say anything they van pulled to a gentle stop and Greg turned around in his seat with a grin. 

"Were here!' he announced loudly, causing his son to stir as he climbed out the van. Rose turned around and started unbuckling the boy just as the vans double doors opened.

"Finally…," Jaune mumbled as she and Celeste carefully climb down to the back and out into the warm sunlight to stretch out their stiff limbs

The overwhelming scent of wet Earth and grass hit Jaune before anything else. The campsite was surrounded on all sides by towering trees with dirt paths winding and twisting between the foliage on the forest floor, maybe fifty yards away she could see the glistening water of the lake, reflecting blinding sun rays off its surface.

“Oh, the weather is perfect!” Celeste smiled brightly as she stretched her arms over her head. Jaune could admit it was beautiful, but despite the fact that it was still early morning, it was already starting to get warm. She rolled up the sleeves of the red and gold plaid shirt. It was still stiff.

She’d had to go out and buy clothes just for this trip, except for her jeans, the two shirts, and hiking boots were new.  

"I'm gonna start getting set up," Greg called as he started tossing bags out of the back of the van. "Heads up Jaune!" He called just as a long black bag came flying out towards her. 

She managed to turn and put her hands up just as the heavy canvas bag flew into her chest. Knocking the wind out of her. 

"Good catch! That's your and Celeste's tent," he said before turning back around and digging through the bags.

Celeste giggled at the disgruntled look on her girlfriend’s face but Rose was quickly calling out to her.

“Come help me with the food!” she called, setting Steven down on the ground. 

She glanced back at Jaune, maneuvering the canvas bag to fit better in her grip.

“Are you okay to work on that by yourself?” she asked. Jaune straightened up at that. 

“If I can pass the bar exam I can set up a tent,” she assured. Celeste nodded and without another word went over to help Rose unload the ice chests of food. 

Picking a spot away from the firepit, with fairly flat ground, she dropped the bag and dug out its contents, a bunch of poles, connected by elastic and the tent itself.   

No instructions, however. 

How hard could it be, she had seen plenty of tents before.

Twenty minutes later she hated the damn thing with a fiery passion.

She put one foot on the tent and stretched one pole from its slot in the bottom toward the one at the top.

It acted like it didn’t want to fit but after much, too much, trial and error, it had to go here!

She grumbled angrily to herself under her breath as she forced the plastic rod closer to the slot. It bowed dangerously as she pressed it.  

She was so engrossed in getting the tent put together that she didn’t notice the six-year-old coming up behind her while his parents and aunt were busy.

“Hi, Jaune!” The boy called with a grin, making the lawyer jump. Her grip on the pressured pole slipped and it shot out of her hand, snapping back and cracking her in the face.

The blonde's world was awash in bright pain. Her hands flew up to cover her face, muffling the string of curses and hissing. 

She must have cried out because the next thing she knew Celeste and Rose had come running over.

“Are you alright?” Celeste fussed, hands flittering about the lawyer’s face, unsure if she should touch or not yet until Jaune moved her hands. 

“Steven!” Rose knelt down to her son’s level. “What did we say about sneaking up on people when they’re doing things?” She asked sternly and the boy frowned, looking down at his feet.

“Not to…” was the hushed reply. 

“You have to let me see…” Celeste grabbed both Jaune’s wrists and carefully peeled them away from her face and hissed at the long, diagonal welt that crossed Jaune’s face from just under her right eye to the left of her chin, practically glowing red. Blood was slowly seeping out on her cheek where she had taken the brunt of the force and on her lip.

“It’s not that bad, but let’s clean it up.” She tugged her by the hand over to the van and sat her down, legs hanging over the bumper.

After digging around in her own bag for a few seconds she came back with a little metal box and flipped the lid, digging out a few little square packages. 

“This will sting a little,” she warned, opening one of the packages and pulling out a little white square and began gently rubbing at the furiously colored mark that bisected her face.

Jaune hissed at the burning alcohol on her already painful injury.

“Sorry” Celeste mumbled, working quickly. Once it was clean she gently pressed a bandage to the bleeding portion over her cheek. The rest would just have to go back down on its own.

She glanced over at the tent still laying in a heap on the ground.

“I’m curious how well you actually did on the bar exam…” she grinned as the rest of Jaune’s face turned as red as the welt at her teasing. “I assume you’ve never put a tent together before?” 

“What gave me away?” Jaune huffed, crossing her arms, and Celeste grinned.

“Let me help?” she offered. Jaune just nodded. 

With Celeste’s more experienced knowledge, it took all of ten minutes to get the tent set up, much to Jaune’s chagrin, which was only amplified by the stinging of her face.

Once camp was fully set up Rose declared they were heading down to the lake.

The sister’s and Steven disappeared into the tents to change while Greg dug around inside the back of the van, making a commotion in the otherwise quiet woods. He finally emerged with several fishing poles and a tackle box under one arm. He immediately noticed the blonde standing alone in the middle of the camp.

“You’re not going swimming?” He questioned, hopping out of the van.

“I burn easily.” She explained.

“Oh, yeah, it’s gonna be a hot one today. Why don’t you come fish with me? You can use one of my poles.” He offered.

“Thank you, Greg, but I don’t know how to fish.”

“Oh, well, it’s never too late to learn if you want.” He was grinning and holding out one of his poles, and honestly, her other option was just sitting on the shore or staying here in camp and she knew that wasn’t going to fly with Celeste.

“Alright…” She took the offered fishing pole just as Celeste came out of their tent, and no, she wasn’t starring at the blue and white striped bikini.

“You’re going with Greg?” she asked, wrapping a towel around her waist as she walked up to them.    

"Apparently"

“I’ll meet you down at the water.” Greg took the rest of the gear and walked down the path leading to the water. 

"I was hoping you'd come with us." She crossed her arms beneath her chest and pouted. Jaune had no doubt in her mind about what the silver-haired baker was trying to do with the display.

“I burn easily, it’s best I keep my clothes on.” She shrugged and Celeste stepped forward until they were nearly nose to nose.

“But I like you with your clothes off,” she said with an alluring smile that turned Jaune’s insides to jelly.

“Ahem!” 

They both jerked as Rose made her presence known with a loud clearing of her throat.   

She and Steven were standing several feet away. He was looking at them curiously in his swim trunk while Rose had both fists on her one-piece suited hips, giving them both an unapproving look. 

“We’ll talk about it later,” Celeste promised with a little grin, stepping away to once again let light filter between them. “Let’s get down to the water.” She turned to Rose. 

Rose gave her a look as she passed by that the blonde couldn’t quite decipher, not hostile as she would have expected but not exactly friendly either. More like, suspicious curiosity.

‘Don’t worry about her.” Celeste said quietly in her ear before they followed Rose and Steven down the worn dirt path that led to the shore. Once at the water they parted ways as they three waded into the water and Jaune walked along the sandy shore to Greg, sitting about eighty yards away on the dock. 

The rickety boards squeaked under her feet, the wood nearly bleached white from who knew how long sitting under the unrelenting sun year after year. 

He looked up as she approached and smiled brightly.

He quickly went over the basics and then they were sitting quietly next to each other, watching their corks bob around the surface, waiting.

Jaune rather enjoyed this. Maybe it wasn’t the most exciting thing at the moment but it was quiet and calming. 

“So… you and Celeste, how’s that going?” Greg said out of nowhere, prompting her to look at him. After a handful of seconds, he just shrugged awkwardly and Jaune sighed to herself. 

“Fine. She’s wonderful and I’m… very fond of her.” That was putting it mildly but she was also talking to the woman’s brother in law. 

“Celeste is a sweety,” Greg agreed with a smile. “There’s nothing she wouldn’t do for the people she loves. Inf fact, she had only just bought the bakery’s building when Rose and I got married and when she got pregnant I was kind of… between paying gigs, so she let us live in the second-floor apartment for free, instead of in my van, where I was living before.” He chuckled and scratched the back of his head. 

He was quiet for a long few moments before he was again looking at her.

“I think its why Rose is… distrustful of you.” His face turned more serious. “It’s not really my place to talk about it, but someone she was seeing took advantage of Celeste’s good nature before… my sister in law feels deeply and cares wholly, so Rose and I both worry about her.”

“The way Celeste tells it is Rose was the one pushing her to date in the first place.” Jaune frowned and Greg nodded.

“She did, she wanted her to have some fun, some throw away dates, ease back into it after she got hurt, ya know? Rose didn’t expect the first person she went out with to really stick, but here you are.” He grinned. “Rose is suspicious enough for the both of us, so if you really don’t have any intention of hurting her…” Jaune seemed to bow up at that, frowning severely. “...then Rose will warm up to you before long.” He hurriedly finished. “She’s seemed really happy over the last few weeks, so I’m happy.” 

Jaune hummed at that before the man started talking about something else.

~ ~ ~ 

“You’re a real horndog, you know that?” Rose said, sitting on a towel next to her sister as they dried while they watched Steven play in the sand several feet away.

She heard her older sister snort. 

“I didn’t realize it was illegal to be attracted to someone you’re dating,” she replied smartly. “And you say that as though I didn’t pull you, more than half-naked out of that van on at least two occasions.” she retorted.

“We’re not talking about me!” Rose hissed, turning finally to look at her sister, who was looking back at her tiredly, already exasperated by this conversation. She took a deep breath after a long few seconds of staring each other down.

“I just want you to be safe…” Rose finally said.

“Well, I’m not going to get pregnant…,” she said deadpan.

“You know what I meant!” Rose nearly screeched, drawing her son’s gaze for a few seconds before he went back to his sandcastle. 

“Rose” Celeste started in a tone that left no room for her to be interrupted. “I know that after… what happened before you worry, but if nothing else, I’ve learned from those experiences. Now you need to trust me and the fact that I trust Jaune. She’s kind and sweet and goes out of her way to do things for me. Our relationship is nothing like the ones I’ve had in the past. I think it’s one of the reasons honestly I feel myself falling for her so quickly. So please, just trust me?” 

Rose pursed her lips together tightly for several long seconds before heaving a sigh. 

“Fine, fine I’ll trust you…” she sagged back onto her towel and folded her arms over her eyes. 

“Thank you.”

The teacher just grunted.

~ ~ ~

“Did you two go to the sun?” Rose asked, hands on her hips as they looked at the sunburned faces of the lawyer and musician. 

“We forgot the sunscreen…,” Greg admitted. “But look at this!” He held up their catch. 

“Well, you two seemed to have a productive day.” Rose smiled as Greg held up the long stringer full of decent-sized fish the two had caught. 

“Fish fry for dinner!” Greg grinned at the rest of his family. “Come help me clean them, Rose.” He walked over to the van with Rose right behind him.

“You’re a little red…” Celeste frowned, looking at Jaune’s sunburned face. It wasn’t awful but it probably hurt nonetheless. 

“I know…” She huffed, trying not to move her face too much. 

“I’ll get the aloe out of my bag…” she smiled sympathetically and went to retrieve the gel. 

“Did you have fun with Greg?” she asked when she came back and carefully swiped some of the cooling gel over the blonde’s burned cheeks and forehead

“Surprisingly, I did. I think I actually like fishing too…” she winced as Celeste swiped the gel over her nose. “He did talk, just a little, about why Rose is so wary of me.” 

“Oh?” 

“Something… about a previous relationship?” She said uncertainly. Celeste seemed to freeze at that, frowning. 

“He told you about that did he?” she asked quietly.

“All he said was that someone you were seeing before took advantage of you. Nothing more,” she said quietly. Watching Celeste wring her hands around the bottle of aloe.   

“I suppose you want to know what that’s about...” she started.

“No” Jaune stopped her with a raised hand.

“No?” she repeated, eyebrows drawing down between her eyes in clear confusion. 

“It’s none of my business, especially If it’s not something you don’t want to talk to me about. It’s enough that you know that I, will never do anything to intentionally hurt you,” she promised quietly.

Celeste stared at her for a long moment before tears started to well up in the corners of her eyes and Jaune jerked.

“I… I’m sorry, Celeste…” she started but she just started shaking her head and wiped at the few tears that had managed to squeeze their way through.

“No… don’t apologize, I’m sorry about that.” She pressed herself squarely against the lawyer, whose arms wrapped around her waist on instinct more than anything else as she pressed her head beneath her chin.

“Thank you, Jaune,” she mumbled, nuzzling her face into her neck. “You have no idea how much I appreciate that…,” she breathed.

Jaune just squeezed her a little tighter, unaware of the couple watching from around the open van doors.

[connorssock]

Any chance for some 4some action Hank/Connor/Gavin/Nines. Gavin acts like this isn't serious and doesn't want to get attached. He's trying to play it off and jokes about it. But inside he wants a family. They are on a call and Gavin pushes Hank out the way and gets shot. Has to be looked after. Is on meds that make him share stuff and act all cuddly.

I am finally free to write for the fandom again! This has been sat in my ask box for so long, I thought I was going to go mad because it was all plotted out from the day I saw it but just couldn’t write it. I hope the wait was worth it, even if I did forget about Gavin being shot on a case and made it happen a little differently.

Barbwire Heart

They were at a bar, the four of them messing around as per usual. It had been Gavin’s idea. Going for a meal was too cosy, too intimate and he couldn’t bring himself to ask for that, not when he’d spent so long convincing the others that it was only a fuck-buddies thing he was interested in. The other three could love each other all they wanted, could play house at Hank’s but he’d only rock up for the great sex when he felt like it and never stay the night. He had strict rules for that, no more than three nights a week there, no falling asleep and definitely no cuddling. The few times he’d fallen asleep he’d laughed it off, made excuses and beat a hasty retreat. Nines and Connor probably suspected that Gavin was lying to them all, especially himself, given their fancy scanners and everything while Hank was an observant man. The only person really fooled by his antics was Gavin himself and even he knew it was all an act.

So he was trying, slowly easing himself into the idea of being wanted, not just for good sex but also for being himself. It was a heady and ridiculous prospect but he hoped that the other three would either catch him or gently let him go when he was no longer desired. It was how they ended up at the bar, a relatively quiet one that wasn’t likely to be visited by anyone they worked with.

The way they sat, Connor and Nines were next to each other on one side, Gavin was in the corner next to Hank who had been put in charge of getting drinks. It had all been going well, Hank had an arm slung over the back of Gavin’s chair, his fingers played with the soft hair that brushed against the back of his neck. It was how he felt Gavin tense up. Both Connor and Nines looked at Gavin sharply too, anxious concern drew their brows low.

Chaos erupted around them as Gavin barrelled into him. There were many things Hank wished he never had to hear or live through again, or ever. One of those was the thud of bullets sinking into a body, accompanied by a startled, sharp gasp as the pain registered. Hank was on the ground, there were shouts and screams all around them, the sounds of a scuffle and a few more shots. The heavy body on top of him and growing warm wetness drew Hank’s back. Gavin was limp over him, breath a wheezing rattle. It was a struggle to get out from under him and take in the blood that was soaking rapidly through his shirt and staining everything it touched. Hank swore, pressed down on the two wounds which elicited a small whine and a futile twitch from Gavin.

It took Nines and Connor minimal effort to take down the shooter, call for back-up and secure the scene. Within ten minutes police and ambulance turned up, paramedics took over from where Hank was crouched over Gavin.

The place was a mess, giving statements soaked in cooling and drying blood wasn’t ideal and for the first time, Hank really appreciated Ben’s crime scene manners. It was weird, being on the opposite end of the conversation, worried sick about Gavin and wanting to rush to the hospital, evidence and job be damned. Connor and Nines had it all under control, their memories had already been transferred to one of the other androids for filing and they were waiting on Hank to give his statement the human way.

Once done, Nines insisted on driving them home first to clean up a little. Despite the water eventually running clear, Hank could still feel echoes of Gavin’s blood all down his front and on his hands. Those bullets had been meant for him, would have probably killed him and the only reason he was unharmed was because Gavin had spotted it. Had shoved him out of his seat and taken the bullets himself. Rather than mull it over and agonise over the memories, Hank hurried out of the shower and threw on a clean shirt.

At the hospital, they were greeted by harried looking nurses and orderlies rushing around.

“He’s in recovery still,” someone finally told them. “It’s perhaps best to wait, he’s not reacted well to the anaesthetics.”

A cold shiver worked its way up Hank’s spine and both Connor and Nines seemed to loom over his shoulder as he demanded what that meant.

“He’s very combative.”

Ignoring shouts, Nines led the way towards the recovery room, having hacked the system already to find Gavin. They tumbled into the room and stopped. Gavin was propped up on the bed, eyes scrunched shut. Each wrist was tied to the edge of the post and as someone walked by, the struggled, obviously distressed.

“What the hell?” Connor was the one to growl.

“Excuse me, you cannot be in here,” one of the nurses approached them.

“As far as I was aware, family could were allowed to visit relatives,” Connor stared her down and got a flickering look in return that assessed the three of them.

“Yes,but only immediate family.”

“Excellent,” Nines sounded too sunny as he steered Hank around her. “As his boyfriends we qualify.”

They approached Gavin who blearily watched them but there was no hint of recognition in his eyes just yet. Mumbled, tearful “no’s” were interspersed with gasping breaths as he struggled again.

“Hey sweetheart,” Hank murmured as he sat next to him and pushed a few stray strands of hair from his face. “It’s okay.”

On either side of the bed, Connor and Nines were undoing the ties, cupping his hands in theirs and gently holding them away from whatever harm Gavin seemed intent on wreaking.

“No,” Gavin’s breathing came short, “please. Hank. Is he okay?”

“I’m fine.” The kiss to his forehead helped ease Gavin a little. “I’m here, you saved me. Connor and Nines are here too. Can you feel them holding your hands?”

A meek “yes” was all the reply they got. Gavin whimpered a little and the three of them tried to help sooth the best they could. Slowly, his breathing calmed, still laboured under the oxygen mask but it no longer was accompanied by aborted whines and a face scrunched up in distress.

When the nurse walked by again, her disapproving frown had turned into a surprised smile.

“He’d clocked one of the nurses on the jaw before we could restrain him,” she said as she took the stats. “It took several of us to be able to restrain him at all. Pulled quite a few of his stitches while he was at it too.”

They sat with Gavin until he stirred again, somewhat more cognisant as he slurred a tired “Hank?” and squinted to peer round.

“Right here, Gav.”

“Okay?” The meaning behind his words was evident and Hank’s heart clenched. Even while coming out from surgery, Gavin’s focus and worry was on him.

“We’re all just fine. You got to play the hero and saved me.”

“Good,” Gavin’s reply was barely a sigh but he shimmied a little in bed like a happy slug to get closer to Hank. His hands squeezed both Nines’ and Connor’s ones.

Out of the recovery ward and in a private room, Gavin was kept in for several days until the doctors were satisfied not just with how he was healing but that his medication wasn’t going to cause any undue problems. Their fears were well founded, the painkillers certainly cut a lot of Gavin’s inhibitions. He was lying on his front in his bed, dozing lightly when visiting hours rolled around. As soon as he saw Nines walk through the door, his face lit up and he struggled to sit up. Only a hand to the small of his back kept him where he was.

“You came!” he sounded inordinately happy. “I wasn’t sure if you would.”

The worried pout was wiped from his features when Connor presented him with a small gift. A new phone as his old one had not survived being doused in blood.

“You shouldn’t have!”

There were only two chairs in the room, Hank took the one next to the bed while Connor pulled the other one closer. Peering around, Gavin looked at Nines who stood by the foot of the bed and merrily patted the mattress next to him.

“There’s room for us all,” he announced and crooned in delight when Nines sat primly on the edge. “What’s this nonsense? Come here.”

The tug on Nines’ arm wasn’t powerful but Nines let himself be pulled down all the same. He helped Gavin rearrange them until his chest became a pillow for Gavin who snuggled close to him. Helplessly, Nines looked up at Connor and Hank who both seemed on the verge of cooing.

“This is nice,” Gavin observed from his place, utterly oblivious. “But I think it would be better if one of you lay on the other side of the bed. Like a sandwich.”

Obligingly, Hank laid down behind Gavin, mindful of the gauze and bandages, careful not to press on the thicker padding that protected the wounds.

“Better,” Gavin hummed. “But still missing a piece.”

Gingerly, Connor sat on the edge of the bed and let out a startled yelp when Gavin yanked him down with a giggle. He ended up in an inelegant sprawl on top of Nines and partially on Gavin too.

“I got into an argument today,” Gavin solemnly informed them. “The nurse from recovery came to tell me I was lucky to have such dedicated workmates who would lie to see me while off my rocker on drugs.”

The anticipation in the air was heavy and none of them dared interrupt Gavin’s monologue.

“So I told her that she was wrong. You’re not just workmates. You’re family. And I love you all very much. She was outraged, began spouting about monogamy and all that crap. So I gave her Fowler’s office number and told her to take her complaint there.”

The silence stretched long until Nines leaned down to press a kiss to the top of Gavin’s head.

“We love you too, dipshit,” he echoed the name Gavin so often called him with fondness.

“While you might not believe it sometimes,” Connor added, “you are as much part of us as we are of you.”

“And for what it’s worth, each night you leave, we keep a space for you on the bed, in case you return,” Hank joined.

A happy sigh left Gavin, content with his lot in life for possibly the first time. It wasn’t ideal, it wasn’t conventional but he was exactly where he wanted to be. Loved and loving in return.

[juleswolverton-hyde]

A Valediction: Forbidden Mourning | 04

Genre: Smut, Romance, Angst, Stepbrother AU

Pairing: Stepbrother!Namjoon x English student!Reader

Warning: Possessive/Toxic behaviour & relationships, self-harm

Summary: Love comes in many shapes, but does not always have a prosperous fate. However, whereas parents might have found it, all the children can do is live in kalopsia.

Forbidden yet denying the mourning of the path chosen for them by Fate.

Previous part / Masterlist / Next part

Remorse is at times an unrighteous sentiment begotten from a crime that is inherently not the accomplice’s but for which blame is felt regardless of knowing the true culprit, the factor that moved the hands of an innocent bystander who tried to fight against temptation. Notwithstanding, even when it is deserved, it will be tried to be avoided with assumed white lies which cover up the impact of the evoked disillusioning chaos. Just to maintain a sense of clarity, of logic.

Of Sense.

Right now, it is endeavoured to be found in the steps of onyx lacquered shoes and equally dark worn sneakers stained with Scottish mud over mustard and brick tiles leading towards the historic city centre pierced by canals and where it is more likely to get run over by a bicycle than a car. Yet, it is not enough for there are no explanations for why it cannot return when they cross the bridge and walk towards the plaza of the Holy Virgin.

Halfway through the street with furniture stores, cafés and individual shops, however, a worrying distraction - but one, nonetheless - appears in the form of the accidentally revealed novel pinkish scar by an unconsciously pushed up dusk-shaded sleeve, the friction of which also moves the scarlet shirt underneath. The rigid misplaced colour palette on caramel makes feet stop immediately, the sudden action making the silver wolf whose hand is held also halt to look backwards at the frozen ashen Red Riding Hood.

This is something that should have been put in the past a long time ago.

Had been, for the canvas of white scars did not seem to be altered for a long time. Then again, when had it last been looked at in recent times, carefully inspected on a regular basis during any period in the past two years?

Face almost as pale as a ghost, a mirror of the ghastly expression in frightened eyes which are near tears with grave concern, the wound is meticulously investigated now that it is broadly on display. Old habits have been abandoned in favour of pleasing a koala ignorant of the mutual feelings of the protector, but it would, unfortunately, seem not all are left behind.

‘When did this happen?’ Speech has been reduced to a frightened whisper, rapidly closing the unintentionally established distance to trace fingers over the fresh cut. ‘When did you do this?’

‘Do what?’ With a firm tug, the wrist is attempted to be freed from the unsuspectingly suddenly firm hold yet fails in doing so. Instead of another try, there is faked dismissing bewilderment in espresso irises despite knowing full well the signs shown by Reality cannot be denied. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Joon, there’s no use in playing pretend. Especially not now.’ The palm covers the hideousness from the sight of the world, silent pleads enforcing the repeated inquiry with a gradually breaking voice, reduced further and further into the rubble the heart has become at the bodily discovery. ‘When? Please, I need to know.’

Already once it had been too close to a disastrous ending and ever since there has been an unspoken oath to the grey-haired poet and the wordy girl living under the same roof.

It was on the night shortly - six months or so ago - after commemorating moving in as step-siblings a year earlier when, in hindsight only realized, forbidden feelings towards an unworthy student of English Language and Culture had begun to develop in earnest. The far from hushed arguments about missed Skype calls or very vague answers making the Korean Fox suspicious of adultery that had become more frequent resonate anew in the ears now, that night vivid once more as the shapes on the cave wall change to portray past shadows instead of their contemporary counterparts.

Sleep did not come easy as the bladder was continuously complaining about the grand amount of two cups of coffee it had to endure, one right after dinner before going to the gym with Namjoon - the usual sport buddy - and later the second while comfortably reading the short stories for the next seminar until lids began to feel heavy. Annoyed by the incapability of the Body to ignore the need until dawn, the bed was reluctantly abandoned as the first October breath blew through the open window, padding slowly down the attic stairs only to speed up to a run when low sobs disturbed the noisy creaking of the steps. Jeonja and Da were still downstairs, the television so loud it could be clearly heard upstairs, seeing as the latter seems to be annoyingly hard-hearing, and thus the soft crying was easily tuned out for those sitting in happy comfort in the living room.

The scared red-rimmed puffy eyes holding the horrifying resignation of the broad-shouldered bear clad in a simple raven-toned hoodie and monotone alabaster T-shirt looked up at the intruder, a panicked figure outfitted in a shirt stolen from the one on the tiled floor which held a sliver of the scent of smoke and coffee - the elements of late summer nights together - and who was turned to stone like during the recent event on the plaza of the Separated Church while staring at the trembling horrific boxcutter and flow of dark crimson.

Punishment. That one simple word formed the answer after the cursing outcry and the vulgar language that followed in its wake but was stopped as soon as the faucet provided the water to wash away the blood. Attention turned then to cleaning the wound precariously close to the pulse, ignoring to the best of personal ability the absurd excuses that it was well deserved. That this care was not necessary.

That I needed to stop.

But all of the begging was in vain, commanding to keep the wrist under the running jet of a million white healing drops as bare feet rushed out to the parental bedroom. A fist smashed the light switch to turn it on and shaking hasty digits searched for the first-aid kit in the lowest drawer of the wardrobe by the window providing a view of the small backyard, finding it to a small curt elevation to a sense of relief after noisily turning the whole thing upside-down.

Fearful of every second being potentially the last one, a sprint was pulled in the return to the bathroom and knees fallen to on the ground with a low thud that made Namjoon reach out toward the naked thigh, carefully, as if it were made of china, caressing the skin with ironic concern. ‘Are you hurt?’

‘This isn’t the time to worry about me, Joon.’ The most nearby towel was pulled from the radiator on the wall after ending the limitless stream of rushing water, the big tanned hand remaining in place on a much smaller body and occasionally tightening the hold with the need to hang on to anything real when the surface beneath the touch moved. The conflicting corrupted sentiments about Love were oppressed entirely by the overwhelming panic speeding up the beat of a heart that normally could reach a similar pace just by being together, thus nullifying the ability to take notice of the intimacy and let it add to futile Fancy. ‘It’s you whose important now.’

As if having been a nurse in a former life, the right wrist was taken into the lap and properly taken care of, bandaging it up while applying pressure to stop the scarlet flow damaging both present parties. Afterwards, when gazes met once more and the one of the then ashy brown bear was noticed to be watery, a small palm automatically placed itself on the warm salt-streaked cheek, a thumb lovingly wiping away the tears. Ever since, the gesture has had the same calming effect on the poet, be it in when sorrowfully sitting by the bathtub with a shining sharp boxcutter in hand to cut open flesh to end the influence of Life or when raging with jealous menace at seeing the chances with one who should never be threatened on academic grounds.

Though not really affectionate in general, sometimes exceptions are made for a koala and thus the guardian let the one he protects till this very day crawl into the lap and run digits through hair after removing the dark twilight hood, arms sprinkled with the traces of past wounds, revealed by pushed up sleeves, strongly embracing a hapless girl who buried her nose in comforting smoky skin with the wish to never have it taken away. The boxcutter, however, was dearly wished to be erased. Vanished to never return.

Just once the renewed flight to cigarettes was excused.

Because Love is not trivial.

But it is filled with compromise.

Yet, protecting one another is not one. It is a lasting promise.

Forevermore.

Reality returns as shadows figure themselves again to their earlier shapes, a grey wolf mockingly and hesitantly attempting to avoid having to reply to the inquiry when the latest scar was added to the hideous canvas. ‘Let’s just go for solely coffee instead. I��m not that hungry.’ A step forward cannot happen, merely advancing half a meter due to being held back by deceivingly powerful determined hands. ‘Y/N, let’s just go. It’s nothing. Come on, bear.’

‘Answer me.’ Speech begins to crumble, slightly distorted by bordering on the edge of annoyed anger because of not getting any reply that could let a secret protector of a five-years-older man execute the duties accompanying the oath.

An indignant huff both causes a shot of hurt that clearly shows up in attitude and evokes another reason to stand tall, push through. ‘Why is it so important? It’s a one-time happening, a stupid slip-up. Besides, it happened a while ago.’

‘A while ago? It looks brand new to me.’ More recently healed wounds are remarked upon, not all of them faded into bleak alabaster. All of them punishments for different reasons or maybe the same. ‘Stop beating around the bush and just answer the fucking question!’

I should have checked more often. Looked for a knife or box cutter or just fucking anything that you could use to do this to yourself.

‘You’re making a scene.’ The roles are reversed, the pull on the hand more powerful this time to the extent it cannot be resisted, thus having to give in and stumble along until the Bagels and Beans on the corner of Mary’s plaza is reached, too concentrated to not fall flat on the face as earlier had been the risk.

‘Oh, as if you didn’t at the Dom. We’re not going anywhere before this issue is resolved.’ Composure is recomposed, revolting against unwavering leadership anew by putting a firm foot down, much to the annoyance of the neatly dressed debtor manager.

There is nothing human about the half-made comment being snarled in response to the resistance. ‘There is no-’

‘Obviously, there-’ But the vocal reaction to the cut-off one, going paired with a roll of the eyes, is also disregarded halfway through being formulated by the same speaker who was prematurely stopped too.

‘Last night!’ Panting like having run a marathon, Namjoon caves at last. Jeering confidence transforms into fragile remorseful uncertainty quickly at noticing the flinch frightened at the idea of potential harm for Namjoon has proven himself unpredictable, the softness of a baritone breaking voice repeating the same two words heart-wrenching. ‘Last night.’

‘Why?’

‘The breakup, it- I don’t know. My mind just turned off and all is a black hazy mess. It was- how to describe it? It was like waking up. Suddenly, I was just there, boxcutter in hand and blood was flowing. Oddly tranquil. Some idiotic side of me blamed me for giving up and pursue you, instead.’ A self-deprecating head shake goes paired with a dangerous smile displaying stark white teeth. ‘This part, it loved Heungji despite not recognizing you were there, the better alternative. That she was meaningless, a hopeless pursuit. But not you, you’re definitely worth it.’

A suffocating sense of doom tightens the throat, the next inquiry almost too horrifying due to the flashing images of more unseen wounds tainted with liquid life force. ‘It? Can you... elaborate?’

’The scars, the nights staying up trying to compose, be a better man. Be yours.’

‘You don’t need to harm yourself to be mine.’ The rapidly spoken assurance is met by no reaction, merely an absent glance sideways that signifies not getting any further information about the subject. Nonetheless, if not talking about the specifics of the topic, the broader aspects remain to be discussed. ‘And the others?’

The creepy glint lighting up espresso irises does not bode well, increasing the unease and confirming it upon speaking. ‘Recent fights between us, being there too little for you, failed music. A lot of variety in the reasons, so take your pick.’

‘I’d rather you take up smoking again than doing this.’ The established distance, just a step or two, is bridged as the formerly tightly held wrist is let go of. The face is buried in the musky scent of the scarlet shirt as quivering arms hug the beloved stepbrother turned lover, murmuring words into the fabric. ‘I thought therapy helped, that this was in the past.’

You’ve changed, but not entirely it seems. Stay with me, Namjoon.

For a moment, the gesture is not registered nor answered, but soon it is with gratefulness when warm arms quickly wrap themselves around narrow shoulders. ‘It’s needed for discipline, to remind myself you won’t miss me even if I were to disappear.’

‘Then what about what you said? You want to be there for me, provide for me but you can’t if you aren’t there. I couldn’t even for myself if you weren’t here. Remember what you said earlier?’ Eyes look up into those which have to stay, have become such a beloved sight despite the original distrust. Heavy heaves begin with the killing vision of a prospect without the bear who is occasionally a wolf, the morning coffees, the book dates, the help with studying. There will be nothing. Nothing but an emptiness which cannot be filled. ‘You need me and I need you. I don’t want yo- your company in the fo- form of a-’

Grave.

‘I’m still here, baby. I’m here so don’t think about that. On the good days, I can and do take care of you but there will be days when I can’t. Yet, please, don’t think about them even if they are a real risk. Because, after all, I want, no, need you to be happy. Either with or without me.’ Hands lovingly caress the semi-long grey-toned locks pressed against the stomach once more, the manner of which is to the contrary of how they were treated in the monastery gardens. And when looking up with mascara-streaked cheeks again after a moment of merely enjoying the intimacy, it is the old Namjoon gazing back, the sweet encouraging poet who was met two years ago. ‘Let’s not talk about this anymore, okay, bear?’

Foreheads briefly rest against each other, a firm palm on the right forearm maintaining a bit of distance as the left thumb removes the watery ugliness with a rare affection, before lips find each other in a chaste kiss reserved for innocent lovers. Something that will never be anything more but a kalopsia in our case, but for now it is a sweet white lie to believe.

Cold is replaced by warmth, stiff muscles losing their tenseness as the mind relaxes and settles into the current Reality.

Of us.

Together.

Alive.

There is no chance to get lost in the contact, push the boundaries a bit to end the innocence just enough to be imprinted with a rougher touch out of fear of never feeling that kind of love, his, again in the shadows of the end. Unfortunately, the silver poet retreats with a last peck on the forehead though a hand on the hip maintains the closeness. ‘I think you’ve also lost your appetite, so shall we just get a coffee at the station and go home?’

A meek nod confirms the agreement to the proposal, although day to day obligations have priority over spending longer amounts of time together during the week. Hence, to endeavour to measure this brief shared repose, hoping it can for once be stretched beyond the usual half hour, they are inquired after. ‘Don’t you have to return to work?’

‘It’s pretty quiet at the office so I don’t think I’ll be missed much.’ A playful shrug dismisses the topic, nothing left to be said, but that same hurtful sadness sneaks back into the only temporarily lit up dark brown irises of the tall guy, the smile on full lips fading into a straight line. ‘Finally some time for just us again.’

‘Joon?’ The hazy veil over the staring blind gaze lifts at the nickname, blinking in confusion before realizing what has happened. ‘We should make more time in our schedules to do this.’

‘Yeah, we should.’ Absent-minded fingers glide over arms clad in the camouflage winter jacket lined with brown wolf fur to entwine with ones they actually should not hold with the same sentiments that form the foundation of the gesture yet do. ‘We see so little of each other. We’re barely home and if we are, our parents are as well. I wish... I wish we had a place just for the two of us. There wouldn’t be a need to hide and we can live however we want. Be whoever we want to be, choose our own persona. Just you and me, living under one roof as a young couple.’

The concept sounds incredibly tempting and Sense hates it, which makes it even more so. It is an ideal situation that can only be truly accomplished if both parties involved put in the necessary effort because, thinking it through in rational terms, the sole way to acquiring a home with the current estate market is by sharing the financial burden. Especially if the plan is to buy instead of renting and all the more so in this part of the country where great important cities connect by means of a great multidimensional network. Furthermore, there is the conflict with morals. ‘I’d like that, but don’t you think we’re going a bit fast?’

‘We’ve been together for two years almost. I don’t think it’s such a drastic idea to play with at this point in time.’ As before, the way is guided by a compelling hand that is too gladly taken every time, exactly like Charles Dickens who took every opportunity there was to share a fact.

‘Two years as siblings, not as a couple. There is a difference.’ Fact.

‘I’ll make it happen. I promised you I’d provide and I shall.’ But the truth is dreamily though blatantly disregarded in favour of remaining under the influence of Fancy. ‘I promised...’

And both floating in surreal imaginations in a Reality painted on the unstable rocky walls by fire, a koala and bear continue the path to caffeinated rest.

Ignorant of facts.

On the top floor of the grand station is a small coffee shop where they serve exclusively the coffee by the great entrepreneur who took over the established general grocery shop in a town nobody has likely heard of by a slightly more known father and made it into a specialty store dealing in coffee, tea and tobacco. Till this very day, it is one of the most beloved brands of caffeine addicts just like the stylish and cosy cafes serving the various types of the same beverage are, even more so in the big urban areas.

None of the other customers seated behind the dogwood counter or on the lush green faux leather sofa nor at the grand table overlooking the mass of people below looks up or only shortly with disinterest before reverting focus to a newspaper or laptop, resuming the work or study. Nevertheless, as is expected of the individual fulfilling the function, the eyes of the female barista dart to the glass door of the cube in which the coffee shop is grounded and gain an awed lustre as soon as Namjoon sets one foot inside.

It is silly how unjust jealousy can evoke uncharacteristic behaviour, seething, boiling under the gaze of unwanted attention towards a beloved from a stranger. Henceforth, arms wrap around a well-formed one, holding onto it as a show of dominance to a denied peer with whom there should be no competition in the first place. After all, if women start to fight each other then all power they have gained through fairness and hardship will fall into the hands of corrupt men again. And if that happens, all the hard work put in place by ancestors walking in footsteps similar to Wollstonecraft will be in vain. Withal, the default sentiment towards cat fights does not even begin to nullify the envy hardly endeavoured to be suppressed, instead giving off a silent warning shot with multi-coloured irises.

He is taken.

He is mine.

The anchor clearly notices the unusually possessive clinging, raising an eyebrow in wondering amusement when being halfway to the counter. ‘Y/N, what are you doing?’

Not getting an answer aside from an ashamed huff and sideways glance, the answer is found regardless with a look at the counter and the person behind it. The flirtatious barista futilely tries to appear occupied with polishing a very clean cup but obviously has furiously blushing cheeks when accidentally locking gazes with Namjoon. The puzzle pieces form a complete laughable image, the corners of full lips curving upwards. ‘I see. My God, you are a paradox, bear. First claiming you’re not into me, slapping me in a public place only to have you,’ the smugly grinning stunning silver wolf leans in, a finger tracing the shape of the mouth not daring to speak after compelling the face to turn by the chin, whispering, ‘on your knees, happily sucking my cock.’

The blunt comment now renders the ability to form a response entirely nullified, tongue numb with the sinful memory of what happened in the monastery gardens and the salty aftermath. Within the small space, there are now two crimson faces.

A low chuckle is followed up by a quick yet slightly lingering coy kiss. ‘I’ve always been and will be yours. Go find a spot for us, babe. I’ll get you your reward.’

At first a tad reluctant to let go but trusting the tanned comforting man without restriction, a two-person seat is sought in the tiny café. Fortunately, the last one on the end of the fake dark green long couch can be snatched at the last second under the watchful gaze of the poet who is a few steps away, the hint of a scowl on a handsome face when noticing the eyes of some male customers wander to a recently claimed woman in forbidden love.

However, when sitting down and dividing the ordered drinks, the experienced discomfort at being apart from each other and left bare to the influence of strangers, however briefly, ebbs away. Like an innocent couple, lovers regard one another while sipping at the edge of the cups containing caffeinated liquid heaven. The only thing that gives away true sentiments is when occasionally foamed milk is licked away from the edges of the mouth as Joon watches silently with dark intentions, sometimes biting down on a plush bottom lip with a low barely audible groan, the gesture and sound of which drives the mind across the table reeling all over again.

Eventually, though, the hush is broken off in favour of inquiring shyly about the nagging sensations regarding what was said in the throes of pleasure. ‘Joon... what you said back there... in the cloister.’

Interest is evidently piqued, the espresso put down before fingers weave together and a listening demeanour is taken on. ‘What about it?’

‘Did- Did you mean it? Were you really pla- planning on doing that?’ The cappuccino is put down as well as a similar attitude is taken on, a finger gliding over the edge of the half-filled cup. ‘Bree- Breeding me?’

There is no hesitation upon answering, no sign of genuine lies in attitude while speaking. ‘Yes.’

‘Do you still... I mean-’ Lips purse in a temporary moment of contemplating jumbled words to form a coherent sentence which is formulated shortly afterwards, ‘Are y- you still planning on it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh.’ The tips of fingers tap nervously together, waging one emotional conflict after another due to Sense endeavouring to press in on Fancy to gain terrain as in a great epic but finding a powerful enemy in them who is not so easily defeated. ‘You do.’

It is a meagre reply, this being emphasized by the sarcastic tone in a baritone voice remarking upon the comment. ‘That’s all you have to say? Just ‘oh’?’

‘It’s just that... that it feels like we’re moving so fast. I’m nineteen, barely an adult. I get your clock is ticking differently at twenty-four, but I don’t think I’m ready to have kids, if ever.’

‘I understand, baby. But,’ big hands reach out to envelop heavily hesitating ones which should have pulled away in disgust immediately at being enveloped yet remain stuck in the limbo-inducing warmth they emit, stranded in the hypnotizing heat after the cold breeze outside in the hardly alive world, ‘I think you’d make a great mother. And if you’re scared about raising a child alone without the security of a husband, then, of course, I’ll marry you. In fact, I want to start a life together as soon as possible.’

‘Joon...’

The softest whisper contains the proposal that should have every woman squealing with joy but does not trigger such a reaction now, for once agreeing with Reason it is too far a leap to make regardless of Time. ‘Marry me.’

‘No.’ A shake of the head closes the topic, determined in the refusal of what causes a joyous spark despite the need to hold on to the denial of being tied down while being in the prime of youth. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t. I don’t want to in the near future. Someday. On a good day in a far future we could, but, right at this point in my life, I can’t for various reasons.’

‘Such as what?’ The sharpness of the inquiry in combination with the fierce unforgiving look makes the hold on fingers that much scarier when it slightly painfully tightens, only refraining from retreating due to knowing for a fact the silver wolf would never actually hurt a harmless koala bear past an actually damaging boundary. ‘Give me one good reason why it isn’t possible.’

‘University, living at home, financial instability, wanting to see more of the world before being tied down. Do you need me to go on?’ Despite the awful snarl which continues to show on full lips, sympathy and empathy manage to surface without letting the anxious sentiments about having crossed the limits preventing real hurt shine through. All the while, the powerful grip on digits is endeavoured to be ignored, the grimace tried to be suppressed as a convincing stream of speech is conjured. ‘Please, try to understand I’m in a different period of my life than you. That’s not to say I don’t want you with me, because I do, but there are factors that make me think it’s perhaps for the better if we keep our relationship as it is now.’

‘I could search an apartment for the two of us, simply say to your father there is room for an extra person to move in. I can pay for the rent or mortgage until you start to earn a bit more, after your studies. I think it’d be good for you, for us to move out and find a home of our own. And you can still travel across the globe, either with or without me.’ A melancholic grin comes forth from the hideous earlier expression, the light squeeze weakening the force with which hands are held greatly to a comfortable level. ‘Though, I’d rather have us together when you do, of course. Just to make sure nobody can harm you. That there is somebody to care for you if you get sick or anything else happens.’

‘Namjoon, as much as I like the idea, I also need space of my own every now and then. It just so happens I can find it when journeying by myself or locking myself away in my room for a while.’ Lips pout in trembling hesitance at seeing desperate begging mix with wishful longing, instilling a chastising sense urging to rapidly make this right before the wrong message is conveyed. ‘For me, those are the best methods to calm my mind aside from being with you.’

A slight brightening in attitude, some of the wantonness flowing over in purposeful determination, seeing an opportunity to put in a decision-making argument. ‘But if being with me also-’

‘It doesn’t always work, Joon. And it won’t always now that we’re in a relationship. Sometimes safe havens can’t provide the rest we need. I simply need time alone every now and again, you know that.’ A bright smile closes the topic, or at least hopes to do so with a final statement. ‘I’m nineteen bordering on twenty, perfectly capable of taking care of myself. I’m a big girl.’

A hand frees itself to cover the snigger at the determined utterance before trusted eyes gain the dark shadow that also had befallen them in the cloister. A signal the wrong answer has been given and the subject is not done with. ‘You’re adorable, Y/N, but you’re my baby girl. And there is at least certainly one thing only I can take care of when you’re acting all cutesy like that, almost forcing me to give it to you before anyone else can right in this very spot.’

‘And what might that be?’ An eyebrow raises in defiant challenge, but thighs clench together underneath the table and cheeks colour a bright crimson with the knowledge presented in mental images.

To keep the perverse conversation from being heard by outside ears, the bear turned wolf again lowers the baritone voice to a hypnotizing yet dangerous purring, amused by the apparent effect dominance has over inherently subjective prey. ‘You know exactly what I mean. You gagged on it earlier, wishing I forced it in somewhere else and pumped it full, bred you until you’re nothing more than a whining leaking mess.’ A teasing lip bite evokes an awkward wobble, suddenly needy with the craving for what, indeed, only the merciless poet can and is allowed to provide. ‘I can smell you from here, baby, creaming your panties. Finish your coffee. We’re going home.’

[polynymph]

What Once Was Chapter 8

Fluff, fluff, and more fluff. It’s about time, I know!

TW: Mention’s of blood and injury, some might consider parts “steamy”

Armyah woke up the next morning with a start, her blissful sleep interrupted by Portia flinging open the curtains and flooding the guest chamber with bright sunlight. The magician threw a tasseled pillow at her friend, who caught it mid-air, laughing all the while. She shuffled after the servant to the dining room where she was seated in her usual spot across from the portrait. The room was bustling with activity, but she was alone at the table waiting to be served. Strange...the Countess was normally already seated and nursing a mug of coffee by the time Armyah arrived, but she was no where to be found.

“Her ladyship won’t be down for breakfast today,” Portia explained, noticing the fortune-tellers glance to the empty chair at the head of the table, “headaches.” Armyah nodded, understandingly; the Countess suffered from frequent, debilitating headaches. Breakfast was a savory crepe filled with vegetables and a delicious cream sauce. The magician devoured the dish in seconds, “so what’s on your agenda today?” Portia asked.

“I don’t know...” Armyah shrugged, wiping her mouth on her sleeve, “I was thinking of taking another look at that desk in the library.” The servant started to grimace, but caught herself quickly.

“Oh...yes, for the investigation,” she said evenly, “I’ll open the door for you.” She didn’t wait for the magician, she just turned on her heel and exited the dining room. Armyah darted after her in an effort to catch up with her friend. She knew Portia’s feeling about the doctor and the investigation, but she still had a job to do. The fortune-teller, herself, was conflicted. Julian seemed nice and she wanted to believe him to be anyone else but an alleged murder, but Asra told her he wasn’t to be trusted. At the same time, Julian said that Asra shouldn’t be trusted either. She knew her teacher for three years, but what if he was a different person then and he was using her memory loss to his advantage? However, why should she believe Julian? She had only just met him and, at the time, he broke into her shop. That, and Asra had eluded to the fact that Julian might not even be his real name. Armyah’s debate within herself was broken by the mechanical sound of the library door folding in on itself. The magician thanked her friend and padded across the library to the abandoned desk in the alcove. “I’ll be around if you need me,” Portia offered, halfheartedly as she closed the door behind her. Armyah looked down at the desk covered in scrolls, folios, and books. This was going to take a while. “Well...” she thought, “better get started.”

A flock of birds crying out from above the window jolted the magician awake. Blinking tiredly, it took her a minute to realize she had fallen asleep slumped over the desk in the library, books and papers scattered around her; a small puddle of drool left where her mouth was. Wiping the trail of spit from her cheek, she surveyed the mess in front of her. Nothing. No extra traces of Julian, no information to hint at where he’d gone or what really happened.

“Oh come on!” a voice came through the open window to the garden, “I really need to get in there!” It sounded like Portia. It seemed like she was arguing with someone, but she couldn’t quite hear the other party involved. Armyah stood slowly, stretching the sleep from her limbs and made her way to the gardens. “Please? You’re really trying my patience here!” She followed Portia voice through the trees and foliage.

“HOW DARE YOU!” a shrill voice shrieked, “DON’T YOU KNOW WHO I AM?!” She must have been getting close because their argument was getting louder, but the greenery was still blocking her view.

“Yes, yes, I know,” Portia huffed, “I swear to the Gods above that if you don’t move I’ll have roast cockatoo for dinner!” Ducking under gnarled branches, Armyah emerged into a small clearing. Settled squat in the middle of the copse is a squished, cozy looking cottage surrounded by an overflowing garden. “That’s it! Pepi, honey, get ‘em!” A seal point cat with a pudgy face and round eyes hopped on the red-head’s shoulder and began batting at a pure white cockatoo. The bird was pacing on the roof of a small work shed, shrieking and nipping at Portia as she tried to enter. A particularly well-aimed swipe from the cat dislodged the cockatoo from its perch, sending it flying. It clipped Portia’s head with its wing in its escape, muttering in anger at its undignified treatment.

“They’ll never forget me!” the bird squawked, “They’ll never survive without me!” Portia shook her fist after it.

“Ooooh, that awful bird!” she stamped her foot, “He makes me so mad, Pepi!” The cat seemed to meow in agreement. Then, the servant saw her friend from the corner of her eye and shifted in embarrassment. “Armyah! Ummm...fancy seeing you here.” She smoothed her apron and quickly recovered, smiling at the magician. “I’m surprised you managed to find this place,” she chuckled, “It’s a little off the beaten path.”

“I just followed the yelling,” the fortune-teller laughed with her. She looked around, drinking in the gorgeous, rustic scenery, “Where are we, by the way?” Portia’s eyes widened and jaw dropped in shock.

“Oh! How rude of me!” she cleared her throat and spread an arm out to show off the quaint cottage. “Welcome to Casa de Porta!” her cheesy grin stretched from ear to ear. “My own little oasis on the palace grounds. Just watch out for the graspgourds,” she winked, “they’re feisty today.” As she said it, a curious vine wrapped itself around her ankle, but she swiftly kicked it away. “Come on take a seat,” Portia gestured to a bench carved out of a large log resting against the outside of the cottage, “it must have been a walk to get here, huh?” The magician picked her way carefully through the overgrown garden and fantastic plants she had never seen before. Portia gave her a wry smile as she picked up a nearby rake. “You don’t mind me working a little while we talk, do you? I’ve got a lot of work in the garden today.”

“Not at all,” Armyah said as she sat down on the hard bend, “do you need any help?” Portia shook her head. Probably for the best, Armyah was useless when it came to plants and gardening. Once she was settled and watching her friend work, she realized she had a question that was burning in the back of her mind. She was never able to ask the servant before because they weren’t alone. “So…” she hesitated, unsure how to ask. She thought it best to just rip off the bandage, “Julian’s your brother?” If she wasn’t sure before, she was now. The naked shock and hurt on Portia’s face was all the confirmation she needed.

“Yeah...” Portia whispered, eyes downcast, “sorry about that scene outside your shop yesterday.” She fidgeted with the fabric of her shirt, “I was just...surprised to see him there.” Armyah chuckled halfheartedly, trying to lighten the mood.

“I was too.” The servant smiled back, feeling a bit more comfortable about the tender topic.

“He’s got a real flair for the dramatic,” she mused, “I’m glad to see that hasn’t changed.” She sounded melancholy, like she hadn’t even heard from him in years.

“You didn’t know he was here?” the magician asked. Portia shook her head, tears prickling behind her blue eyes.

“Not until I saw him yesterday,” she sighed before stiffening angrily, “what he thinks he’s doing here...” She took a few breaths, but her fists didn’t unclench even a bit. “I’m sorry I didn’t smack him a bit harder for the trouble.” She tried to look mad, but Armyah could tell she was worried for her kin. The mood didn’t stay heavy for though, though. Portia waved it away and squared her shoulders, giving her friend a determined smile. “I didn’t know you two knew each other,” she winked, causing the magician to blush at the implication, “that happen before or after milady hired you?”

“He actually broke into the shop shortly after the Countess left the night before I came here.” She could still see the glassy eyes of the doctor’s mask, piercing through to her core.

“That sure sounds like my brother,” the servant laughed heartily. Her laugh was always contagious, Armyah couldn’t help but join in. After a few moments of shared laughter, Portia’s grew more somber. “Why didn’t you tell milady?” The magician felt as if she could tell her friend anything without consequence.

“I didn’t know enough yet…” she looked down to her hands folded on her lap, “I didn’t want to condemn a man on incomplete information.” She glanced up at the woman across from her and gave a shuttered sigh, “if it’s my word that knots the hangman’s noose...” The very thought made her stomach flip in uncertainty. “How can I send a man to death before I’ve investigated his innocence?”

“You have no idea how glad I am to hear you say that, Armyah,” Portia smiled despite the tears in her eyes, “I don’t really know what mess Ilya’s gotten himself into, but...” There was that name she called him again, “If he has you in his corner, I get the feeling everything will work out alright in the end.” Armyah didn’t have the heart to tell her friend that she hadn’t decided whose “corner” she was in. Portia just looked so happy.

“What’s that you keep calling him?” the magician asked, “is that his real name?” She remembered Asra said he knew the doctor by another name.

“Ilya?” Portia’s head cocked to the side, “oh, that’s just a nickname. His full name is Ilyushka.” The name was a Nevivese, but neither sibling had an accent. Armyah wondered why he changed his name and why “Julian”? “It’s getting late,” Portia said looking to the sky, it was well past noon, “you should probably head back so your not navigating the garden in the dark.” The fortune-teller nodded in agreement and hugged her friend goodbye.

“Thanks, Portia,” she squeezed, “for everything.” She had been Armyah’s only saving grace in this whole ordeal. Portia was there when she needed a friend the most.

“Of course!” she pulled away and clapped Armyah on the back, “that’s what I’m here for, you know: Pep talks and expert gardening skills!” With the sun at her back, Armyah turned from Portia’s garden, head swirling with thoughts of Julian and his predicament. Uncertainty aside, she didn’t want to see him hanged. There was something about the whole thing that left a bad taste in her mouth. Maybe if she could just ask him some questions? What’s keeping him from lying to her? ‘Julian is whoever he needs to be to get what he wants’ Asra’s words echoed in her skull, but she shook them away. Strangely enough, she felt more at ease after speaking with Portia. The trials ahead of her seemed less insurmountable. More importantly, she felt less lonely now. Wandering aimlessly in the ancient foliage, Armyah realized she wasn’t paying attention to wear she was going while lost in thought and she wasn’t entirely sure where she was. All she knew was that the farther she got from Portia’s cottage, the darker the sky above her grew. Dread growing in the pit of her stomach, she trudged onward. Out of the brush, the palace’s soaring spires emerged from the tops of the trees and the rest of the gleaming building soon followed. Thick foliage opened up to rolling fields, cut across by a nearby brook that winds through the grass. At first, her eyes pass over it without a second thought, before the color registers and shakes her to the core. Red. Crimson stained the slow-moving stream, seeping steadily into the banks. Armyah took a deep breath in, smelling the water spray. It was coppery, metallic smelling. With trepidation, her eyes followed the flow upstream to the stonework of the palace. It was seeping out through a forgotten corner, but what was it? Blood? Poison? Suppose it would be easy to miss...the brook was small, tucked away on a side of the palace she assumed was rarely patrolled. Glancing sidelong to where the water was flowing, her breath caught in her throat. The trees at the edge of the bank were rotten and decaying. It seemed as if all color was drained from them. Fear trumped by curiosity, the magician swallowed thickly and followed the stream to its end.

Soon, rolling fields were replaced with carved stone; an aqueduct. One of the many flowing from the palace to all corners of the city, designed to provide water for its many denizens. Armyah stepped onto the highest stone of the unconventional path. From this point, she could see all of Vesuvia. The South End to Ash Beach, sprawling, chaotic, and vibrant. Swirls of smoke leave chimneys to dance in the air, twining together like a tryst between lovers. The polished brass of the temple bell, even the Lazaret towered sullenly across the bay. The magician’s awe-struck thoughts were broken by a loud ‘caw’. A raven. A strangely familiar raven was circling overhead. Armyah hopped down from the rock, agile as a cat, and padded along the bridge as the bird swooped lower toward her. Landing with a thud, the raven perched itself onto her shoulder, tilting its head as if it recognized her as well.

“Hello,” the magician greeted with a smile. The raven opened its mouth as if to scream, but it simply nibbled on the neckline of her shirt instead. “Hey, cut it out,” she chuckled shooing the bird away. It stopped, but it didn’t move. In fact, all its feathers were ruffled as if it was high alert. A distant crash startled the raven into flight and Armyah was alone once more. The aqueduct lowered and joined with another waterline, both headed deeper into the city. By this time, she was able to see buildings all around her; the first sign of urban life as she reached the outskirts of the city. The water wasn’t as pigmented as it was closer to the palace, but it was still tinged red. There was no doubt in the fortune-teller’s mind...whatever was coming out of the palace was contaminating the city’s water supply.

“Armyah?” a voice caused the magician to jump. She whipped her head around and saw a figure slowly emerge from the shadows into the dim light of the city lantern. Julian...she shouldn’t be surprised. After all, he seemed to be everywhere she was lately. He stood at the edge of the aqueduct beside her, dark silhouette framed by the light of the moon. Behind him, the city towered like a behemoth. A disorderly display of buildings stacked on top of each other. He was holding a mask, the same mask he was wearing the first night he broke in. He turned it slowly in his hands, like he was contemplating what to do with it. “Fancy seeing you here, hm?” he laughed, but he wasn’t smiling. His stormy eyes never left the ruby glass eyes of the mask. “Out for a night’s walk?” He sighed, dropping his arms to his sides and gazing forlornly into the reservoir below them. The red of his coat reflected and refracted in the water, splashes of crimson danced against each other. “Me?” he continued without a reply from the magician, “I was just thinking...funny, fickle thing, life is...isn’t it?” He seemed depressed, defeated. What was he doing all the way over to the edge of the city? “Isn’t it a miracle?” he mused, “they went and figured it out. Or outlasted it. Wonder how they did it?” She didn’t know what he was talking about or if he was even talking to her. “It’s no matter...Life finds a way in the end, doesn’t it?” He holds the mask in front of him once again, “the plague is over. Who needs a plague doctor if there’s no plague? It’s like...a Count with no city! Or a barkeep with no drinks!”

“A magician with no magic?” Armyah offered with a sympathetic smile, wrapping her arms across her middle. He was having an existential crisis...his sister did say the doctor had a knack for the dramatic.

“Exactly!” he exclaimed. After a moment, he flourished his arm with the mask in it. “So here I am,” he announced to the only other person in the area, “Throwing away the last piece of a past I can’t reclaim.” He ran long, slender fingers down the curve of the beak, somber once again, “Pity, isn’t it? Ah, well...” Slowly, Julian extended his arms over the sanguine water and dropped the mask. Pale, slithering shapes moved to swarm around it the moment it broke the water’s surface. He stared off after it mournfully.

“...Julian-” Armyah started to comfort the man, but was cut off by the raven from before screeching, nearly flying into the pair in its frenzy. In a moment of panic, the doctor reached out instinctively to grab the magician’s hand.

“Guards afoot, Armyah!” he grinned mischievously, his signature smile, “Look lively, we’d best make tracks.” He lead her further down the aqueduct to reach the street. Once they were close, Julian turned to see if she was keeping up well enough. She was, until she slipped on the wet stone and tumbled backward. Julian’s grip didn’t hold and her arm slipped through his gloved hand as she fell into the reservoir below. Darkness engulfed her as she was swallowed up by the deep waters. The impact knock what little breath she had away. Armyah struggled against the freezing waters, kicking frantically and reaching to the surface. As the magician thrashed, something moved against her; slippery and sleek. Finally, her hand breaks through to the cold, night air and she felt a leather-clad hand grip her and tug. Blinding pain, stabbing and stinging at her side caused her to cry out underwater. She would have reached for the source of the pain, but the vice like grip tugged her out of the water and onto wet cobblestone, the undulating creature still attached. Coughing, sputtering, and fighting to stay conscious, Armyah looked down. A vampire eel. Her blood flowing through its translucent innards as it feasted. “On the count of three,” Julian prompted, but she could barely hear him through her pulse pounding in her ears, “One...two-” The doctor gripped the creature behind the head, forcing it to release its leech-like mouth from the magician’s torso, and tossed it back into the water. “Three!” He reached down and circled her arm around his neck, letting her use him as support. “Easy now...I’ve got you.” Armyah was still gasping for air and stumbling on the wet rocks as Julian half-dragged her down the street. Numbly, she watched her own blood stain the path behind them. “Can you stand?” he asked, pausing in the shadow of a tall apartment building to peer down at the injured woman. She was shaking and tremendously dizzy, she gripped his arm for dear life, but struggled as she grew weaker with blood loss. Her vision was blurry, but she could still see a smear of vibrant red hair. “Right,” he chastised himself, “foolish question.”

Heaving her up, he dragged her dead weight up the street. Ahead, Julian saw a narrow, deserted alley and decided to cut their losses. If he didn’t do anything soon, the young magician might not make it. The doctor hauled her over his shoulder with a surge of adrenaline and made a B-line for the alleyway. Once shrouded, he gently laid her down on the cobblestone, “let me see that bite...” Her head bobbed ambiguously, vision fading and delirious with pain. “I’ll take that as a yes,” he muttered as her slid her torn shirt up to reveal her steadily oozing wound. “Damn, the bleeding won’t stop,” he cursed. Julian drew back with a look of displeasure and peeled off his gloves. The sensation of his ice-cold palm on her waist sent a violent shiver that quaked Armyah’s whole body. “Hold still,” he whispered tenderly, “this will only take a minute or two.” In an effort to stay conscious, she focused on her breathing; in and out…in and out. A hand slipped under her head to cradle her skull. It had been years since he had used the curse. ‘Desperate times called for unconventional measures’ he winced at the twinge behind his eye as he heard a voice in his head. Shaking the sensation away to concentrate on the task at hand, he inhaled deeply and felt freezing water rush through his veins as his mark began to glow bright, illuminating the magician’s pained expression. A brief wave of déjà vu washed over the doctor before her features relaxed when the realization that she wasn’t in pain anymore hit. Blinking in her confusion, she reached down to where her wound was to find the flesh fused together like it was never pierced. Not even a scar. Her dark eyebrows knit together and glance up at the doctor.

“Why are you helping me?” Julian blinked owlishly at the girl. She had almost died and this is what she was asking him?

“Shouldn’t I?” he countered, “You’re injured. Surely you don’t think I’ll let you bleed out on the street.” He chuckled despite himself, “now, are you feeling any better?” She nodded carefully, as if she was keeping herself at a distance. “You’re lucky...believe it or not. Those were vampire eels, one bite can bleed a man dry in minutes.” The doctor scoffed bitterly and looked up the dark alley, “the Count was fond of such pets.” As he leaned away, Armyah could see the circular mark etched under the skin of his throat. The design looked vaguely familiar. A shadow passed over his countenance as he caught her staring. “Do you recognize your master’s handiwork?” She had never seen Asra do that type of magic before, she didn’t even know he was capable of doing something like that. Julian winced and his hand flew to his side. The magician’s breath caught as she noticed the murderer’s brand, but her attention was stolen by the fresh blood blossoming underneath his clothing. “This was a parting gift to me...” he ground through clenched teeth, “...a curse.” His chest heaved in pained breaths, the hand not on the wound raked through curly auburn hair. “I’m able to take away bodily wounds, as you can see. And in return, I get the pleasure of experiencing them for myself.” Armyah swallowed thickly at the blood now flowing freely down his torso. A flash of guilt fell over her; he took her injury and now he was feeling. He barely knew her. She stood so she could offer a hand to the doctor to help him up as well.

“Does it hurt?” she asked. She cursed to herself at the stupid question. ‘Of course it hurts’ the magician chastised herself, ‘look at his face!’ Julian took her hand and mustered the strength to stand. He swayed forward slightly so she quickly moved to steady him by the shoulders.

“It won’t last,” he seethed, “it never does. Just a curse from a witch who fears commitment.” Realizing himself he looked to the young woman apologetically, “no offense...” Armyah rolled her eyes at the dig to her teacher, deciding to ignore it. “Then again, I’ve never been bitten by a vampire eel,” he mused, “this might be interesting.” Using the magician as a crutch just as she had earlier, he hobbled up the alley. The awkward silence filled the air between them, neither brave enough to brake it.

“Thank you...” Armyah muttered after a few moments, not bothering to meet the doctor’s eye. The tips of his ears grew red hot and he coughed uncomfortably.

“Don’t ah...don’t mention it,” he stammered, “that is, well...circumstances being as they were...” He looked anywhere and everywhere than the fortune-teller’s direction, “I’m just...glad your alright.” She stiffened, unsure how to respond. All she knew is that her face was probably as red as the water in the reservoir.  Then, voices alerted the pair to palace guards doing rounds of the outer walls. Julian pulled them into a small crevice between buildings, so small they could barely fit. Instinctively, he pulled Armyah close to his chest, shielding her from view with his large coat. They could hear the guard rush by, holding their breath as they pray eyes slide over them without a second thought. In the close proximity, Armyah could see the pain plastered on the doctor’s face. His eyes were fixed behind her, but as if he could sense her gaze, they move to hers. They only stare, pulses quickening as heat of embarrassment flooded to their faces. His stormy eye flickered from her chocolate eyes to her lips and back again.  “...Armyah-” Whatever he was about to say was swallowed by a clatter from the alleyway’s entrance, “not the time. Let’s go!” He took her hand once again and tugged her out of the back street, and breaking in to a run. They city passed the two in a blur as they escaped, weaving around buildings with ease. Julian obviously knew the city well, much better than Armyah did. They were moving so fast, she almost missed a gated yard nestled between two apartment buildings.

Armyah pulled hard on the doctor’s arm, leading him toward the hiding spot. A thick padlock set in the rusted iron gate, Julian hoisted the magician up to the top so she could use the curled metal as holds to pull herself over. Once she was safely on the other side, he scrambled up and over himself and landed beside her on light feet. They were shrouded by heavy foliage not a moment too soon, heavy footfalls pounded past the hidden garden as the pair caught their breath. Once all was silent once again, the fugitive and his partner in crime looked at each other. After a minute, Julian burst out in laughter. Armyah had no idea why, but she couldn’t help but smile before taking in their surroundings. She felt as if they were transported to another realm. The garden was so serene and unlike anything she had ever seen, not even at the palace. It looked as if it had been abandoned for years; the plants left to fend for themselves. Ivy covered what once must have been beautiful, obscuring marble faces and savage stone beasts. She padded cautiously forward under a dilapidated archway and around roots that have overtaken the cracked stone floor and crumbling fountain.

“Look at this place!” Julian exclaimed in astonishment, pulling on his leather gloves, “Ha! That was some quick thinking on your part, Armyah.” Thick eyebrows waggled after the magician, “Looks like you’ve got a knack for discovering hidden beauty.” His face fell when he saw she wasn’t paying attention and still looking around in wonder at the scenery around them. “I wonder how many parts of the city have fallen to neglect like this, hm?” Julian made his way carefully over the wild vines to one of the grotesque statues, “Ahh, and look at this brute!” he addressed the marble with a suggestive grin, “Hello there, handsome.” The doctor wrapped around the bull-like character’s muscular shoulders, “Dangerous looking creature, isn’t it?” She still wasn’t fully listening to him, she was looking up at a statue of two lovers in a scandalous embrace.

“Danger makes things exciting,” she mumbled. Realizing what she said and what it was in response to, her face flushed crimson. Unthinking, she looked over to where Julian was standing, arm still on the bull, that roguish grin spread across his face. Armyah quickly looked from the doctor to the statue he was leaning on. Something about its stone face was unsettling. Almost like it was regarding her.

“Ooooh?” he tittered, “I shouldn’t be surprised, Armyah. It seems like you’re full of hidden depths. Do you really mean that?” He push off the sculpture and circled around the magician, as a predator would his prey, “Throwing your lot in with the likes of me? Do you know what you’re getting in to?” She knew he was baiting her so she thought better of answering. However, she had a feeling there was something more in his question.

“I’m not throwing anything in with anyone,” she huffed defensively. He cocked an eyebrow and stepped toward her, causing her to step backward away from him.

“Oh?” he chuckled, “so you’re not in this garden with me? Hiding from the guards?” He backed her into a corner and outstretched his arm to rest on the wall beside her head, reminiscent of the first night he broke in. He leaned in close until she could feel his breath on her ear. “Hold still...” He slowly reached up to her face. She was ready to make a mad dash under his arm until he plucked something off her shoulder and held it up to her. A luminous blue flower glows bright between them, vivid blue in the dark. Star shaped petals curled in to close as he touched it. Julian quirked his lip and twirled it in his fingers. Armyah reached out to take it from him, but he pulled in back just slightly to stop her. “Ah, ah, ah,” he warned, “Careful, Armyah. There’s poison in these petals.” The magician look curiously at the fragile, unfamiliar bloom.

“What is that?” she asked, reaching for it once again, only to have it pulled just out of reach.

“Deadly Starstrand,” he explained, glancing at the beautiful flower, “A single drop of poison distilled from this flower could kill a babe in its crib. It’s killed tyrants and kings, innocent and guilty.” The doctor held it upside down precariously like he was threatening to drop it, “It could topple entire empires with a careless hand.” Armyah snatched it out of his hand while he was distracted, leaving him to blink at his empty hand. He turned back to the young woman and found the flower in her hand held under nose as she sniffed deeply. There was something acrid to it, an underlying note of iron and sickness that stung her sinuses.

“You said the poison has to be distilled,” she said, not taking her eyes off the glowing blossom, “so it’s harmless to the touch.” He watched the magician eagerly as she ran a finger over the petals so softly, like she it might shatter if she isn’t careful.

“Well, I wouldn’t eat it if I were you,” he chuckled, “but you’re right. It probably wouldn’t kill you like this.” He plucked the flower from her hand and tucked it behind her ear, his touch lingering for a moment before dropping it to her shoulder. He looked as if he wanted to say something, but couldn’t muster up the courage to say it.

“Does that bite still hurt?” Armyah asked, breaking the silence. She shouldn’t be comfortable with how close he is, but she can’t bring herself to pull away.

“Are you worried about me, Armyah?” He breathed a laugh as he tucked her curly dark hair behind the ear without the flower. “You needn’t be. I’m perfectly alright, see?” He steps back and spread his arms out wide, nearly knocking the bull-like statue. Cursing, he quickly moves to steady it, “I, uh...” he coughed into his fist, embarrassed, “Reflexes notwithstanding.” Julian recomposed himself, straightening his uniform. “Really, it’s fine,” he waved a hand nonchalantly, “I feel fine, fantastic even!” She eyed the doctor incredulously. “After all,” he smiled that signature, mischievous grin of his, “here I am, in a beautiful garden with a beautiful woman.” He cocked an implicative eyebrow at the magician, “who wouldn’t be delighted by such wonderful company?” He noticed the magician’s mournful gaze to her feet and softened his expression. Julian reached out to take her hand into one of his and grazed a gloved-thumb over her knuckles. The other hand tilted her chin upward to meet his eye, “what’s wrong, Armyah?”

“It’s just...” she sighed, defeated, “I know I thanked you, but it doesn’t feel like enough.” Her chocolate eyes flickered to the blood stain on his waistcoat. “You got hurt because of me.” The doctor couldn’t help but chuckle.

“Trust me,” he squeezed her hands reassuringly “Better I hurt in your stead.” He leaned in, lips inches from hers, breath mingling together. A cascade of warmth spreads through her whole body and all she could think about is the sliver of space between them. For a moment, she thought that he might kiss her. She wasn’t entirely sure, but she just might let him. “Besides,” he winked teasingly “you’re much more fragile than I.” Armyah smiled, rolling her eyes and playfully pushing the doctor away by his chest. Suddenly, the sound of loud footsteps quickly approaching made the two jump a foot. The pair leaped into action, Julian tugging on Armyah’s arm and pulling her out onto the street once more. He lead her deeper into the city and to more questionable areas, taking wild turns to evade their pursuers. He slowed down at a rundown residence at the outskirts of the district, stepping carefully around the few chickens petering around the yard. “In we go, Armyah,” he didn’t wait for her to respond before clamoring through an open window and pulling the magician in after him.

The hut is humid on the inside. Julian ducked under a row of brass bells hanging from the rafters, similarly to those at the Rowdy Raven, just close enough to make them hum. His arm lingered on the magician’s waist as he surveyed the room after steadying her from their entrance through the small window. The small house was wide, the ceiling low causing the doctor’s hair to brush it and shower his shoulders with dirt.

“Mazelinka?” Julian called out to the empty room, “sorry to drop in like his.” There was no answer, he coughed nervously into his fist, “you know...the guards...Mazelinka?” When there was still no reply he shrugged off his large coat and hung it on the back of a chair to dry. “Huh, I don’t think she’s home.” Armyah look in the small, stuffy home. It was quaint, reminded her of of the shop when Asra first bought it. Wait a minute…

“Did we just break in,” she narrowed her eyes at the doctor. Maybe she was throwing her lot in after all. Julian rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly.

“I, um...” his eye wandered everywhere but her own, “...maybe?” She sighed in frustration, pinching the bridge of her nose. It’s not like they had many options.

“Well, desperate times call for unconventional measures,” she reasoned. He stiffened at the familiar phrase, maybe she got it from Asra and that’s where he heard it? Or possibly a coincidence?

“In any case, she seems to be out,” he said, regaining his composure, “lucky for us; she doesn’t like when I come through the window.” Eye widening in realization, he turned on Armyah. He looked past her to the small planter below the window they had just crawled through. Curly tendrils of yellow flowers sprouted raggedly from the soil. Their petals furled and unfurled as if they were gasping for breath. “Damn!” he cursed, “we stepped on the Dragon’s Breath. I’m in for an earful.” He wipes a hand down his face as the door began to ratter, a grunt from the outside as it’s shaken free from the crooked frame.

“Ilya!” a haggered voice croaked, “did you come through the window again, you slippery boy?” A small figure, hunched over in old age, shuffled through the groaning doorway swathed in a thick blue shawl and ragged coat. Julian straightened too quickly, striking his head against the ceiling with a wince. Regardless, the doctor swept down to offer his arm to the small woman and dipped for a kiss on the cheek.”

“Ah Mazelinka,” he seemed to be trying to distract her from the magician behind him, “aren’t you a sight for the sore eye! Love the shawl, is it new?” She rolled her eyes and rested her hands on her wide hips.

“You know it isn’t,” she wagged a wooden spoon at him, “I though you might be around when I saw the guards sniffing-” The old woman’s piecing eyes softened as they fell on the young woman partially hidden by the lanky doctor. She lean aside to see her, blinking up at her through wisps of wiry hair. The girl shifted her weight from one foot to the other under Mazelinka’s gaze. She was a pretty, young thing and seemed to be shy. “Who do we have here?”

“This is Armyah, she’s a...,” Julian stumbled on what to call her. He couldn’t exactly refer to her as the girl who’s house he broke into and now they just keep bumping into each other. It doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue “...a new friend of mine.” Their host didn’t seem to buy it anyway.

“A new friend, huh?” she asked incredulously before regarding the fortune-teller with hint of a smile, “make yourself comfortable, Armyah.” She moved through the kitchen and rummage through a few cabinets until she noticed the ruined flowers in the window box.

“I did that!” Julian exclaimed quickly, “I take full responsibility for that. I wasn’t thinking and I-”

“Don’t fit through the door, I know,” Mazelinka finished for him, “Fetch me the round pot for me, will you?” Julian nodded and moved to a cupboard set in the dirt wall beside where Armyah was standing. There was a sway in his step, and when their eyes met his smile was weary. Maybe that bite he took from her took more out of him than he originally thought. His eye lingered strangely, almost dazed.

“You okay?” she asked so only he could hear. She watched him as he reached past her and dragged a well-used cauldron from the cupboard.

“I’m fine, why?” he looked sidelong at her, “More importantly, how are you, my dear?” Her nose crinkled in annoyance at the nickname. Boots clicking on the hard floor, he swaggered over to the fire Mazelinka had started and dropped the pot over it. He turn back to the magician, a spark of interest in his hazy eye. “Do you feel strange in any way? Experiencing any tingling? Some people have described a tingling sensation after.”

“After what?” their host piped up. Julian winced, like he forgot they weren’t alone, “what have you gone and done to yourself this time?” The doctor gazed tenderly at Armyah.

“Nothing I wouldn’t do again.” He sounded sincere, but that didn’t stop the blush from rising to her cheeks. She glanced down to her feet, unable to keep his gaze. She couldn’t help but smile. Mazelinka decided to drop it, she knew she’d never get through to the stubborn boy. She rolled a purple herb between her thumb and fingers.

“Ech, worrywort’s gone stale,” she tsked, “Gotta get more in the garden. Pardon me, Armyah” She grabs a rusty knife and shuffled out the door. The moment the door closed behind her Julian slumped against the counter, one hand holding his weight and the other tangled in his curly tresses.

“Huh, who would’ve thought that a bite like that would take so much out of me...” Realizing what he had said, his eyes flickered up to the magician’s face, “not to belittle our bite, mind you.” When he saw there was no sign of offense on her he relaxed and grinned, “You’re the first to make it, you know.” His gaze was soft in the flickering firelight until a shadow crossed his brow and he looked away. “They’re not aggressive, the eels. And they wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for the Count,” Julian spat bitterly. A chill ran down Armyah’s spine at the reminder of why they were in hiding. He was a wanted man.

“Did you really do it?” she asked with out thinking. His wide eye fixated on the floor as she clasped her hand over her mouth, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. I wasn’t thinking. I-” She stammered out an apology, but she noticed he wasn’t upset. In fact, his chest shook with quiet laughter.

“I’m sorry, it’s just...” he shook his head and smiled softly, “I’m always asking myself that same question. It’s much less irritating when you say it.” Sighing, he tilted his head to look up at the ceiling, “Did I do it...” he mused to himself. Finally, he looked to Armyah, “if I told you the truth would you believe me?” She doesn’t answer. She doesn’t even move to nod or shake her head. He repeated the question a few more times. “Did I really kill the Count...what if I told you I don’t remember?” The magician stiffened, was he missing memories too? Was there some correlation between their amnesia?

“Ilya!” they were interrupted, “you’re barely standing on two feet! When is the last time you slept?” Julian grimaced, not really remembering the last time he got a proper night’s sleep.

“Well...I don’t really need sleep the way I used to,” he blushed, wringing his hands like a child being lectured.

“Says who?” she scolded, shaking the same wooden spoon at him, “Your eye is rolling! Curse schurmse!”

“I’m fine, really,” His gaze trailed from Arymah’s feet up to her face as Mazelinka raised a steely brow. “Actually, I haven’t felt this good in a while.” The old woman sighed and tossed a handful of sand into the cauldron while stirring.

“I’ll be very happy for you after you get some rest,” she winked knowingly at the doctor and jerked her head toward the partition leading to the bedroom. “Go on, shoo.” He opened his mouth to argue, but the look in Mazelinka’s eye made him think better of it. “You’ll survive without her,” she tease, making the pair blush. Julian moved toward the curtain, pausing as he passed the magician.

“You’ll have to excuse me, Armyah,” he said with a worn out smile, “you’re in good company.” His fingertips brushed the back of her hand as he walks away from her. She’s not entire sure if it was on purpose or not. He watches after him as he disappears behind the curtain. A heaving sigh billowed beside her,

“He won’t do it, ya know,” the old woman cracked her well-worn knuckles, “he’ll pace around unless someone pins him to the bed.” Her grin bared silver teeth as she tossed the fortune-teller a knowing look. “Go keep an eye on him,” she chuckled, jerking her head toward the partition, “something tells me he’ll listen to you.” Armyah’s ears burned as she padded over to the fabric. Tentatively, she ducks under the curtain to find Julian on the edge of the bed pulling his long boots off, loose undershirt hanging from his broad shoulders. He was beginning to pull off the other one before he noticed the magician standing in the corner with her arms hugging her torso. He flashes a wry smile that gleams in the candlelight.

“Armyah!” he exclaimed with delight, “did you come to tuck me in?” He yawned dramatically and kicked his boot off with a thud. “I won’t last long, I’m afraid,” he scratched the back of his neck with a glove-less hand, her breath caught in her throat at the murder’s brand etched into the back of his hand. “I know when I’m beat. If there’s one thing I know, it’s my own body and healing takes as long as it takes.” He tapped a finger impatiently on his knee, “...whether I like it or not. Isn’t it amazing?” He rolled his eye sarcastically, “stab me in the back and I’ll walk it off, but healing will take everything I’ve got.” They were caught off guard by Mazelinka peeking past the curtain with a steaming bowl.

“Drink,” she ordered the doctor before turning to the young woman, “Armyah, will you be staying the night as well?” The magician didn’t know how to answer, she didn’t want to assume, but she was cut off by Julian sputtering into his bowl and eyeing it wearily.

“Oh, it’s that kind of soup...” he murmured indignantly.

“I won’t let you run yourself into the grave,” the old woman scolded, “you’re still human, Ilya.” Julian muttered something underneath his breath in protest and Mazelinka sighs. She takes the bowl from him and places it in the magician’s hands. “Armyah, be a dear and see that he drinks?” She nods quickly at her host.

“What for?” the tips of his ears turned red, “I’m not even feeling tired anymooooo-” Julian was cut off by a long yawn. Mazelinka patted the fortune-teller on the arm and ducked back into the main room. “She makes that soup when I can’t sleep, bless her...” he breathed a laugh, “even when I’m beyond stress, raving, beating my wings against the walls...I don’t know what she puts in it.” Curious, Armyah sniffed the shimmering golden brew; chamomile, Valerian root, and lemonbalm were the most prominent aromas. Of course...sleep aids. Julian waited obediently, eyeing the bowl in her hands and licking his lips, “and it tastes fantastic.” His eye drifted lazily from her eyes to her lips. 

Armyah knelt in front of the weary man, hiking her hand-made skirt over her knee as her shin rested on the cool wood floor. He looked to her oddly as she moved, not anticipating her next move; she brought the bowl to his lips. He huffed through his nose, his eye was thoughtful as it roamed over the magician’s face. He drained the bowl hungrily and sighed heavily, obviously satisfied. “Ah yeeeesss, very smooth,” he mused, “better than I remember.” Chocolate eyes followed the path of his tongue as it laps up the last remnants of brew from the corners of his mouth. “You know, it takes a bit to kick in...” he brought a hand under her jaw, tilting her head to look at him, “we could stay up and...” Her expression was neutral, unreadable. That same sad, lost look that she had since the first night he saw her. “...Get to know each other?” There was no roguish grin, no mischievous glint in his eye. His fingers tangle through dark curls at the back of her neck and she allows him to lead her lips closer to his. Her pulse starts to quicken as his eye slips closed as their lips meet, moving elegantly and drawing her in further. His taste is smokey and complex and leaves her wanting more. A momentary lapse of reason lets her quickly stand and lean one knee on the bed, standing over him. “Armyah...” he breaths before she deepens the kiss. He told himself the he wanted to stay away, but nothing he did allowed him to keep the magician at a distance. He wanted to drink her spicy essence of cinnamon and clove until he drowned and died a happy man.

“Alright, that’s enough, you two,” a voice cuts through the room. Flushing brighter than ever, the pair slid away from each other to an arms length. Mazelinka threw a sheet over the flustered doctor and turned a twinkling eye on the fortune-teller, “I’ve got a small sleeping space if you want, or…” she jerks her head toward Julian on the bed, “you can get all cozy in with him.” Still blushing, Julian cleared his throat and leaned back as casually as he could. She forgets who he is when she’s with him. Hell, she forgets who she is around him. She tells herself it was a moment of weakness, but she doesn’t fully believe it.

“I’ll...” she hesitates, but it’s for the best, “...I’ll take the other bed.” Julian deflated with a sigh making her wince. She hopes that she didn’t offend him or, Gods forbid, make him think she didn’t want to kiss him. However, she can’t afford anymore lapses in judgment. Before she’s able to explain herself, their host lead her by the arm past the curtain. Armyah spares him a last glance and they smile as their eyes meet.

“Sweet dreams, Armyah,” he calls softly before the curtain falls, obscuring him. Mazelinka claps her knotted hands together.

“I bet you’re wondering where your quarters are, huh?” she chuckled, “You’re right on top of ‘em.” The magician takes a step back as the old woman sweeps the rug from underneath her feet to reveal a rusty trapdoor in the floor. “There you go,” she grunted, heaving the doorpull open, “plenty of space to curl up.” Armyah dropped down into the nest of old blankets and pillows. It was quite comfortable and roomy for a hole in the ground. “Aren’t you adorable in there...” she beamed from above, “I’ll leave it open a crack.” Mazelinka swung the door closed, wedging a flat stone under one corner to leave a sliver of light in the hollow darkness. She moves out of sight and her footfalls passed over the magician’s head. The house is still, she can hear Julian’s muffled voice talking to their host, but she can’t make out what they were saying. Once quiet, Armyah situated herself in the blankets and snuggled in to sleep, the doctor’s heady taste still on her lips.

Thanks for reading! Let me know how I’m doing!

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[vampwrrrmistresslist]

Riding the Red 2

A/N:  This is the second chapter for an in-progress series, the links for which are on my mistresslist.  This work is 18+

You were gently pulled from the depths of unconsciousness by the warm wet sensation of something licking your forehead. Opening your eyes in alarm, you saw that it was Chanyeol, who was not, in point of fact, licking you, but gently dabbing at your temple with a wet cloth that he periodically dipped into a bowl of warm water. You could smell witch hazel, and the sharp, herbaceous odour of tea-tree oil. You shrank back, and he stopped his ministrations, eyes flickering to yours.

Looking around, you took your bearings. You were gently sinking into a comfortable forest green corduroy couch, in front of a crisply roaring fire, in what looked like a well-appointed cabin. Under the pervasive odour of tea tree oil, you could scent the strong smell of pine, loam, and crushed leaves. Chanyeol had taken off his jacket, but was still dressed in his vest and shirt, the sleeves of which were rolled up to his elbows. He had undone the first two buttons of his shirt, and loosened his tie. His intoxicating, spicy scent wafted up from inside his shirt, swirling around your head.

“Welcome back,” he said. 

Looking back at him, you asked, “Where am I?”

“You’re in my home; you took quite a tumble. Nothing seemed broken, but how do you feel?”

You did a quick inventory of yourself. Everything felt fine, except for your head, which was throbbing. “My head hurts, but that’s it.”

“That’s to be expected, given how hard it hit that log.”

You closed your eyes and tried to recall a memory of what he was saying, but the last thing that you remembered was him offering to walk you home. “What happened?”

“You were walking away, tripped over something, fell, and hit your head,” Chanyeol said matter-of-factly.

“I don’t really remember…”

“That’s not surprising. You have a mild concussion, but nothing a few aspirin, some butterfly bandages, and plenty of rest won’t cure. You won’t even have a scar.”

“Are you a doctor?” you countered. Chanyeol just smiled mysteriously, and began to apply the bandages. “Seriously,” you said, “I want to know. I’m going to need a proper medical diagnosis from a real doctor.”

Chanyeol’s grin widened. “I’ve had extensive EMT training, as well as countless hours of field experience.”

“Oh. So…are you a medic? What is it that you do?”

“A tid of this, a bit of that,” he said, evasively. “All done. Have a look.” He handed you a mirror.

You looked with trepidation, but aside from some superficial, if colourful bruising, and a small gash held together by the butterfly bandages, your face was otherwise unharmed. You dimpled shyly as you looked at him. “I don’t mean to seem ungrateful. Thank you.”

“No thanks needed. I was happy to have been of service.”

“Well…I hate to run, but I really must get on to my grandmother’s house.” Chanyeol stared intensely at you.

“You can’t.”

“I…can’t?” you faltered.

“No. A freak snowstorm hit while I was carrying you here. We’re completely snowed in. Look outside.”

Disbelievingly, you stood up to open the curtains. The edges of your vision flickered and you swayed.

Chanyeol steadied you with a firm grip on your arm, then rose and pulled you to him. “Come with me,” he crooned in your ear, “I’ll show you.” Guiding you over to the windows, he pulled back the draperies to reveal a world dressed in white.

“What the devil is this?” You looked sharply at Chanyeol, who gave an elegant shrug of his shoulders.

“The temperature has dropped precipitously since the sun went down. Surely you felt it. Why else were you so bundled?”

“I…just dressed, I didn’t give it too much thought.” You paused. “It never snows this much here. It barely snows at all, not to mention at such an unseasonable time for it.”

“And yet, there you are,” Chanyeol said with finality, languidly waving a hand toward the window. With what you were coming to realize was his perpetual wolfish grin, he added rhetorically, “If you can’t trust your eyes, then just what can you trust?”

“Certainly not you,” you said softly, without thinking. Realizing your rudeness, you blushed scarlet and started to stammer an apology.

Chanyeol just grinned all the wider. “Smart girl.”

You searched his face, but despite its sharp planes, you found no malice. Unthinkingly, you reached up and placed your hand on his cheek. His pupils dilated until the iris was almost eclipsed by black, but other than that, there was no reaction. Dismayed by your own forwardness, you dropped your hand as if his face had burned you.

“I need to call someone to let them know where I am.”

Chanyeol started shaking his head before you even finished your sentence. “I’m afraid that I have no phone. I’m a rustic sort. No phone, no TV, no Internet.”

You felt your eye twitch; you were a daughter of the tech age. “No Internet?”

He laughed. “Teasing. I actually do have satellite service, but in storms like this, snow covers the dish and the end result is…no Internet.”

“Well, how long are we going to be here?”

“I haven’t the foggiest,” he said, comfortably. Your stomach took that moment to let out an ominous rumble. “Someone needs feeding. For better or for worse, you are my guest and as such, it is my distinct pleasure to see to all of your…physical needs.” You self-consciously wrapped your arms around yourself. “Follow me. I’m sure that I can scare up something.”

He led you to a dining room dominated by a long cherrywood table surrounded by high backed chairs. “Sit,” he commanded. You bristled slightly at his tone, but you were tired and hungry, as well as a guest in his home, so, after paying lip-service to your pride by giving him a look, you sat. “Good girl.” He reached into his pocket, and pulled out a small bottle of Tylenol PM. Reaching across the table for a carafe and glass, he poured you a glass of water, saying, “Take three of these. They should help with your head.” He left the room, but soon returned with a giant silver platter full of fruit, nuts, cured sausage, honey, bread, cheese, and two sharp little knives in one hand, and a bottle of grape juice in the other. “You must excuse me. I’m a bachelor. I have plenty of food, but none of it is particularly fancy.”

“My basket–”

“–Is in the living room.”

“I have some food in there. My mom had sent me a care package, and in it she included some things for my grandmother, which is why I was on my way to her house. I also brought most of my things to share with her, so that should supplement your stores.”

“We’ll dip into it, if necessary, but—”

“I have cookies.”

Chanyeol paused. “I’ll get it.” A moment later, he returned. Laying your basket on your lap, he looked at you. “Why don’t you make yourself comfortable? I can put your cape on the coat-rack. ”

“Oh…thank you.” You stood to untie your cape when he moved behind you.

Reaching around, he brushed away your hands. “Allow me.” He untied your cape, his fingers gently brushing against your throat. As he slid it from your shoulders, the backs of his hands brushed against your arms. The contact was minimal, but you felt your face grow hot. When he returned he looked at you. “You’re blushing.”

“I’m…quite hot. I’ll be fine.”

“Indeed. Shall we?” You both tore into the food.  You hadn’t realized how hungry you were until you started eating. You groaned as you bit into a piece of bread and cheese. You didn’t have time to be embarrassed, however, because Chanyeol was wolfing it down even faster. He wasn’t a rude eater, but an expeditious one. You grinned. You had always enjoyed watching men with good table matters enjoy their food and it was nice not to have to act like a lady while your stomach burned with hunger. Soon, however, the silver platter was clean, and you were halfway through your packet of Hob Nobs. You sighed, and sat back. Chanyeol nodded. “I second that.” You blinked your eyes in contentment.

Several moments later, you realized that your eyes were still closed. Before you could open them, Chanyeol swung you into his arms and started out of the dining room. You struggled against him until he said, “Relax, little one. I’m just carrying you to the guest room. My room is down the hall.” Realizing that your struggles were useless anyway, you relented. Deep within yourself, you sighed. His body was as hard as marble. A thrill ran through you as you enjoyed a luxury that you hadn’t experienced since you were a child. Of course, it was quite different, being carried by your beloved Papa, and being carried by a rugged, enticing man who was definitively not anything like your sweet, gentle, owlish Papa.

Chanyeol turned into a room, and sat you gently on the bed. The Tylenol were just beginning to work, and you blinked sleepily down at him as he undid your shoes. Looking up at you, he reached under your skirt, sliding his warm, callused hands along your calves and thighs, until he reached your garters. Drawing one hand back down your leg, he put it beneath your knee, lifting it as he unhooked the back of the garter. Gently placing your leg back against the mattress, he undid the front and side, and then tenderly, yet methodically folded the stocking down your leg.

You knew that you should be affronted at his effrontery, but you were tired, warm, and full of good food. Besides, what with the way that he was looking at you, and the warm scent of his hair teasing your nostrils, you were half tempted to let him do a lot more. He unhurriedly repeated the process with your other leg, looking into your eyes the entire time. Then, folding your stockings together, he placed them in your shoes.

He rose, towering over you as he looked down into your face. Starting with the bottom button, he slowly undid your vest, and peeled back the halves, then folded it into the drawer by the bed. As he turned back to you, you raised your arms. Reaching down, he began to pull up your shirt. Pausing, he ran his hands over your stomach. He swallowed, and looked at you. “Corset?” he asked hoarsely.

“I like them,” you shrugged.

Taking a shuddering breath, Chanyeol pulled up your shirt, and folded it away with your vest. He took a step back, and looked at you. Your golden-brown skin fairly glowed against the cream silk brocade. “My, my, my, Little Red. You almost make a man forget to be a gentleman.” You dimpled shyly.

“Turn around,” he softly commanded. You paused, unsure. Then you slowly turned around. “Pull your hair to the side.” Reaching behind you, you caught your heavy mass of hair with one arm, and pulled it over your shoulder. Chanyeol didn’t move for awhile. Just as you were about to turn back around, you felt his fingers begin to leisurely unlace the back of your corset. As each row came undone, you felt the hot backs of his fingers gently brush against your spine. Finally the work was done. An expectant heaviness hung in the air.

You slowly turned back around, holding the corset to your chest. Chanyeol looked at you, and then leaned close. You closed your eyes and tilted your head. You felt his hand brush back your hair from your temple, his breath gently fan over your face. He whispered, “That wound looks as if it’s beginning to heal already. I trust that a night’s rest will do you great good.” By the time his words registered and you opened your eyes, he was gone.

Follow me @vampwrrr, for the most up-to date posts.

[the-eve-of-lies]

It Matters No More(Jeje x Reader)

“Ah. Those two. In a fight, they’re lethal . Around each other, they melt.”

-Sonya Karp, The Golden Lily

“Where’s your Servamp, Miku-Miku?” Johannes Mimir Faustus asked Mikuni Alicein one evening. It was quite strange that Mikuni’s Servamp wasn’t with him or coiling around his neck like a fancy scarf. Perhaps Mikuni let Jeje wander outside to cool his head off? Or the Servamp left of his own accord. Either way, it was unusual.

“Jeje got confronted by [Name] as soon as she saw us a ‘little’ bloody and bruised.” Mikuni showed off a large wound on his right arm while nonchalantly shrugging. “I told her it was no big deal but,” he puffed his cheeks, “she wouldn’t listen!”

“Ooh!” Johannes exclaimed, clasping both hands together. He often wondered how a normal human like [Name] can confront and scold someone like Jeje who barely speaks. “Where are they now?”

Mikuni slowly pointed the door behind him. He needed to treat his wound. Even though [Name] is a certified nurse, he was certain she’s beat him up to the verge of fainting even before she would treat his wound—or Jeje’s for that matter. He smirked.

Meanwhile, Jeje was in a very childish argument against [Name] who kept on insisting not to go all out whenever doing missions with his Eve! It was frustrating to see your beloved injured one day and then the next, even more injured! She would go crazy!

The two were dating for only a month and Jeje was head-over-heels for this fascinating human. At first, he thought [Name] was just average so he ignored her until...that is until one evening, after returning from yet another mission, [Name] punched the hell out of Jeje for being injured. He was never the same since.

“How many times do I have to tell you, Jeje?” she exclaimed, face bright red. Both of her hands were crossed above her chest and she harboured an intimidating aura. To Jeje’s surprise (and horror), he saw a scalpel sticking out of her left pocket. God only knows what that tool was for. [Name] noticed something odd about Jeje at the moment but she chose to just ignore it and resume with her ranting, “There are words, ‘careful’ and ‘cautious’ you have to remember whenever you are out on a fight! You’re lucky I’m not your Eve because if I was, I’ll—”

“—Lecture me on enhancing my vocabulary?” Jeje inquired in an innocent tone. Little did he know, [Name] was about to let all hell loose. The ground seemed to shake beneath him as the female glared like she had never glared before.

“YOU SNAKE!” she hollered, pulling out the scalpel from her pocket and began chasing Jeje around with it. “IF I CATCH YOU, YOU’LL BE SERVED AS BARBEQUE! HEY! COME HERE YOU OVERGROWN PIECE OF PAPER BAG!”

Mikuni sighed contently. He had just returned from both bandaging his wound and taking a bath. It was a nice sensation. Being soaked in a hot water with calming scents mixed together can make you experience something otherworldly.

The antique dealer opened the door to his shop to find Johannes sitting on the cemented steps near the doorway. The scientist seemed to be enjoying the ‘fight’ as if it was a movie.

Since Mikuni was bored out of his mind, he decided to join Johannes in observing the couple. He stepped out of the shop only to hear a crunch from under him; Mikuni stepped on something.

“AAH!!!” screamed the poor guy. “FROST! OH, FROST, MY BEAUTIFUL SWEETHEART! WHO PLACED YOU UNDERNEATH ME?! WHO?” He knelt down to cradle the doll whose head had been severed from its body. “I WILL NEVER FORGIVE THAT PERSON!”

Chuckling to himself, Johannes pretended to be innocent. He continued watching Jeje and [Name] as if Mikuni wasn’t having a breakdown behind him. “Ah, these two. In a fight, they’re lethal. Around each other they melt.”

Jeje halted in his tracks when [Name] finally cornered him. She brought the scalpel upwards, seemingly ready to strike. Jeje gulped knowing this was going to be painful. A girl holding a scalpel under the moon’s bright light isn’t something you should take seriously.

Instead of striking him, [Name] dropped the weapon on the ground with a clatter. She closed the gap between Jeje and her, embracing him firmly. She breathed in his intoxicating scent. As predicted, the Servamp tensed. Even after all the times [Name] initiated physical contact, he still wasn’t used to it.

Tentatively, he wrapped both arms around her waist. Jeje was proud of himself for responding. Usually, whenever [Name] hugged him, he would just stay limp like a doll. But now, he was more than glad to show his affection once in a while.

“You’re so careless...” [Name] muttered. “If you get hurt even worse than before, I’m not sure I could live with not being able to prevent you from acquiring injuries. It doesn’t matter if you get hurt in my hands—at least I can heal you and patch you up. What matters to me is your safety. I love you and I’m willing to sacrifice myself just for you to be safe and secure.”

She heard Jeje chortling lightly. [Name] raised a brow in confusion. “IS something funny?”

“You keep saying that,” he pointed out. “You keep wanting to be the one responsible for my health. Let me say this, too: I love you and I’ll be protecting you. I won’t let you sacrifice yourself. I...just want you to be happy.”

[Name] blushed, touched by Jeje’s words. Her heart was doing ‘it’ again. At least, if she fainted, Jeje was there to catch her.

~

Extended ending:

In the darkness, a blonde-haired male wept for the loss of his doll. Upon seeing Johannes’ reaction to his outburst, he knew the mad scientist was the culprit. Mikuni caught a sight of a scalpel on the ground and slowly, he walked over towards it and picked it up.

Determination swelled in his veins...he’ll MURDER the person responsible for Frost’s dismemberment.

[kaishiros-memo]

Revelations

Part two of my writing stuff for post-who killed markiplier, but this can be read as a stand alone too I guess.

-------------

They had awoken only to be met with the remains of their prison. Broken glass fragments, some of it covered in some inky black substance. Sitting up shakily, a feeling of guilt and regret soon pools into their very being.

Oh god...what have I done?

Clutching at their chest, they feel the slightest hum, and cringe. They actually did it. They did something they swore they wouldn't do.

Oh gods...I'm so sorry.

They suddenly feel a sharp pain, as if an oncoming headache was plaguing them. Holding their head with their other hand, they wonder:

Who were they apologizing to again?

It was...somebody. Somebody important to me. They figured, looking up towards the familiar bleak ceiling. It was decaying, the paint had been chipped off slowly over time while the growth of ivy slowly took its place. At least one thing was certain.

It was no longer monochrome.

The world was colorful again. Their vision, movements, everything, was finally in their control again. Grabbing the top of the dresser, they slowly get up to their own two feet. Glancing around the abandoned mansion, a sudden realization had hit them.

But they had no evidence to confirm it yet.

Guess I should look around first. I need a good distraction.

Running a hand through their hair, they sigh, trying to steady their nerves. Treading through the empty, yet familiar hall, a feeling of fear runs through them as they stare up at the balcony. Looking down toward the ground, patches of dried blood could be seen, and had the eternal witness gulp.

How unsettling.

They make a mental note to avoid that balcony when they decide to check out the top floor. The kitchen, like most of the other rooms, were empty, and covered in dust. When they had opened a cupboard, a giant cobweb was what remained. That and a few spiders. When glancing over to the marble countertop, they remember seeing a machine there. A creepy garden gnome-esque camera. Another man was in here, waving a knife at their face whilst yelling. Shuddering they quickly move on to the basement, where a wine cellar was. The wine cellar, surprisingly, held lots of wine but the atmosphere was cold. Unwelcoming.

They recall a moment when someone-

A butler perhaps?

-was here to tell them something important, but was interrupted by...a broken bottle? Kneeling down, they inspected the ground carefully. Only to see nothing except a light blotch of purple.

Guess he missed a spot.

Retracting their hand, another inquiry pops into their head.

What was he going to tell me? He never did finish what he was going to say.

Getting up, they turn back toward the stone staircase.

Guess I'll never know.

Heading up the stone stairs, they walk through a hall to reach a looming-overhead wooden door. A faint recollection of a man with a snapback hat was leading them here to look for information. No, not information...clues. Evidence. To clear the air of a-

No.

Startling, a sudden feeling of unease settles in their chest.

Stop. Don't even think about it.

Shaking off the thought, they enter the room. To their surprise, it remained untouched. Well...seemed untouched. The room was a complete mess, but it wasn't empty as the other rooms. Though the room felt a bit off, as if something was missing from it. Lightly stepping around the room, they first open high-class closets and drawers. An array of shirts awaited them, and they grab one before hesitating. They look down toward their current bloody shirt, then to the clean one with a grimace.

Apologies, but I seem to need this more than you seem to...whoever owned this. They would change later, in a more...suitable place. As changing in someone else's abandoned bedroom doesn't seem like the most polite idea, even if no one was there.

Whoever’s room this is, they must've been the owner of the mansion. Everything in here simply screams high-class and money.

The table at the far-end of the room catches their eye. It was empty. Considering that the room was messy as all hell, and every surface had something on it, an empty table was the most suspicious thing in the room.

This is the thing that's throwing me off...what was previously on here?

Brushing their fingers lightly on the wooden surface, they delve back into their broken thoughts. Thinking hard, they try and recall something, anything of importance. Nothing but a dull ache rings back and a sigh of frustration escapes them. A faint glimmer of light suddenly shimmers from their peripheral vision. Turning to the right, they stare at the golden shine of a stamp partially hidden from its place in a drawer. Getting a bit closer to it, they realize it was an unopened envelope.

Fancy.

Slipping it out of the drawer, they peak at its contents, only to find nothing.

I should have known it wouldn't be this simple. They sigh, sliding open the drawer.

Jewelry, money, a broken monocle? A pocket watch...is that a golden toothbrush?

Placing the empty envelope into the drawer, they hastily shut it. Checking around the floor of the bed and drawer, they find a half-crumpled sheet of paper hidden by a dirty shirt.

Dear Mark, I hope you have been well...it has been awhile hasn't it?...seems just like yesterday when we were toddlers running around...but now you're a star and William is a soldier-turned-colonel...Celine has been well I hope? I haven't seen much of her but I know you're keeping her happy...heard you even bought your own mansion as well!...University has been quite difficult here in the city, but I have pulled through. Made a new friend as well...Y/n is their name...they are aiming high, to become a lawyer or possibly even more...and I believe they will spark a revolution within the Justice system...calm, quiet, but has a fiery passion to find out the truth...you should see the amount of notes they write...it's quite astonishing!...the both of you would get along gladly...perhaps one day that can be arranged...write so-

The rest of the letter’s ink is smudged and unreadable, but they got the general gist of it. Though, that name…

Y/n...Y/n...that's my name isn't it?

They exhale slowly, letting the little fragments of knowledge they have slowly come together.

Yes. That was my name. Mark...he was the famous actor. The one who-

Another jolt of pain flares through their mind. Swallowing down the lump of unease forming, they fold up the letter and pocket it. After another thought, they open the drawer and pocket the envelope as well. Once they find the bathroom, they quickly change out of the stained shirt and into the cleaner one. Looking up, they see their reflection, and immediately freeze up. Their right eye...was no longer there. In it's place was a void, with jagged edges akin to a broken mirror surrounding it.

A scar.

Gritting their teeth, they violently dig around the drawers within the bathroom. Once they spot a nice white roll of bandages, they quickly wrapped up the unsightly wound and checked the mirror again. It was not visible...for now.

Time to leave. No more time to waste staying here.

They grimace, ignoring the disgusting feeling the air and their beating chest seem to give. Even as they walk down the steps of the grand staircase, they could see it. The shadows loom over them, with sinister intentions, but are unable to act upon them. Even as they leave through the door, that feeling stayed with them. They shudder, unable to shake off the feelings of dread and nausea, but continue onward upon the old beaten path. 

Walking and walking and walking, under the path of moonlight. It must've been hours until they reached a city, as dawn broke through the skyline the moment they saw buildings and cars. The dreams they had within the manor displayed similar architecture and technology, but it was still breathtaking to witness in real life. Watching as bikers and runners go on by, they spot a plastic box filled with newspapers. ‘Free’ was plastered directly onto the handle, so they pull open the box and help themselves to one. The headline of the first article was seemingly ridiculous, nothing new, but the picture...

Strange...did newspapers always have colored images?

They wonder, but a feeling of sudden spike of anxiety overtook them. They fumble and flip through the newspaper. Politicians, musicians, actors, all of whom they did not recognize or recall. Skimming through each article for any shred of sense only left them in more of a panicked daze, their breathing uneven and their vision hazy. Once flipping back to the front page, they glance over to today’s date. And suddenly, they couldn't breathe at all.

It’s the year...2018?

It had been nearly a century since they had been trapped.

-----------

This was pretty fun to make, not gonna lie. Though there may be a few boring bits here and there, I’d chock this one up as a win. A familiar face may appear next, I wonder who it could be? More writing soon, I hope.

[knowledgequeenabc]

That is Where They Wait Ch 4: Rendezvous

previous / next   all chapters AO3 FFN (pay attention to this one folks! exposition galore. my apologies though, it’s REALLY LONG) ... Jinxed it. 

Jay's neck whipped around at his name being called, his backpack nearly hitting the bookshelf he was standing right next to. He almost dropped something he was holding (a book?) but quickly solidified his grip on it before it happened.

"Wh— … Zane!"

"And finally I've found you, as well," Zane said, relief that everyone was accounted for setting in. He took a quick glance at the library around him — shelves upon shelves of books surrounded the both of them, with a mezzanine housing even more shelves; all were a deep brown. 

Scanning the books, he saw some of them carried familiar titles— like with the art gallery, it was an impressive collection. (Oh, if only there were time to absorb all the information they held.) From the ceiling hung a small but grandiose chandelier, now deformed, with several of its glass pieces broken or fallen off. Several once fanciful lamps on stands stood scattered around the room, lace and satin lampshades tattered and moth-eaten over time. 

A small table stood on top of the faded, worn red carpet, with a little mantle clock sitting on top of it, and nearby stood an old globe of Ninjago, in surprisingly good condition.

"Is this where you've been hiding the entire time?"

Blue eyes turned towards the mahogany floor shamefully. " … Yeah." Then they turned back up, bashfully meeting his gaze. "I'm sorry for running off, Zane. I just ... I freaked out when I saw that huge spirit thing, whatever it was, and I was already super nervous once we found out powers didn't work! So I wasn't really thinking straight, and I just kinda ... panicked."

After a moment of silence, Zane sighed. "Cole and Kai may be frustrated with you for a little while yet, but it's understandable. I'm happy that you're not hurt, at least."

"Yeah," Jay said, breathing a nervous laugh. "I booked straight out of there, and uh … it didn't follow. It didn't hurt you, did it? I hope not. Ohhh, don't tell me it did—"

"Kai's arm is rather badly injured at the moment. I actually have yet to stitch it — but now that I've found you, I can properly attend to it."

Jay deflated a little, a soft "oh" leaving his mouth.

"B-but don't worry!" Zane went on quickly, sensing a drop in mood and determined not to let Jay feel too bad. "Once it's stitched, Kai will be fine. And Cole simply needs a little time to regain his composure."

The amount of reassurance he saw on Jay's face gave Zane little comfort. The more he examined Jay, he saw that the freckles on his face were sharp against the pallid skin underneath, his eyes seemed dark and hazy, and his breathing, while mostly under control, was actually slightly unsteady and still ragged. Perhaps from the running …

He had the impression it was more than just that, however. Perhaps Jay was more perturbed than he was letting on. But it didn't make much sense, because out of all of them, Jay was the most open with his response to stress. Kai became snippish and lashed out, or closed himself off; Cole would become assertive to a fault and channel insecurity into action, or try to comfort himself; it was always Jay who openly complained and tried to communicate how he felt in a stressful situation. Rarely did he hide it. So why would now be any different?

Abruptly, his scrutiny was brought to a halt, with Jay's voice cutting into his reverie.

"Hey Zane, you're kinda quiet. You alright?"

"Oh, yes. I'm alright. I was just …" He scrambled for something to say. "Thinking of what to do from here. Considering one of us is injured and we may start running low on bandages, it would be wise to leave and then quickly regroup before we came back and properly attempted to find Shade. Speaking of which, it's rather odd that we have been on at least three floors, and there is still no sign of him. I hope that nothing too terrible has happened to him …"

Another breathy laugh from Jay. "Y-yeah, me too. Do we know if we can get out?"

Zane pondered the question for a moment. And what Jay meant by it. "To be fair, we have yet to check the door. We were a bit … preoccupied."

"Don't you know anything about the horror genre, Zane? We've shown you enough classics! Remember the one where —"

"I really do not understand the point of you bringing this up, Jay—"

"Point is, the door's already shut. It'll probably be locked, too; that's always how it goes. There's something weird going on here, I'm telling you! Our elemental powers aren't working at all and there's something bad in the air, so tell me that it's a big reach to assume the door's locked!"

It was not an assumption Zane would have made, actually. Certainly the door had slammed shut behind them, yes, but there wouldn't be any reason for it to be immovably shut. "We should still check, just in case. And we never know; there could be other exits. But later, of course. We need to meet back up with Kai and Cole first."

Jay let out an almost imperceivable huff through his nose. "Fine. But if I'm right about the door, you really gotta start listening to me. You promise?"

Zane blinked. Jay sounded … quite serious on the whole matter. But there was no harm in agreeing.

"I promise." Zane paused for a moment. "What are you holding, by the way?"

"Oh, this? It's nothing. I was trying to hide from the spirit and I was getting nervous sitting around waiting for things to be safe, so I grabbed a book to read."

"Hmm." He wasn't sure how he felt about that answer, but he said no more. "Let us get going, then."

"Um! Give me a moment, Zane." At the confused glance he got, Jay went on. "I just need a moment to check my backpack. I think I knocked it into something. Wait outside for me or something."

"Very well." And then, after a second, Zane did something he had considered but had not even anticipated going through with — he hugged Jay, who started and then tightly hugged him back. Suddenly feeling even more self-conscious, he stepped back after a few seconds.

"I … just thought it would be good. It is an appropriate time for hugs, when you've reunited with someone, isn't it?"

"Uh … y-yeah. Thanks." Jay looked flustered by the unexpected hug, which was understandable (if a little worrying, because if anything, Jay was usually one of the most affectionate members of their team.) He had better let Jay have some time to himself, because whatever was troubling him, he certainly needed to regain a little composure. And besides that, something gave him the feeling that pushing matters would not help.

(He blinked as he realized he was quite tense. But there was no immediate danger … )

Zane turned towards the exit, his footsteps echoing on the wood, and the door clicked shut behind him. Jay stared after him for a few seconds, clutching the backpack to his chest. Then, he stubbornly rubbed at his eyes with his sleeve, stuffed the faded book he'd been holding into his backpack with trembling fingers, and went back outside.

"So they were a floor under me, the whole time, and I never noticed — uh, Zaaane —"

"I see it," Zane responded quietly. "What was that you had said about it not following you?"

"You think it came up here looking for me?"

"Who knows. Either way, we'll have to try to make our way down the rest of these stairs as quietly as possible."

"And then what?" Jay dropped his voice to a fearful whisper. "These steps feel hollow; maybe we can hide in the space underneath them until it leaves ... "

Zane said nothing in response, opting instead to nod and quietly pick his way down the steps, one carefully-placed foot after the other. Jay followed closely behind, his steps light and quick, and apprehensively his gaze darted between the stairs and the door to the gallery. The spirit had returned, grotesque, so colossal its head was only a few inches short of the ceiling, and barely humanoid, with extra eyes, arms, legs, mouths; looking only just cohesive enough to stay put together and dripping parts of itself onto the floor. (And somehow it was not shrinking in size at all.)

Cautiously, they both touched onto the red carpet of the second floor, and then, watching to ensure that the spirit hadn't spotted them, darted behind the stairs. Currently, it looked more focused on something else … the nearby door.

"Eww, cobwebs," Jay moaned, shaking thick, sticky strands of spider silk off of his hands. The space below the boards of the stairs cast a cold shadow over their faces, and Zane's eyes glowed in the dark. "It's all dusty in here, I might just sneeze and it'll know where we are —"

"Quiet, Jay," Zane murmured. "It would catch us either way if it heard you talking."

"Sorry…" Jay dropped his voice even lower, nervously glancing back towards the door. It was still standing near it, almost meandering around it, but never making a move to go inside. Nor did it seem that it had spotted them yet.

"I don't think it will leave anytime soon," Zane spoke up after a few moments. "Kai and Cole are in there. And that door is not locked."

"Oh …" A beat. Jay shifted where he was standing. "So that's where they are. I don't like how this looks."

"We may have to drive it off."

"Are you serious? Fight that!? It looks like the black sheep of the clown family walked through a dumpster before being thrown into a blender and coming out with extra parts!"

"Quiet."

"Sorry …"

"It doesn't appear as if we have any other choice." ("Aww, come on.") "We will have to be careful; without our elemental power, we are more vulnerable. Take care to avoid its arms — its claws gave Kai quite the scratch." Zane poked his head out ever so slightly outside the ledge keeping them hidden. The spirit was uneasily close to the door. If they were to act, it would have to be now.

"I'm fast; I could run up to its front and attack it while you get it from behind," Jay offered, reaching for his nunchaku and readying them for an attack. Zane considered it, then nodded.

"On three." He reached for a shuriken. "One, two … three."

Then they charged.

The first two shuriken both lodged themselves in the spirit's back and exploded, sending it reeling. Jay didn't disappoint, following up with a rapid strike and hurriedly retreating out of its range, just in case it were to swipe at him.

The noise that it emitted as it recoiled was a thoroughly ugly one that enveloped the length of the hall — a wave of something unpleasant passed through Zane, and he saw Jay shudder out of the corner of his eye. They had a solid start, but they needed to keep going. From inside the door, he could hear noise, and something in him dropped in worry.

"Wh— who's there? Are you fighting it?" That was Cole. His voice sounded dangerously close to the door. If it broke in …

"Don't come out!" he yelled, coming around to its front and throwing an explosive shuriken where Jay had hit it. They couldn't come out now, or they would be attacked again. It was too risky.

"Hey, guys! You okay? Whoop—" Jay had grabbed a vase off of a nearby stand and hurled it up at the back of the spirit's head. Now, he narrowly avoided the claws, and the— ohhh it had a lot of teeth. Multiple sets of them snapped shut around the air where Jay's head had been a second ago. It screeched again.

"Jay!? You found him!" Behind Cole's shouted answers, Zane could make out Kai's confused voice if he strained his hearing.

"Hey! What's up, sorry I ran off, but I'm here, gang's all reunited!" A solid leap, another strong flick of his wrist. Jay's nunchaku slammed into the translucent "skin" (if it could even be called that) of the spirit.

"We can talk once this is over! For now, remain where you are. We cannot risk it hurting you or Kai!" Zane hurtled backwards trying to get out of the way of any counterattack the spirit could throw at him; he'd overexerted himself trying to get his unusually sluggish reflexes and movement to speed up, and control over his body was increasingly more difficult.

Something was wrong. It had to be. Curse whatever obscure gear was locking up and impeding him.

Before he could finish his attack, Jay cried out. His back slammed into the wall, and the hand that wasn't holding his nunchaku grabbed at his chest.

Oh no.

"Jay!"

Three, four, five shuriken.

As they went up in a burst of sound and smoke, Zane attempted to draw all the power he could spare into his chest. Electric shocks were reserved for last-ditch efforts, and usually PIXAL was the one who handled things like the redirecting of energy. But worryingly, he hadn't heard from her once since they'd stepped foot in the mansion.

His attempt was blocked.

A familiar voice spoke.

"I am afraid you cannot afford to redirect your full power to an electric shock."

"P… PIXAL?" A relieved pang. "I was worried about you."

"I am sorry, Zane, but there's no time to explain right now! Focus on Jay."

"Very well." The spirit creeping towards towards Jay again, shaking off the explosions and growling menacingly. Zane desperately hurled another shuriken, trying to buy time. It could not be allowed to reach him. "Redirect as much power to my chest as you can, then. I have to keep it away from him."

"On it." A familiar crackle of power built up in his chest.

The spirit did something very strange next — it hesitated. Zane could have sworn he saw the very shadows themselves shift in that moment. But there was no time to wonder — the second's hesitation was enough for him to attack.

The shock struck the arms pulled in towards its torso, the tendrils of electricity carrying themselves through the translucent form. The spirit let out an especially angry cry that rumbled unnervingly against the walls and the floor, stunned and trying to shake off the shocks. Not quite as loud was Jay's cry of alarm — he had been too dazed to see it coming, probably.

"Jay! Did it hurt you too badly?"

Jay grabbed the hand Zane was offering him, and let himself be hoisted up.

"Nah, it's fine. I'm fine. It just smacked me really hard. Oww … but I don't think it actually did anything."

"I'm glad. I was very concerned for a moment …."

When he looked back at Jay, there was a spark in the other's eyes.

"I've got an idea."

"What—"

"Distract it for me!" Jay cried, sprinting towards the stairs. "Bring it this way."

Stairs? It looked like he was going to use them to increase altitude and use that to attack it with more force on its head, where there were no arms to block. While he was a little concerned about a fall from that height, it was a relatively sound plan. Coupled with the shock he'd just inflicted and another blow, they could potentially chase it off.

He dashed in a semi-circle around the beast, tossing shuriken, daring it to get ever closer to him. It took the bait, pursuing him, bumping into the wall multiple times, attempting to finish him.

He never let it. One shuriken after another, aiming for the vulnerable eyes all over its face (or faces, he couldn't quite be sure). Pull back hastily while it cried out and tried to recover. Wince every time its disjointed voice (voices?) elevated from its perpetual moan to a deranged scream.

A shadow flickered on the floor.

With a triumphant-sounding cry, Jay leapt from the banister and twisted into Airjitzu, kicking his feet down into his target when he landed and swinging his nunchaku forcefully.

They almost went through the spirit's head with a faint purple fog, but the deep 'crack' of a double impact still disturbed the chilly air of the hallway, only a little muffled by the carpeting. With a pained yell, the spirit lashed out, clouting Jay slightly above his chest.

Jay yelped and flailed, trying in vain to grab something to stop his fall. Immediately, Zane rushed towards him, messily managing to catch him, and helping him to his feet.

Almost as soon as his feet hit the floor again, Jay thrust his arm out, and to Zane's shock, his fingertips crackled with electricity that shot right into its face.

With a final shriek, it … disappeared.

"We … we did it. Haha! Zane, we did it!"

"Did … what?"

"You know … beat it!"

"Oh! Yes. … But it disappeared. How do we know —"

"Come on, Zane. We just beat it! Live a little."

"Well. I suppose you're right." A small smile creeped up his face. "... But how were you able to use lightning? Before, all of us were completely unable to use any of our elemental power."

Jay's face twisted in perplexion. "Oh, yeaah. Weird! I'm not sure, actually. I just kinda stuck my arm out on instinct, and it … actually worked." Jay turned his hand palm out, and moved his fingers experimentally. Sure enough, small sparks of lightning slinked around his fingertips, illuminating his hand.

Jay wordlessly met Zane's surprised gaze, wide-eyed, before bursting into a grin.

"Aaand finished," Zane declared, packing away the needle and string once the last stitch had been sewn. Kai, who'd been tense from repeatedly being poked in the arm with a needle, loosened up a little bit, and let loose the breath that he hadn't quite realized he was holding. "Those should hold until we can leave and find more thorough treatment."

The entire time, Zane had been quietly listening to PIXAL's explanations of what she knew (much to Kai's chagrin — how did one stitch up an injury and converse at the same time!), and now, he called everyone else's attention. Cole had explained a little earlier that he and Kai had moved back out to the gallery because of a strange smell in the space behind the wall, as well as its complete darkness. Jay, presumably because of his squeamishness towards blood and severe wounds, had moved off to a side and tried to text Nya about their situation while he cooled off and waited for Zane to finish.

"Bad news, guys," he sighed, walking up and showing them his screen. "Nothing's going through, no matter how many times I try."

"What!? Lemme try." Kai, who'd finished rebandaging his arm, whipped out his own phone, only to find that it was completely drained of charge. "Aww, shoot."

"Did you try your communicator? We still have those." Cole pointed out, powering up his own.

"Already did," Jay sighed. "No luck, and I can't figure out what's wrong with it."

Cole shook his head. "Mine's isn't working, either. Kai?"

"Nothing," Kai confirmed glumly, his screen glitching out in the same fashion as the rest of them.

"I'm afraid I'm unable to send anything through either device, as well," Zane murmured. "And even worse … no connection to my falcon!"

"Ohh. Man. I'm sure the falcon'll be okay," Cole tried to comfort him.

"Jay, you texted my sister before we got here, right?"

"Yeah, that went through just fine," Jay mused. "So I don't get what happened."

"Lovely, we can't even get the word out if anything happens," Cole said, groaning.

"This place is so creepy."

"No kidding," Kai chimed in. "Next thing you know, there'll be a vampire around the corner waiting to suck your blood." He paused for a moment, grimacing. "Or mine. I certainly lost enough today."

"Eugh. Don't jinx it, Kai, the weird creepy spirit or whatever we're calling it is bad enough!"

"Please. No vampires," Cole sighed.

"Alright, but really," Kai said, sobering up. "No powers has happened before, but Spinjitzu has never done … that. That thing's out there trying to fight us, and we've got no way of contacting anyone to tell them about it. This place is seriously messed up."

"Whoa, hold on. What's this about Spinjitzu?" Jay turned to Kai, dismayed.

Oh, right. He'd fled before they could make that discovery. And Zane had forgotten to mention it to him earlier. Oops.

"Kai tried it earlier and as soon as he smacked into that spirit, it dropped him. Except … our ability to do Spinjitzu isn't linked to our powers …"

"And I was able to do Airjitzu earlier!" Jay pointed out.

"What!? What gives?" Kai groaned.

"Heh. Guess that one is actually just you."

"Kai, what did it feel like when you attempted Spinjitzu?" Zane asked, hoping to find a clue in the answer.

"I felt really …" Kai trailed off, looking for a word. "Weighted down? When I started the spin. And then when I kept trying, my legs gave out."

"So, according to what you are saying, the instability of your Spinjitzu is more physical than anything."

"Are you calling me a weakling?"

"Of course not, I was merely suggesting that —"

"Heyyy, Zane, you never mentioned!" Deciding to nip this development in the bud before it could escalate, Jay stood up and demonstrated. What he'd pulled off earlier hadn't been a fluke; once again, little currents of lightning danced on his fingers as Cole and Kai, who hadn't witnessed the fight, looked on.

"So we do have our powers?" A small flame ignited on the tip of Kai's finger, and instead of going out, it stayed. "Yes! Alright!" He laughed giddily. A moment after the euphoria passed, Kai's expression changed from delighted to confused. "Okay, hold on. So why is it that they weren't working earlier? What changed?"

"Jay, when did you start being able to do that again?" Cole questioned him.

"I … I dunno. I couldn't do it before we fought that thing, I know that much … but we were fighting it, and I got a hit in on its head, and I just kinda stuck my hand out — I don't really know why, to be honest, maybe it was just instinct — but it actually worked! I can actually feel the power a little bit now. But it still doesn't feel normal and I can't do much more than that. Maybe that means we didn't actually get all of it back." Jay had gotten excited at first, but lost steam towards the end. Cole, finding that he could do little more than create a small ball of earth in his hands, looked disheartened right with him.

Kai, meanwhile, hadn't been fully listening, instead playing with the flame and trying to coax more from it. The rest of them were momentarily startled by Kai shaking off an explosive burst of life from fire from his hand and yelping. The dim room, only lit by weak rays of sun filtering through barred windows, briefly erupted in a flash of hot light before the flame died out immediately afterwards.

"Okay, you have got to be kidding me." With an annoyed groan, Kai shook his hand and then lit another flame, small enough to maintain this time. Cole chuckled and then sighed.

"Well, I guess that proves your theory, Jay. … Anyway, gimme the details. You hit it on the head?"

Their antics brought a soft smile to Zane's face. But he couldn't allow the conversation on their situation to be derailed any further, so he spoke up and forced the other three to tune back in. "Jay is correct — my apologies for forgetting to bring that fact up."

"Does it change anything that we kinda have our powers back? Do we even know for sure that that thing with the Spinjitzu was just Kai?" Jay asked.

"Only way to find out is if someone tries," Cole ventured, twisting into a spin. 

Unlike with Kai, the earthy tornado didn't fizzle out, instead stopping with a breathless Cole.

"So it works for you?"

"Yeah, it does," he confirmed, panting. "But it's a lot more exhausting than usual. Heavy, like he said."

Kai tried Spinjitzu, and once again, it stayed until Kai stopped, his forehead also slick with sweat.

"So it's working. But not like usual," Jay stated.

"Just like our powers," Kai murmured, irritated. "Great."

PIXAL spoke up then. 

"There are extremely high concentrations of highly anomalous magic all over this mansion. I cannot fully discern its effects, but so far it seems to be interfering with electrical impulses and normal bodily functions, as well as any other form of magic, such as elemental powers. This may explain their abnormal physical weakness and inability to fully wield the maximum power of their respective elements." 

Zane relayed the information and watched the dismay settle in.

"Hold on." Kai interjected. "So what PIXAL's trying to tell us is … we're too weak to even pull off our normal moves. Because of magic?"

"It would seem that way," Zane answered. It was concerning that in addition to lacking most of their powers' capacity, they were also physically weakened. Perhaps his and Jay's latest battle had been closer than they'd realized.

"So all of this is because of magic. Magic!" Cole sighed. Jay chuckled sympathetically.

"Me too, Cole. Me too. … Hold on, did she say 'interfering with electrical impulses'?" Jay asked. Slowly it dawned on them.

"So that's why our stuff isn't working, huh?"

"That's it, we have to leave," Kai said, looking restless. "We're in trouble if we can't reach any of the others."

"That, and it seems our watches aren't working, either." Zane sighed. They looked down towards their watches, only confirming what Zane said — all of them had ground to a halt, and between noon, 4 am, and 7 in the evening, it was rather difficult to tell which one was the actual time. Even his internal clock seemed to be scrambled …

"Well. It really was about time we left, ya know?" Jay said, an odd expression on his face. He received a groan from Cole and a lazy smack from Kai.

"But wait," Kai spoke up. "If everything electrical's being affected …"

"Oh, he's right," Jay whispered, eyes widening in dismay. "What about you, Zane? You're a nindroid; anything happening to you?"

"They are correct to worry about interference," PIXAL confirmed. "Energy usage is much more inefficient, internal functions are sluggish, and your power source is draining much more quickly than it is recharging itself."

That explained why his feet had felt more like lead than titanium during the recent fight. It must have been his body struggling to shrug off what was apparently a magical disadvantage.

"That is where I was, this whole time," PIXAL explained, starting to sound distressed. "I was attempting to streamline internal functions to at least somewhat of their usual functioning, but this strange magic is so strong, I just can't fully —"

"It's alright, PIXAL," Zane reassured her. "Thank you; I appreciate it. … How much power do I have left?"

"Approximately enough to last slightly more than 24 hours, at the current rate of drainage."

"What? PIXAL, how can that be plausible?"

"What? What's not plausible? What is it, Zane?" Cole asked. At Zane's outburst, all of them looked a little surprised.

"I apparently only have roughly 24 hours of energy before I completely power down," he explained, dejected. "And — what? …. And I can only recharge with enough energy for the next day by doing a complete shutdown, instead of my usual sleep mode."

"Great," Kai hissed. "So we can't get any outside help, we're barely strong enough to fight our way out, and Zane's power is all messed up! Thanks for running off, Jay," he added, rounding on the aforementioned ninja, who winced and stepped back. "That was real helpful of you."

Oh no. The stress was starting to seep between the cracks, and Kai was in a foul mood, not helped by his arm. And both these things were beginning to rear their ugly heads.

… He wasn't very sure he appreciated being used as an excuse to pick a fight, either.

"I …" Jay was quiet for a moment, looking afraid. He didn't even bother defending himself when he spoke up again. "Who said we'd have to fight our way out?"

"Use your head," Kai said snidely. "You really think whatever's haunting this place will just, what, let us stroll out? Someone's got a bad case of wishful thinking."

Zane moved to calm his flashing temper, but Cole got there first, squeezing himself in-between the two.

"Kai, cool it!" he said, voice hardening. "And Jay, I'm not exactly happy you just left us to fend for ourselves, but I get it. I really do. Just … try to stick with us from now on? Please?"

"Yeah, definitely." Jay's smile was twitchy and more nervous-looking than anything. "Look, I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking. It won't happen again."

"Good," Cole sighed. "It's just the four of us, for now, and there's no Lloyd or anyone else. We can't really afford for you to start bickering now." Kai shot him a 'look who's talking' glance, but didn't say anything else, aggressive body language loosening back into guarded alertness.

That seemed to settle the issue effectively … but something Cole said brought up another concern.

"Speaking of Lloyd …" Kai murmured.

"Yes," Zane chimed in, "where is he? And his group, for that matter. We were supposed to meet them here, yet we've been on three floors and there hasn't yet been a single sign that any one of them is present."

There was a troubled silence as each one of them considered the implications.

"... They wouldn't hang us out to dry, would they?" Jay posed the question, voice somewhere between worried and doubtful.

"Are you kidding?," Kai scoffed. "Lloyd was the most determined to do this in the first place. Besides, those three? They would never." Zane could almost hear the unspoken "unlike you" directed at Jay. Judging by Jay's face, so could he. He held back a sigh.

"Yeah, Lloyd's not the kinda kid to do that," Cole agreed. "He's got way too much integrity. But Zane's right; they haven't showed at all. It's weird."

"... What if—"

"I'm gonna stop you right there, Jay," Kai interrupted harshly, distressed once he realized what Jay was about to suggest. "There's no way."

"But how do we know it didn't bump into them first? They could be hurt and we might not even know it. And-and Shade! We haven't seen him, either, and I've been on three floors by now! What happened to him, huh?" Jay's voice rose a little as he went on. Cole and Kai exchanged a glance.

"We don't know yet. And that is okay." Jay turned to look at Zane's face, his own expression suddenly unreadable. "We might not have immediately found what we wanted to, but defeating that spirit bought us time. I can't imagine it'll spring back quickly."

"And last time we lost our powers, it was because Lloyd was possessed … but we have them back now. Kinda. So us losing them can't have been because something happened to him! He's fine," Kai rationalized. Whether he was saying it more to reassure them or himself, it wasn't quite clear, but he had a good point.

"They're both right," Cole added. "And until we find any other signs of life around here, we've got other priorities. Like finding out how to get out of here. We can do that and keep an eye out for Shade and Lloyd's group at the same time."

"Wow, wouldn't it be so convenient if we just found some kinda escape hatch right around now?" Kai said.

"Let's hope we find something. One whole day of that spirit is bad enough; being stuck in here for another would just be pushing it."

"Totally," agreed Jay. "... Although you've really gotta love its reasoning here. Maybe having so many facial features messes with its brain."

"Brain?" Kai scoffed. "What brain?"

"He has a point, though," Cole said. "Lock us up in here and keep us from escaping, then get mad at us for trespassing. A+ logic."

"Honestly," Kai sighed. "You'd think it would figure out 'hey, maybe if I want these weird color-coded fight people gone, I should … let them out …'. But nope, we got stuck with the world's dumbest vengeful spirit instead."

"Vengeful spirit? Is that what you think it is?"

"Why else would it be so insistent on doing us in?"

"I dunno, maybe it ate all the animals around here for lunch and we make a nice dinner." At the disturbed stares sent his way, Cole went "What? It sure feels that way."

"Great, watch that turn out to be true. Thanks, Cole." Jay looked a little queasy.

"First vampires, now this," Zane remarked. "Your conclusion-drawing skills are very … interesting."

"I said no vampires!" Cole cried.

"Also, is no one going to point out 'weird color-coded fight people'? Seriously, Kai?"

"Yeesh, I was just looking for an insult that wasn't 'pajama men', okay?"

All four of them were laughing by now.

"Come on," Kai said, sobering quickly. "Let's get this whole 'searching for an exit' thing over with already. The sooner we're out of here, the better."

[ilovelocust]

Mirror Mirror V.2 (Part 5)

Note: Probably the last rewrite for the day. The point of this is to make the work better. Trying to write while I’m tired is counter to that goal.

<< First < Prev.

There are two guards outside the cell. They snap to attention as his captor passes them. Fall into step behind Shiro when he follows Keith out. Now that he can see more than the four walls of the cell, the ship is obviously Galra. Dark metal halls highlighted with glowing purple, the common sentry marching by along with the rarer Galra soldier. He’s had screaming nightmares that start like this, some have even included him being just as naked as he is. Not that anyone seems to care about his nudity. Those they pass are too busy standing a bit straighter or patrolling a little more precisely to pay attention to him.

The doctor had called Keith “My Prince”. The title made sense in how the other Galra were behaving in his presence, but that also meant they recognized him on sight. Keith’s appearance couldn’t just be some weird illusion meant to fuck with his head, if the guards didn’t even gawk. For them to respond this way this must be what he actually looked like…Keith was a Galra prince.

Had he been critically injured in that last fight and was now trapped in a dying dream? He remembered fighting Zarkon, that final attack to rid the universe of him forever. Awakening Black’s true power, charging, then nothing. Then he’d woken up surrounded by lights and yelling voices, some sort of lab. He’d been dragged to the cell before gaining his bearings. This felt to real to be a dream, though. To sharp in places to be images conjured up from his mind.

Maybe Keith ignored his request to become the Black Paladin? Somehow becoming a part of the Empire. A quest to resurrect Shiro using their resources? No, no, that made no more sense than a Prince walking around with Keith’s face enough to be recognized. What was the point of going through all that trouble to resurrect him, only to do this? Keith loved him. He wouldn’t hurt Shiro. Not like this. No matter how much time had passed.

The stench of chemically enforced cleanliness hits him before they enter the final hall. This ship’s medical wing is the same as the one at the arena. Heavy duty restraint on the examination tables. Guards posted at the doors in case ‘patients’ attempt to escape. Sharp vicious machines that make a mockery of the name medical equipment. A place to sew prisoners back together or tear them apart, on the whims of the personnel. At least he can’t hear any screams. Either this ship doesn’t have any other prisoners aboard or they are in the middle of a night cycle. He’s grateful for either option.

A guard jabs him in the back, not appreciating his hesitance to enter the place of horrors. Shiro meekly crosses the threshold. The doctor from the cell walks up to a table that looks like every other, “Sit,” He orders. The metal of the table is cold, feeling too familiar from every other time he was on one of these. Still he sits. They’ll force him if he doesn’t. Click the restraints around his limbs and do as they please anyways. Don’t think about those times. He can’t panic here. Not now. This prince, this Keith, he can’t tell how he’d react, but the guards, he’d be lucky if they only tied him down until he hyperventilated himself into unconsciousness.

The doctor begins treatment. He isn’t gentle. Shiro’s wounds are brusquely cleaned and wrapped, his broken fingers set, and blood samples are taken. No care is shown for if the handling causes him pain, but the Galra is at least professional in speed and efficiency. Pain is the side effect, not the point. What does it say about him that he feels genuinely grateful for the lack of sadism?

Keith watches the proceeding with increasing impatience. He looks like he used to when he was forced to wait for his turn in the simulator. Annoyed and tapping his foot, as if the other cadet’s slow progress was a personal affront to him. Patience had never been his virtue, even if he had been trying as of late. There is a sharp tugs against one of his bandages, and the doctor is turning away from Shiro to address Keith, “Done my lord,” He says, “If your plans permit, I recommend rest to promote healing. Otherwise keep his wounds clean, and he should heal given time. Bring him back if any of the wounds continue to be inflamed or he runs a fever.”

Keith waves dismissively, and the doctor bows before scurrying out of sight. Keith’s attention turns to Shiro. Keith approaches and he tenses, preparing for a fight. He won’t go back in the cell willingly. The guards will have to drag him. He only obeyed because the treatment was a reprieve from the pain. If Keith thinks his cooperation will extend to sitting back down in that chair, he’s deluding himself.

Keith doesn’t seem to notice or care what Shiro is thinking. The guards watch him warily, but Keith enters Shiro’s space like he’s no threat at all. Simply grabbing his chin to pull him down to his level, “Would you like that, pet? Some sleep?” Keith asks, “If you continue to be a good boy, I can arrange it.” Sleep? Is he serious? Is he actually taking the doctor’s advice, after so long of not caring about Shiro’s well being? This must be more false hope. A promised ‘Goodnight’ before the screeching kept him awake? Yet what if it isn’t? Keith must get all the response he needs from Shiro’s expression. After a second, he’s lets go of Shiro’s chin with a smirk, “Follow me.” He orders. The guards step in to make sure Shiro obeys.

Whatever Keith’s game, it’s different than the ones before. They leave the medical wing in the opposite direction of the way they approached. The halls are winding, but he’s not being led back to his cell. Keith stops in front of a door, opening straight into a single bedroom. It’s not fancy enough to be a prince’s quarters or even a high ranking officer, but it is far to nice to the sort of room you keep a prisoner. Even when he was at the height of gladiatorial popularity, the most he was ever given was a private cell with his own cot. Nothing like the luxurious bed that is the centerpiece of this room. The mattress is large even by Galra standards, enough space to fit ten of him with room to spare.

The guards take position outside the door, as Keith walks inside, kicking off his shoes and sitting back against the headboard. He looks to Shiro expectantly. Sighing, when he doesn’t move, “Lay down, Takashi,” Keith says, patting the spot beside him. Why? Why there? Why now? He hasn’t been given new clothes to replace the ones he’s lost. Crawling into bed with his captor while naked is-there are implications he’d rather not think about, but the cell, it’s still there, still waiting for him. He has to do something.

Shiro climbs in to the other side of the bed, as far as possible from the other occupant. It’s technical obedience maybe that will be enough. Keith dispels that though with a glare, “If you want to rest, you will come here,” Keith warns, displeasure coloring his voice. He doesn’t have a real choice, torture or obedience. Shiro scoots closer, maintain a little space between them. Keith tires of his hesitance and grabs his shoulder, yanking him down. His arm is still deactivated, he’s exhausted and injured, and Keith is strong. Anyone would have gone sprawling given those conditions. Shiro squawks in surprise as he topples, and Keith lets out an amused huff of laughter at his loss of coordination. He shoves Shiro around until only his head lays in his lap, “There, no you may sleep,” Keith says with a grin. He pats Shiro’s head before reaching for a tablet on the night stand.

Shiro waits, but Keith only turns the thing on and begins to read, seemingly satisfied with their current position. Is this all he wanted? To lay Shiro down like some sort of pet. He’s not okay with this. How could he be happy with the idea of sleeping with his head pillowed on the leg of the man who spent the last however long seeing how loud he could make him scream? He should do something, but his body disagrees. Whatever energy he’d marshaled to walk to and from the medical wing is dissipating the longer he lays still. His eyelids weigh a thousand pounds, fluttering closed every time he tries to keep them open. The sleep that pulls Shiro under is far from peaceful.

-

Being clean makes him feel more human, but not enough to leave the room. He should go see the others. Even if only long enough to grab the promised leftovers. The longer he hides in here the more worried they’ll be, but he just can’t. Outside these four walls is too much too soon. Responsibility lies out there. The Black Paladin mantle looming large suffocating Shiro in its shadow. One day, one day won’t cause them to worry too much more. He can have one day.

So he stays, drifts under his blankets. He has water, heat, he doesn’t need to leave. Dinner time rolls around, and there is another knock at his door. Keith is waiting on the other side once again, of course he is. He’d never leave him alone for long. Shiro almost shuts the door as soon as he open its, but Keith shoves his foot in, blocking it open, before he can.

“Shiro, wait!,” Keith says. Panic skitters through him. Stop, he needs to be calm. Keith is not here to hurt him. He knows that. He’s sorted his head enough to know they are different for certain.

“Get out of my door,” Shiro keeps his voice purposefully even, but something must show through, because Keith looks taken aback.

“O-okay, I’ll go,” Keith starts, “but take this.” Shiro hadn’t noticed Keith was carrying something, but now he’s getting a bowl pressed into his hands, “You don’t need to come out, or talk to anyone, just eat, please,” Keith says in a rush. When Shiro wraps his hands around the bowl, Keith removes his foot from the door and steps back, “Alright, I’m leaving. I’ll leave some more food for breakfast. You don’t need to answer the door. Just get it at some point, okay?” When Shiro doesn’t respond, Keith nods to himself and turns to walk down the hall. He’s completed his mission.

“Keith,” Shiro calls at his retreating back. Keith turns around, hope unmistakable in his eyes, “Thank you.” Shiro says, makes his words sound like he means them. Keith deserves that, because Shiro is grateful. Very grateful, for not being forced to leave. He needed someone to care about his wishes.

Keith smiles like Shiro has given him the world, “You’re welcome,” He says, “Be back tomorrow morning!” He waves, before continuing down the hall.

Shiro isn’t ready to come out yet, but maybe tomorrow, he’ll answer the door.

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