#LET THEM TWIST MY WORRIES…. LET THE PEOPLE SCORN ME…

[ahalliance]

Twisted (from the hit musical Twisted) has no right to go as hard as it does…. playing the ending bit on loop

[k-dokja]

If it's not bothersome, i missed your taehoon writing :) (⁠◔⁠‿⁠◔⁠)

Two parts ✌️

"...What?"

It is late afternoon, and you are in a corner of the cafe near your school.

Graduation would be in a few months and by now, the troubles Taehoon's friends had with that crime lord or whatever he was had ended. Taehoon's back to being a normal student again. Normal as he can be with his reputation, anyway.

You, however, never stopped being a normal student. By that, it means you've been worrying about your education while Taehoon was hanging out with his friends, busting crime rings, beating criminals up, and caring about anything except his studying.

"I got an offer last week," you explain, "the scholarship will be good for my tuition, and—"

"Fuck that," Taehoon cuts in, "when did you even apply for a scholarship?"

He leans back in his chair. The golden sunshine casts on his brown hair and turns them almost blonde. His features soften under this lighting, accentuated by an ethereal glow. He almost looks angelic, but the effect is marred by the scowl on his face.

"I've been applying for them since last year," you shrug, "I just... never thought to tell you about it."

"So, that's it?" Taehoon glares at you, "You already made the decision without telling me?"

You bite down on your lower lip. A long sigh escapes past your lips before you lean back in your seat. "I didn't tell my friends about applying. I didn't want to create any false hope or expectation."

"But I'm not one of your friends," he grumbles, crossing his arms in front of his chest, "I'm your boyfriend. I'm meant to be the one you can share things you can tell others with."

Belatedly, his eyes widen before he fixates them to yours. "Did you even tell me about this first?"

You sink in your seat under the scrutiny of his gaze. "Well..." It's a little pathetic how you can't even admit this to him, but that doesn't matter when the truth is written on your face.

Taehoon presses his slips together, and you notice the way his fist clenches under the table. He inhales for a long moment, then exhales, slumping back in his seat. "Whatever," he clenches his jaw, "when will you be gone?"

"I have about three months for preparation after graduation," you tell him before continuing, "and then..."

"How long will you be gone?" Taehoon doesn't hesitate to ask. "Will you come back for holidays and the like? Where are you even going anyway?"

You swallow. If you answer more, it would only give him the false hope that you are trying to work this out with him. Because you can see him trying to work it out with you. He's frustrated with you and angry with the situation, but he loves you. He'd probably overcome all of the hassles to stay with you. All the time difference, all the late-night phone calls, all the long days going without seeing each other.

It will take a toll on both of you. Eventually. Inevitably.

That's why you don't want to string him along.

"Taehoon," you say, far calmer than before, "let's put an end to this."

Here in the secluded corner of the cafe, the silence is impossibly loud.

He gazes downwards at the drink in front of you before his shock fades away and leaves behind nothing but scorn. "Fine," his scoff is twisted by a smile, "probably for the best anyway."

"A long-distance—"

"Wouldn't work, yeah, whatever," he crosses his arms before meeting your eyes with his arrogant ones. "I get it, I heard that before when you broke up with that uptight asshole you dated. I just thought..."

Taehoon's gaze eventually turns upwards, before he abruptly stands up. "Actually, fuck this." He leaves before you have the chance to say anything else, rushing past the people and the tables to reach the exit. You know you should chase after him, you should apologize at the very least.

It wouldn't matter anyway, his path and yours are diverging. That's the problem with growing up, you can't stay rooted in the same spot with him. Not when it can drag you down.

This is for the best. This has to be.

[waltwhitmansbeard]

“Liam and Laura knew what they were doing and chose violence anyway.”

That they did. So… from now on, I will say “Vex’ahlia” instead of Vex lol

That said, same prompt as before?

19. opening up about their own struggles when they see the other's problems aight let's run this back. s2 tlovm again.

When they make camp, Vex is ready to pass the fuck out. She's still exhausted from the whole dying debacle, and fighting off those flying fire demon things in Pyrah didn't help the situation. All she wants to do now is huddle up near the crackling campfire and sleep until Grog's snoring wakes her in approximately three hours.

As she spreads out her bedroll and shoves the last of her gathered berries into her mouth, she sees movement at the entrance to the cave they've claimed for the night. Her hand flies to her bow out of habit, but even in this low, flickering light, she recognizes those antlers. She sets the bow down and frowns. Where is Keyleth going at this hour?

The others are busy chatting or getting ready for sleep or, in her brother's case, struggling with the Vestige that he can't seem to get off (another problem for another day), so Vex hauls herself up from the craggy floor and follows after Keyleth. She finds her sitting with her knees pulled to her chest just outside the cave, her circlet appearing gray in the silvery light of the moon. "It's freezing out here," Vex says, and Keyleth jumps, startled. "Don't you want to come inside?"

Keyleth shakes her head, resting her chin atop her knees again. "Not really in the mood to sleep."

Vex settles onto the hard ground beside her. "You know, it was pretty fucking cool how you turned into that giant fire beast. Not sure what that was all about, but it'll be useful all the same."

"Useful." Keyleth says the word with scorn, and Vex doesn't think she's ever heard such derision in her voice. "How many people in Pyrah had to die until I was finally useful enough to stop the slaughter?"

Oh. "Keyleth, you know what happened there wasn't your fault."

"Maybe not. But if I had been on focused on my Aramenté, on the path that I was supposed to be following, I could have been there earlier. I could have stopped it."

Vex lays a hand on her shoulder, which trembles beneath her palm. "You don't know that." Vex worries her lip between her teeth. "You know I studied dragons?" Keyleth nods. "My studies left me with an...ability, I guess you'd call it. A new sense, in a way. I know when dragons are near."

"Yeah, I remember, with Brimscythe."

"Well, I felt them approach, in Emon." Keyleth doesn't ask who she's referring to. "It felt like my head was exploding. Four dragons, all descending at once. The pain was so debilitating, I could barely tell Vax what was going on." She shrugs. "Maybe if I had, we would have been able to warn more people. Maybe if I had, Sovereign Uriel would still be alive."

Keyleth twists her head to frown at her. "Vex, we had seconds to figure out what was going on in Emon. You barely had any more warning than the bells gave us. There was nothing you could have done differently or better to save people."

"Exactly." Keyleth's eyes flick up in annoyance as she realizes the trap she's walked right into. "Keyleth, you got to Pyrah when you did. Before the rest of us, don't forget. You saved the people you could save. You did what you could. That's what we do. That's all we can do. Our best."

"It doesn't feel like the best," she says quietly. She rubs at her eyes with the back of her hand. "It feels like I failed."

"That's because you're a good person. It's kind of annoying, actually. You know you're the best of us, right?" Keyleth's eyebrows furrow. "You and Pike, I'd say. The ones who make sure that we're always doing the right thing, even when we're scared, even when we don't want to. I mean, fuck, the way you took off when my brother tried to ignore the danger in Pyrah? That's not the action of someone who failed, Keyleth."

And finally, Vex sees the hint of a smile at the corner of her mouth. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Vex shoves off of then ground and extends a hand out to Keyleth. "Come on. Warmth and food, and you'll feel fine again."

Keyleth lets Vex pull her to her feet, and then, to Vex's surprise, she throws her arms around her. "Thanks, Vex," she murmurs. "You're a good friend."

And wow. Yeah. They're friends. Who would've fucking guessed? She hugs Keyleth back. "We're in this together, remember? Gotta have each other's backs if we're not gonna be devoured by a league of murderous dragons."

Keyleth chuckles, and then they go back inside the cave, where the rest of their friends talk and laugh and sleep.

[acatalystrising]

I’m finally back with the next chapter of Consequences! I wanted this one to be longer to make up for the wait, and gahhh my feels…but don’t you worry, it’s not over yet!

Pairing: Boba Fett x (F)Reader

Rating: Explicit 18+

Trigger warnings: Injuries, death threats, cannon violence, explicit language, kidnapping/capture, torture, angst

Series synopsis: Backstabbed and betrayed, you knew there was a bounty over your head - but when you’re captured by the infamous Boba Fett, it becomes abundantly clear that your fate is as mysterious as your captor.

Chapter seven: The Hunter and the Hunted

No matter how far in the galaxy Boba travelled, he found the rain always followed him like a ghost.

His footsteps echoed on the brick walls, spurs clinking against concrete - sending water flinging into the dark. He was alone. There was an odd emptiness, he noted, like a weight dragging his heart to his stomach.

He didn’t realize how accustomed he’d grown to your presence, your voice.

He cut a turn, tattered cape fluttering in the gusty breeze, noting that it was far too quiet for a gutter district at this time of night. Way too empty. He ran a thermal scan, lip twitching under his helmet when he noted the huddled heat signatures inside the surrounding buildings - only further confirming his suspicions.

He was walking into a trap.

Yet he strode onward, fully comfortable in the shadows, sensors scanning for signs of movement. Thunder rumbled above, accentuated by the distant roar of overhead traffic - and an odd flinch shuddered down his spine. He knew, even as he slipped down the next road, rainwater softly pattering on his beskar like a foreign caress, why his thoughts were scattered.

His armor had been on Coruscant before, on the back of someone else - his father. And it had been the beginning of the end.

A sharp pang of loss cut past his walls with surprising force, and he clenched his jaw, willing the thoughts away. Now wasn’t the time to feel. Not when he was so close to his quarry. He pushed those emotions away, fists clenched, and took a deep breath. He couldn’t let his emotions get the best of him - it was one of the reasons he’d survived this long. Why he’d managed to make a name for himself - an identity he was starting to question.

His scanners picked up movement ahead, and his hand slipped to his holstered blaster as he turned another corner - finding a lone figure standing in the middle of the deserted street.

Naris.

Tall buildings loomed on both sides of the street, hemming them in. The dimly lit road cut to the right a good ten yards away, and another much taller residential compound towered beyond. It was the perfect place for an ambush…Boba had to admit the kid had thought this through. Not that it would change the outcome.

“That’s far enough, bounty hunter.” Naris crossed his arms, a small smirk on his thin lips. “You’re persistent, I’ll give you that.”

Boba said nothing, remaining still, patient. He ran another thermal scan and counted at least six forms huddled in the alleys ahead. So the kid thought he could give him the jump? His lips twisted in a scornful smile.

“You’re not the first to try to kill me.” Boba slowly crossed his arms, blaster held comfortably in his gloved grip. “And you won’t be the last.”

“Save the peacocking for my sister, Fett. You might wanna be concerned about your own skin, okay?” Naris lifted a hand and waved a finger through the air. “She’s not the only one with friends in high places. I’d lay down your weapons, if I were you.”

Boba slowly took a deep breath, willing himself to remain calm despite the rage that simmered in his veins. He’d torn people apart for less…but he wanted his money. And he wanted you to have your justice. So he remained still, stoic. Silent.

“Not gonna listen huh? Figured as much.” Naris took a step back, grin widening further. “Don’t say I didn’t warn ya.”

“Many have tried to escape.” Boba’s voice was a low growl, the final warning. “None succeed.”

He tightened his grip on his blaster, but still didn’t budge. These hired guns were most likely intimidated and trigger happy - all he needed was for them to make the first move. Then it would be over.

Sure enough, Boba’s thermal scanner picked up on movement before he saw the man turn a corner, blaster aimed as his head. The plasma shot bounced harmlessly off his armor, not even ricocheting an inch from his head before he’d fired back, dropping the attacker to the ground with ease.

Naris still didn’t move, arms crossed, and Boba slowly approached - blaster aimed at the kid’s smug face. But he didn’t seemed fazed by the failed attack at all, and that alone made him hesitate.

“Enough.” Boba gestured back toward the way he’d come with the muzzle his blaster. “Lay down your weapons. Call off your goons. You’re coming with me.”

“Yeah, how about no.” Naris had the absolute audacity to laugh as he stepped further back, eyes shining in the dark. “Even the great Boba Fett has his day, huh?”

A barrage of blaster bolts suddenly fired from more directions than his scanner had registered - slamming into his armor with surprising force. He grunted, firing back with as much precision he could muster even as he slipped underneath an overhang for cover.

Most of the shots had come from the complexes lining the street - and they had the advantage of height in their favor. It wasn’t impossible to escape if he needed to, but it wouldn’t be easy. Another bolt bounced off his helmet and he cursed.

The kriffing kid was getting on his nerves.

They were better shots then he’d expected. He felt a burn strike his side, thankfully a glancing blow, and fired in the direction the shot had come from - dropping the offending attacker from his window perch.

No matter his skill, Boba knew he was outnumbered. He needed to level the playing field, and fast.

He dropped his rangefinder and targeted the central building ahead, where most of the fire was concentrated. Perhaps blowing an entire building sky-high would discourage them. But before he had a chance to launch his rocket, his comlink crackled to life.

“Boba, please come in. Please. Can you hear me?”

He recognized your voice, and cold dread settled into his gut even as he delayed to fire. Another smattering of shots burned into the the overhang that momentarily sheltered him, and he ducked, sending another volley of shots in return.

“I’m here.” He flicked the com to life, shooting a man who tried to rush him, kicking him to the ground with a growl. “What is it?”

“Someone’s breaking in. Gods, I hear them coming. I don’t know how they got in, I swear I haven’t touched anything.” Fear was thick in your voice, and every alarm rang in his mind, even as you kept talking. “I don’t know if it’s another hunter or what but I don’t know how long I can hold them off!”

“Easy, take a deep breath.” He forced his tone to be grounding even as he shot another attacker in the chest. “How many?”

“At least four, but it might be more. I have the blaster, I can-“

“No. I need you to listen. Hide.” Boba turned, glancing back the way he’d come, ducking back out of the firefight long enough to speak. “I’m coming. But you gotta hide. Remember that spot I told you about?”

“Yeah, I can…is that blaster fire? Are you okay? Did-“

“Go, now. I’ll be right there.” He cut you off even as he shifted, firing two shots at the men stationed in the building above him, still unsure as to how many there actually were. “I’ll be fine. Hide, don’t come out until I come for you.”

“Okay…” your voice was soft, scared. “Please be safe….”

This was bad.

Panic threatened to well in his chest, and the com link went silent even as another volley of shots rained down upon him. He grunted, twisting around the street corner and igniting his jetpack, surging through the air back towards his ship, heart lodged in his throat.

“Can you hear me?” He rose above the buildings, your name on his lips. “Did you-“

Something struck his back, hooking to his leg with a metallic clank. Boba twisted, glaring at the grappling hook that has ensnared him, but before he could unsheathe a knife to cut himself free, two more wrapped around his arms, pulling him out of the sky with vicious force.

Shit.

He engaged his jetpack’s thrusters, managing to soften the impact of his fall - but he still struck the ground with enough force to make his vision blur.

The blaster fire faded to silence, save for the footsteps that slowly approached. Boba groaned, pain arcing down his back, too winded to move.

“I warned ya.” Naris’s voice cut over the pouring rain, thick with victory. “This wasn’t gonna end well for you.””

A firm boot slammed into his back, keeping him pinned as more people approached, quickly taking the ropes and tying him down. A blaster muzzle pressed to his neck.

“You touched my ship.” Boba forced himself to remain still, even as rage threatened to explode. “If you hurt her…”

“And here I thought you were going to be more of a challenge.” Naris huffed. “With your reputation and all.”

Red rage flooded his vision, but Boba didn’t move. Even now, there were at least ten different ways he could break free. He just had to let them think they had the upper hand. He had to remain calm. He had to think. He had to-

“Boba!” Your voice cut over his com, and he flinched, the fear in your voice palatable. “They found me, I’m trying to fight them…dammit, let me go! Boba, I need help! Please!”

“You’d better answer that,” Naris’s head cocked to the side, smug grin still pasted over his face. “Might be the last time you hear from her.”

But before he could respond, the comlink crackled and fell silent, the feed severed.

“You really thought you could just march in here and take me away?” Naris chuckled, crouching before him with a smirk. “See, I cut a deal with the Pykes. They’re lettin’ me off the hook if they get my sister. And you’re in my way.”

You were gone. Taken.

No.

Even as the ropes tightened around him, the blaster digging into his neck, rainwater soaking his flight suit and dripping under his armor, he refused to be bested by this ilk.

“Any last words, bounty hunt-“

Boba snapped.

He ignited his flamethrower, shooting a plume of flame out into the dark. Screams tore over the sound of the pouring rain, and even as the wounded men pulled away, Boba felt the scorched ropes break - and he burst free, lunging at Naris with an animalistic growl.

He grabbed the kid by the neck and turned, firing his missile at the building where the rest of the team was sheltered. The structure exploded with a tremendous boom - fire lighting the night sky as the ground beneath them shook.

Two survivors tried to run, but Boba shot them both in their backs before they had a chance to get out of range. Naris cursed and attempted to break free, but Boba picked him up by the throat and slammed his back into the nearest wall, grip tightening to the risk of choking the bastard.

“You could’ve just been a bounty. I would have been impartial.” Boba’s voice rolled like the thunder itself, and he finally saw Naris’s smirk replaced with true dead. “But you had to make it personal.”

“Look man, I was just-“

“You made a mistake. She believed I could be more than a monster…so I used restraint.” He narrowed his eyes behind his helmet, voice dropping to a low growl. “But now she’s taken.”

“You really care for that brat, huh?” Anger flared in Naris’s gaze, and Boba felt another thread of his patience snap.

He fired a bolt into Naris’s shoulder and watched him crumple against the wall with a ragged scream. Boba kept him pinned to the wall, feet a good five inches off the ground.

“You’re only breathing because you’re worth more alive.” Boba tightened his grip, voice much darker - savage. “If you value your life, you’ll answer my question. Where is she?”

“P-please, I’ll do anything, I’ll…” Naris gagged, hands flailing uselessly against his arm. “I…”

“Who. Took. Your. Sister?” Boba pressed his blaster’s muzzle to the younger man’s temple, rage threatening to overwhelm his logic. “You may have a bounty, but that won’t stop me from killing you.”

“The…the Pykes. They’re gonna kill her. We made a deal, alright? We-“

Boba stuck Naris’s head with the butt of his blaster, knocking him out cold. He slumped against the wall, blood trickling down his temple and staining his waterlogged clothing. Silence fell, save for the crackling flames and the pouring rain. Sirens echoed in the distance, drawing closer even as the smoke billowed like a stain into the starry sky.

Boba lifted Naris’s unconscious body and slung him over his shoulder, igniting his jetpack and launching into the air, leaving the devastation behind.

He would get you back. No matter what it took. He would save you. Even if it meant he had to be the villain you believed he wasn’t.

Because now, he had bounty to turn in.

-

Your father was in your dreams again.

You were trapped in a sloping, windswept field that stretched on as far as the eye could see. You hated the constricting feeling that clutched your heart, even as you ran as fast as your legs could carry you - hoping that maybe, for once, you’d get him to look at you.

“Dad, please!” You reached for his shoulder, even as the field around you faded to darkness, his strong frame slowly fading to ash. “Don’t go!”

You felt a hand on your back and turned, heart lodged in your throat, and came face to face with the black T-visor you’d become so familiar with.

“Boba?”

But he didn’t speak. Instead, he raised his blaster, pointing it at your head, and before you had a chance to speak, pulled the trigger…

You gasped, eyes snapping open, panic welling in your lungs when you saw only darkness. Were you still dreaming? You couldn’t see a thing, but you could hear your heart pounding in your chest. So you weren’t dead, then. You took a shuddering breath, and tried to take stock of what you did know.

For starters, you were laying on your side. You reached out, quaking fingers brushing against something solid, a wall of sorts. Okay, so you were either indoors somewhere, or trapped in something. That didn’t bode well…panic settled over your mind like a fog, and you took a shuddering breath.

Use logic. Think. Think your way out of this.

You knew you’d been taken from Slave 1, but you didn’t remember anything after. Had it been the Pykes? Another bounty hunter? You frowned, slowly trying to sit up, but your head bumped against another surface. You cursed inwardly, laying back down to gather your thoughts. Had they put you in a damn box?

“Ahh, so you’re awake.” A voice broke the silence and you flinched. “You’ve caused us a lot of trouble, girl.”

A light flickered to life, cutting through the darkness. You winced, the brightness burning your eyes, and you heard footsteps approach.

“Your brother took a gamble, but I wasn’t going to lose money over you. Personally, I think he’s a liar.” Someone stepped into your line of sight, and you quickly realized two things.

One, the speaker was a Pyke. And two, you were in a cage.

“You…stole me from Fett?” You blinked, horror and rage both welling in your chest, mixing into fury. “You know he’ll come for you, right?”

“I’m not concerned. We’ve taken care of Fett.” The Pyke crossed his arms, expression hidden behind his golden mask. “You won’t be seeing anymore of the hunter. Or your brother.”

“Then why am I still alive?” Your words were laced with venom, but you hoped he didn’t hear the tremor in your voice.

What did he mean by that? Had they hurt Boba? Panic welled in your chest and you clenched your bound fists.

The Pyke didn’t respond, instead producing a key. He unlocked your cage and you frowned, pulling back as two more Pykes approached, gripping your shoulders tightly as they drug you out. There were at least seven of them, from what your initial glances could gather.

But where the hell where you?

The building was a warehouse of some kind, old and seemingly abandoned. A perfect place to hide from prying eyes. Panic settled deep into your bones, sending a tremor down your spine. Kriff, they were going to kill you…

“You’ve cost us money, kid. You and your brother both.” The Pyke approached you, golden mask flashing in the light. “I don’t know if you’re working together or if he really screwed you over, but I don’t care.”

The two men behind you shoved you forward, pinning you against a dusty wall and roughly lifting your arms over your head. You grunted, trying to pull away, but one cuffed the side of your head and attached your bound ropes to a low-hanging hook on the wall.

“Where’s the spice your brother stole? Or did he already sell it?” The Pyke’s head tilted to the side, arms crossed. “Or are you the cover?”

“I’m not working for that asshole. He set me up.” You tried your best to sound brave despite your fear, but you couldn’t fully shake the tremor from your voice. “I’ve been looking for him too.”

A fist slammed into your left cheek without warning, knocking your head back against the wall. You grunted, pain arcing down your spine, cheek stinging from the blow.

“I’ll ask again. Where is he? And where is our money?” The Pyke approached, gripping your chin roughly and forcing you to look at him. “I’m not above torturing a woman.”

“He tricked me, okay? I didn’t know what he was planning, but he left me behind to take the blame.” You winced, a shudder rippling through your ragged body. “It’s the truth. I wouldn’t cover for scum like him.”

“Playing dumb, huh? If that’s how you want this to go.” The Pyke nodded, and another blow struck you, harder, the impact so forceful you tasted blood.

Another fist struck your shoulder, followed by a blow to your face. You tried to duck, curling into yourself, but nothing could shield you from their relentless attacks. They finally stopped, and you gasped for breath - body burning, lungs aching.

“I’m not patient.” The lead Pyke pulled out a knife and gestured at you with the blade. “I’ll ask you one more time before I start taking off fingers. Where’s your brother?”

“Right here.”

A new voice cut over the sounds of your pained breaths, one you immediately recognized. Hope dared to soar in your chest, and you winced, feeling blood trickling down your temple as you turned your head in the direction of the voice.

The lead Pyke turned as well, movements panicked, even as the clinking of spurred footsteps grew louder.

Boba stepped into your line of sight, impassive and intimidating, helmet masking his expression. Naris stood beside him, cuffed, bloodied, and bruised - his expression a hard glare. Clearly he’d put up a fight…

“Boba Fett, ahh, it’s good to see you…” the Pyke dipped his head, gesturing toward one of his underlings with a hasty flick of his wrist. “Thank you for bringing this one in. Here’s your reward.”

The Pyke handed Boba the bag of credits and reached for Naris, pulling him forward by the cuffs. You watched Boba make a show of counting the credits, heartbeat pounding in your ears like a drum. Why hadn’t he looked at you?

“Well, you have your money. Nice doing business with you. But now-“

“We’re not finished.” Boba’s tone was cutting, ending with a low growl. “I’m here to take back what you stole.”

“Every credit is there, I wouldn’t dream of robbing you.” The Pyke crossed his arms, but you noted the nervous lilt to his tone. “It’s all there for the boy.”

“I’m talking about the girl.” Boba slowly crossed his arms, tone a dangerous growl that made your stomach twist in knots. “She’s mine.”

You heard the possessive rage in his tone, threatening to burst. These Pykes had no idea what hell they’d chosen to have rained down upon them…

“I don’t follow. She was brought here, just as you’ve brought the brother.” The Pyke glanced at you, then back at Boba, shifting uncomfortably. “Now, if you’ll leave us, we have business to conduct that doesn’t involve you.”

Fear spiked in your chest, and you flung a panicked gaze his way, wondering what he was thinking as he stood there, silent and impassive.

“Can’t do that.” Boba raised his blaster, and the Pykes flinched, all pointing their weapons at him. “I know you broke into my ship. You dare rob me?”

“Hey now, let’s talk about-“ the lead Pyke was cut off, a blaster bolt searing into his chest, dropping him to the ground.

Smoke curled from Boba’s drawn blaster, and the surrounding Pykes leapt into action even as your gaze locked on that black T-visor. The room erupted into screams and blaster fire, and you ducked your head, hoping you wouldn’t get struck in the crossfire.

Boba was a force of nature. Even as you watched him, your jaw dropped. He shot with such precision and deadly force, you could only watch as he picked the Pykes off one by one, missiles firing from his knee armor - dropping them like flies.

One of the Pykes rushed you, but Boba shot them in the back, rushing toward you even as he ignited his flamethrower, setting the building’s dry interior ablaze.

Even as he made his way toward you, you saw more Pykes approaching with your brother in two. Naris was fighting against them, kicking and screaming, face twisted in rage. The fire grew hotter, flames licking up the wall, sending sparks showering down as it struck the ceiling. You flinched, the heat warming your skin, watching with wide eyes as Boba stopped before you - beskar gleaming in the firelight.

“Do you trust me?” His voice rumbled through you like a coming storm.

“With my life.” You watched him, even as you winced in pain, you knew it was the truth.

And so did he.

Naris’s shouts echoed toward you both, and Boba waited for him to be in the line of sight before raising his blaster at you, voice a mere whisper for you alone.

“Pretend you’re dead.”

You locked your gaze on his visor, hoping he saw the confidence in your eyes, as he fired - the shot striking your chest.

-

Boba knew the remaining Pykes, as well as Naris, saw your body crumple against the wall. What they didn’t know what that he’d set his blaster to stun.

“You’ll pay for this!” One of the Pykes tried to approach, but he shot another plume of flame, setting more of the building ablaze.

The Pykes finally realized they were doomed. He saw the change in their postures, even as they turned to flee. He shot each one before they had a chance to escape the building, rage still bubbling in his chest. The last Pyke alive still was dragging Naris along, and he dispatched that one as well, watching your brother tumble to the ground.

Naris’s eyes flung to your slumped form, and Boba could have sworn he saw a flash of concern dance in your brother’s gaze. Did he care for you, after all? Perhaps it would be best if he brought him along too…

But then that moment was over, fear taking hold, as Naris struggled to his feet. He looked at Boba, anger and fear twisting his features…and ran.

Once again abandoning you.

Anger swelled in Boba’s chest, but he shook his head. Your brother may have left you for dead, but he never would.

The flames crackled and rose overhead - and Boba leapt into action. He cut you down from the wall and held you close, safe in his arms.

“Still with me?” He tucked your head against his neck as he ignited his jetpack and surged to the exit, dodging the ropes of flame that sparked higher and higher.

He felt you nod faintly against his neck even as he burst into the cool outside air, rocketing away from the destruction.

Relief enveloped his chest and he held you tighter, not ever wanting to let go.

“Let’s go home.”

-

You woke, immediately recognizing the sound of Slave 1’s engines rumbling around you. You could have sworn it was one of the most comforting sounds you’d ever heard.

“Hey little one,” Boba’s voice broke the silence, soft and gentle. “I’m sorry it got so rough back there.”

Ahh, now THAT was the most comforting sound. You shifted, Boba’s bed soft beneath you, and found him sitting against the doorway, armorless. There was a certain hesitation in his eyes - the ghosting shadow of concern. Was he worried you’d be afraid? Or angry?

“Boba,” you held out a hand, tone pleading. “You came for me.”

Something in him broke - you watched it, the way his shoulders slumped, the wariness in his gaze melting to raw affection.

He stood and crossed the room, settling on the bed beside you and curling you into his arms. You pressed your head to his chest, inhaling his scent, and closed your eyes.

“I will always come for you.” His voice was so impossibly soft, it made you cling to him as tightly as you could. “Your brother…he escaped. I had hoped he’d want to check on you, to make sure you were okay, but…”

“He made his choice. Maybe we’ll cross paths again someday.” You sighed, pain tugging at your heart, wishing things had been different with him. Still wondering that you’d ever done to make him hate you so.

But you supposed it didn’t matter anymore. You were safe in Boba’s arms, and that was all that mattered.

“I don’t ever want to lose you.” He pressed a kiss to your forehead, fingers lightly tracing patterns on you arms - hesitating a moment before he spoke again. “I’ve decided something.”

“Oh?” You pulled back to meet his gaze, reaching up to caress his cheek. “What is it?”

“I want to leave hunting behind.” A conflict of emotions warred in his gaze, and you waited - listening. Knowing that this was an important, life-changing moment - and his gaze dipped down, away from you. “You mean so much to me, I…I want to spend my days with you. If you’ll have me.”

“Boba…” it was your turn to take his chin with gentle fingers, lifting his gaze to you. “I want to spend the rest of my life with you…no matter what you do, or who you are. I love you.”

Relief broke into his gaze like the sun itself, and Boba Fett smiled.

Actually, truly smiled.

“I love you too. I have one last job, little one.” He pressed his forehead against yours, holding you close. “We’re headed to Cloud City, then I’m done. We can go wherever you like - how does that sound?”

“As long as you’re with me, I’d go anywhere.”

-

Fate, you’d so intimately found, was never predictable.

And it could be cruel.

You’d been on Tatooine, nestled in a cozy private apartment, a place Boba had left you to ensure your comfort - when you’d received the news.

Boba Fett, the love of your life, was dead.

Killed alongside Jabba the Hutt and his entourage, working the last job he’d wanted to take as a hunter. You’d shattered to pieces - a broken, fractured shell of the person you’d grown to become. Those empty halls only reminded you of his absence, and even then, when footsteps passed your door, you looked up - expecting him to walk through.

That he’d once again defy death and come back home to you.

But the days turned to weeks, the weeks, to months. He’d given you enough credits to keep the place, but even then you knew. You knew he’d want you to keep going - to survive. Because the truth of the matter was that he still lived in your heart.

All the memories, time spent together. The love, passion, and trust…it wasn’t all for nothing.

And somehow, some way, you’d make it, for him, to the next sunrise.

-

Next chapter

Taglist: @ladyfallohide @justarandomfamdomblog @die-herzlos-engel @tortor-mcgee @ididsingupforthis @mxkyrie @ceapa-mica @everythingyouwanted @freerangesweets @deewithani @tranace-con

[jist6543]

Ok @fleetway-super-sonic has gone too far now, I may have been a bit upset when you didn't accept my apology, but now you've officially crossed the line, ive told you that i was letting that character bullshit go, i sincerely appolozed to you, and this is how you treat me? By not letting me live it down and saying that my behavior is pathetic and laughable, with no qualms about it at all? I admitted my faults and tried to own up to them, the only reason why I responded like that was because of how satistic you were to me, For the love of God, for the hundredth time, I said that I was letting that character shit go, im not worried about that anymore, stop twisting the knife on me, your sick you know that, your are absolutely sick, you can't even accept a simple God Damn apology, even when i admitted I was wrong for countless times, telling me to grow up and making fun of me shows that you are no better then ssj-Blake. and corection, 1 they misinterpreted a friendly compliment to a drawing, and 2 they freaking told me to f off when I tried apologizing, before i even knew why I was blocked, the only reason I got pissed off at them was because they called me names, when I tried talking to them calmly and explained that i only said their picture of brandy was cute, and they even called me a dumbass despite that I'm autistic, and wrongfully scorned me and told me to get a life, if they're gonna be that way to me, then yeah im definitely not gonna respond nice either, before signing off. And another thing, you are clearly missing the point that the reason I waited a month was to give you some space before apologizing, but no, you can't even learn to forgive people and to say I was disrespectful to you is putting a slander tone to that statement, making fun of me when I tried apologizing to you is the complete definition of disrespect, I admitted my faults and realized I was wrong which is something you obviously feel doesn't apply to you, i mean hell, your practically bullying me right now, and that's not a very mature thing to do either, so apparently I'm not the only one who needs to grow up. you were very hasty in taking assumptions about me before, and you haven't changed at all, I still like your videos and all and I'll still give you support, despite the negativity you've given me, but again I left you alone for 1 whole month before coming back to apologize, you could at least be great full for that, and your absolutely right enough is enough, I've clearly had enough of your bullying, and will stand for it no longer, if you want me gone, FINE , and I have some great advice to you as well, LEARN TO FORGIVE PEOPLE! When I say I'm sorry, I mean it, when i admit that I made a mistake, and try to own up to it, you don't laugh at someone and make them feel more bad about themselves, your 32 years old for crying out loud, act like it, I'd expect you'd be more principled than that, I don't want to keep arguing about this any more than you do, unless you decide to admit your faults as well, and apologize for bullying me, then I'm definitely gonna talk to you anymore, I don't know why your complaining of someone bullying you when your doing the exact same thing, you should be ashamed, I'm not saying my behavior a month ago was any better, and yes I shouldn't have been so persistent on telling you to include those characters, but at least I admitted my mistake, appologized for it, and tried to own up to it, before you turned me away may I add? and again I'm sorry for getting on you about those characters, but seriously please stop making fun of me, so yeah ill leave you alone now, i know your probably just gonna laugh again, but I hope you can forgive me someday, even though I see that unlikely, so yeah if your gonna be an absolute stuck up, and think that you have the right to scoff people like that despite them sincerely appolozing to you, then yeah, good riddance, but i do wish you the best of luck on your story and hope to see it someday when its finished. I mean that too, but I do hope your additude heals.

You clearly have issues, with forgiveness, I was wrong to think you were any different than ssj-Blake, and I stand by what I said before, I was not gaslighting you when I said you were acting irrational, you were gaslighting me!

[moonshine-nightlight]

Nothing's Wrong with Dale: Part Eleven

It’s been a week, but you’re fairly certain your fiancé accidentally got himself replaced by an eldritch being from the Depths. Deciding  that he’s certainly not worse than your original fiancé, you endeavor to keep the engagement and his new non-human state to yourself.

However, this might prove harder than you originally thought.

Fantasy, arranged marriage, malemonsterxfemalereader, M/F

AO3: Nothing's Wrong with Dale Chapter 11

[Part One] [Part Two] [Part Three] [Part Four] [Part Five] [Part Six] [Part Seven] [Part Seven.5] [Part Eight] [Part Nine] [Part Ten] Part Eleven [Part Twelve] [Part Thirteen] [Part Fourteen] [Part Fifteen] [Part Sixteen] [Part Seventeen] [Part Eighteen] [Part Nineteen] [Part Twenty] [Part Twenty-One] [Part Twenty-Two] [Part Twenty-Three] [Part Twenty-Four] [Part Twenty-Five] [Part Twenty-Six] [Part Twenty-Seven] [Part Twenty-Eight] [Part Twenty-Nine] [Part Thirty] [Part Thirty-One] [Part Thirty-Two] [Part Thirty-Three] [Part Thirty-Four]

You walk into the grand hall with your maid, who you wave off to go to the tables with the other servants while you head for the dais. With the tournament coming up in a couple days as the official start to the wedding festivities—the hunt being unofficial—more and more people are arriving in Northridge itself or the town nearby.

A majority of them were invited to at least one supper at the estate after their arrival. As one of the betrothed, and the only one present, that means you are seated next to Grandmother and introduced to any and all guests. Many of the ones who had arrived so far are neighbors or family of Northridge and so you try to fix them firmly in your mind as you’re likely to see them again.

It’s exhausting. Between so many new people and your worry over how Dale is faring on the hunt that you can’t seem to vanquish, you can’t wait for the hunt’s return.

Today you see yet another new face waiting for you. A dignified woman in a handsome black suit, seemingly alone you are glad to see, is listening to Grandmother speak with a smile that softens her stern figure. Grandmother starts beckoning you over as soon as she spots you. “Come, come, dear,” she says. “Let me introduce you to my daughter, Lady Breighton. Breighton, this is my new grandchild-to-be.”

“Pleased to meet you,” you say once close enough, curtsying, as your mind runs through what you remember of this aunt: unmarried and lives in Verlind. The one Dale remembered as disliking him before he went away. 

Her eyes are sharp when you meet them and she gives you a polite bow in return. “You as well,” she replies, her voice low and confident, before her eyes return to her mother. “Speaking of, where is Father and the man of the hour?”

“Having a hunt, you know how those sorts are,” Grandmother waves her hand dismissively. “I hoped they would be back in time for supper tonight, but I suppose that was too much to expect.”

“I’ve certainly never understood the appeal of risking one’s life before getting married,” Lady Breighton says with some scorn, “except as a poorly done attempt to get out the wedding proper—if rather short-sighted to one’s other future prospects.”

You can’t tell if she’s joking for all Grandmother laughs. “Oh, hush. Sit down, sit down. It’s making my neck hurt, staring up at the two of you.”

You take your seat to her left, while her daughter sits on her right. You take additional care arranging your skirts to give yourself a few extra seconds before you must engage in conversation. The back of your neck prickles with the sensation someone is watching you as you do so. You look up to see Lady Breighton looking back at you, weighing you.

Grandmother gives no notice to this and simply continues, “It is lovely to be planning a wedding again, although each time I do forget how much is involved. We have not hosted since your brother’s nearly fifteen years ago.”

“I’m sure you have it well in hand, Mother,” Breighton says with a certain wry twist to her mouth. “As long as Dale isn’t making it a trial.”

Grandmother laughs. “Nonsense. You have always been too harsh on him,” she wags her finger at her daughter, but there’s no heat behind it, only amusement. “He is a growing lad and is as invested in his own wedding as he should be. The vigor of youth is to be encouraged, not stifled.” When Breighton looks as though she might object, Grandmother continues, “Do not think it has been so many years that I cannot recall how you were when younger.”

Breighton closes her mouth reluctantly. 

“Besides, his fiance is a wonderful influence on him,” Grandmother continues, turning to you with a smile you don’t expect. “I always knew that all Dale needed was a few years abroad to work through some of that youthful fickleness and a competent partner to become the man he could always become.”

You blush at both her words and the renewed focus Breighton bestows upon you. As before, you feel she can see every inch of you. She appears skeptical, but not enough to speak any of her thoughts aloud at this time. 

You feel an odd kinship with Breighton, after all if Dale hadn’t had his accident, you’d agree with her skepticism because she would have been right. Grandmother is too indulgent of Dale, has such a strong belief in his better nature, and you can’t help but find yourself on Breighton’s side of things. Besides, perhaps with the right experiences, he would have become a better man. 

But he didn’t.

“You’re too kind, Grandmother,” you reply, trying to focus on her instead.

“I am nothing of the sort. I will have you know they used to say such things about me in the House of Law,” she says with a wicked smile that reminds you of Dale these days more than anyone else. “Never to my face though. Why one time, this particular Duke opposed one of my measures and—”

Her story is interrupted by a commotion at the other end of the hall, the doors opening rather dramatically to admit what you realize is the returning hunting party. Relief that they are back sweeps through you, a smile growing unbidden on your face because you’ve missed Dale, more than you thought you would.

Then you take in the general countenance of the people arriving. They don’t look frightened or somber or grieving, but they look worried, talking in quiet murmurs and glancing at the dais and then back to those who are still coming. 

It’s a sobering sight and you frantically look for the source of tension. No one’s grim enough for a death, but someone must have been injured, someone—.

The group parts to reveal a bedraggled looking figure held up by another. Grandfather walks beside them, looking rather like he’s been rung out and left to dry wrinkled. He has some darker mud stains on his clothing for all he appears to walk uninjured. With nothing immediately distressing in his person, your eyes narrow on the injured, far muddier looking figure. They widen even as your nerves paradoxically steady. 

Because the danger you’ve been anticipating has finally been realized.

You gasp as you take Dale in. He’s not just muddy, but covered in blood. The left side of his overcoat is stiff with it and he’s favoring his right side in general. No cane to be seen, just a heavy lean on Mr. Murray, who’s seemingly half carrying him.

“Greetings!” Dale calls out and his voice is strong, but with a strange wobble to it. “We have returned victorious!”

Grandmother gasps as Grandfather and Dale come closer and she can see something of their appearance. A man breaks off from the group to hurry up to the dais and reassure her while Grandfather keeps pace with Dale and his valet. You are able to understand over the muted roar in your ears that it’s one of her sons, who’s trying to explain that they’re fine, just a little worse for wear. 

Carefully working your way up his body, you catalog a large gash on his left leg, multiple tears on his trousers—dark stains you honestly aren’t sure the origin of: mud or blood. His overcoat is missing an arm and his actual arm is hard to look at. Honestly, you can’t even distinguish what’s wrong with it, just that it's a bloody mess. At least no visible bones appear to be sticking out nor does it appear to be at an odd angle. You’re certain he must be bruised but there’s certainly no way to tell from here.

You follow in Grandmother’s wake in a mild daze as she stands up and makes her way around the table, asking, “What are you thinking! Dragging my injured boy hither and yon.”

Dale went limp after he called out for the rest of the journey across the floor, as if his initial outburst had used up his remaining energy. Now that he’s only a few feet away, he picks his head up, looking around blearily as if the sound of their voices is drawing him back into the moment. His gaze lands on you first and his whole face, bruised as it is, lights up. Your heart lurches in response: both at his clear delight in seeing you and at how it pulls on the bruises and cuts on his face in a manner that must be painful.

“We took down a majestic stag, hart of eleven in the least,” he crows, seemingly not concerned with the state he’s wound up in. “Uncle has it, I think.” He turns to blink at his uncle, sees his empty hands, and frowns. “No, he hasn’t got it. Mayhap the Marquess or Alexanderer.”

“Yes, my congratulations,” you find yourself saying automatically, no idea how he’s not mentioning his injury.  You try to keep your voice cheerful to match his own, even though inside you’re caught in turmoil. Now that you’re closer, you find yourself having to fist your hands in your skirts not to touch him, check him over for yourself. 

Nothing about his appearance screams ‘demon’ and he can’t have revealed himself because they would have chained him up or set him on fire, not dragged him back here. But he seems sloppier when ill and you’re not sure if longer time spent injured might affect his ability to conceal himself soon. It feels like you’re on a clock and you need to know how much time is left. “Is that how you ended up like this?”

“What? Pftt,” Dale shakes his head and then raises his banged up arm to brace it. “Shouldn’t have done that. No, no I—this happened after. There was a boar, a biiiiig boar.”

“And what? You wrestled it?” Grandmother’s sharp voice cuts into your conversation and you both turn to her. You don’t expect her to look so brittle as she stares at her grandson, nearly having lost his life for the second time in as many weeks after being away from home for years. Of course, she doesn’t know he already has lost his life. 

You resolve never to tell her because seeing her face right now is enough.

“Grandmother…” any easy delight is gone from Dale’s face. “I’m alright, I give you my word. Looks far worse than it is. I need a bath and some bandaging, that’s all.”

“Oh, Dale.” Grandmother wraps him in a hug as well as she can with him still leaning on his valet and her being quite a bit shorter than him. Dale accepts the affection with start and before it goes on too long, she straightens up. “You need a doctor. Why did you bring him back here instead of fetching a physician to you? Should he even be standing up?”

“Sending someone, or even a bird, back here to fetch a doctor and then waiting for them to join us would have taken far longer simply coming home,” Grandfather says sternly, obviously defensive regarding both his decision and from the fact that Dale was harmed on the hunt he was hosting. There’s something else about him though, a shock factor that no one else seems to have, that makes you nervous.

“I’m fine,” Dale insists once more, reaching out as if to pat Grandmother’s shoulder, but she’s already moved out of reach to find the nearest physician.

You catch his hand before he hurts himself or Mr Murray. He stares at you in surprise, as if having forgotten you were there, before grinning. “Wait until you see the stag and the boar. A very impressive hunt, if I do say so. Such an invigorating time. Why, I feel alive in a manner I haven’t for years.”

“What have you given him?” you ask without thinking and rather more sharply than you intend to because Dale does not talk like this.

You don’t take it back.

“Whiskey,” Grandfather replies gruffly. “No harm in that.”

You would beg to disagree, but hold your tongue for now. “No wonder his balance is off,” you can’t help but murmur under your breath as you shift to accommodate the weight he’s already leaning on you while he continues to look around, perhaps for his hunted game.

“His balance was not the concern at the time,” Grandfather says with a scowl, accepting a wet cloth from a servant and reaching over to try to wipe at Dale’s face. This close you can see some attempt has already been made, but the scratch on his forehead must have reopened in transit. “He was in pain.”

To his credit, Dale barely seems to notice anything’s wrong at all at the moment. You haven’t seen this Dale truly drunk, he’s avoided anything besides wine at dinner since his illness, but you wonder exactly what effect it’s having on him considering what he is. 

“How did you even manage to get him back here?” Grandmother asks sharply, back from whatever she was arranging and clearly still not ready to let go of her displeasure that they brought Dale back to the estate instead of sending a message for someone to come to the lodge. “Did you strap him to his horse?” 

The silence that follows her question answers it.

Grandmother huffs with displeasure before she starts herding Dale and his valet over to a chair that’s been brought down from the dais. Mr. Murray helps Dale detach himself from his own person and into the chair. Since you haven’t let go of Dale’s arm, you help guide him and keep his focus on you, when he seems able to focus at all. Accepting the bowl of water and towel offered to him, his valet begins to try to clean Dale off.

You don’t look away from Dale, too on edge to let him out of your sight, but you overhear Grandfather and Uncle Wellington explaining to Grandmother and a doctor what happened. Evidently when he went to finish off a boar they’d hunted down, it’d gotten free of the hold some of the hounds had on it. Dale had ended up on top of the boar and the others hadn’t been able to do much besides keep it corralled, too worried about striking Dale instead of the boar. Dale had managed to finish it off with his dagger in the end, but not before getting rather banged up.

You can sense movement from the corner of your eye and you look over from where you’re kneeling next to the chair to find a middle-aged man leaning over Dale—likely the doctor. He doesn’t spare you a glance, running his eyes over Dale’s form, lips moving as he mutters to himself. Without saying a word of warning, he reaches out and pulls Dale’s injured arm from your grip.

Any lethargy Dale has been feeling must be burn away at the sudden touch, because he yanks his arm out of the other man’s grasp before you can blink. He pushes the doctor away with his left arm, a strong flat palmed blow to the man’s chest. “Do not touch me,” Dale hisses, looking balefully at the stunned man. His voice is dark and full of anger, “I have not given you permission to touch my person. Who are you?”

The man sputters, gone pale and drawn at Dale’s sudden fierce attitude. “I’m a doctor, let me look—”

Dale’s glare intense. “Another physician who doesn’t know anything. Presumptuous, foolish, self-important. I don’t need any of your help.” He practically spits that last word and you wish now more than ever you knew exactly what had happened between him and the previous doctor he scared the wits out of. Mostly you’re worried he’s going to do something to expose himself. In a way you’ve forgotten about since seeing Dale’s injuries for the first time, you’re suddenly all too aware of all the people around you, that you’re in the middle of the largest hall with practically everyone in Northridge here for supper.

The doctor takes a step back, frightened or pride-stung, and no one reproaches Dale regarding his venom. Grandmother doesn’t even twitch towards him, continuing to give orders instead, “Ms Adir, please set to making bandages if someone else is not already doing so. I believe we have not replenished our supply since the cat incident nor am I aware of where we are with our preparation for the tournament.”

You have–to mollify yourself when you thought of the tournament ahead while feeling impotent about the hunt. “I’ve special bandages ready,” you volunteer. 

“What sort of bandages? Special how?” Grandmother asks, frown evident in her voice.

“Woven with silver and lightly treated with blessed honey,” you reply. When you had trouble sleeping the last few nights, you’d sewn quite a lot of yardage to occupy your hands until more ready for sleep, despite the waste of candles to see by. More than enough for Dale’s injuries now. 

With the guest physician still looking cowed, Grandfather turns to Breighton. She nods. “I’m no doctor, but I’ve friends who are and they say those are the best.”

It’s enough of a confirmation for Grandmother and you send your maid off with instructions for where to find your supplies. Behind you, you can hear the doctor recover from some of his fright and begin to request his own supplies. You don’t comment until you hear him mention willowbark. “No willowbark,” you correct. “Lord Dale is allergic.”

“No, he’s not,” Grandfather says, confused enough you look up at him.

“Yes, he is,” you say, knowing that ‘allergy’ might have to do with his new nature and hoping that isn’t a well-known sign of possession. You try to forget that might be the case so your delivery of the information is as natural as possible. “He told me so himself only a short while ago.”

“He never was before,” Grandfather says and you don’t understand the accusation in his voice. The way he almost glares at you, rather than Dale. Surely if he suspected something was wrong with Dale, if he’d seen something of what Dale now is on this hunt, that would be where his suspicion would lie. Right?

“It’s possible he developed an allergy recently,” the doctor says, inadvertently coming to your rescue. “It’s no hardship, there are other treatments.”

“Right,” Grandfather says gruffly, before deflating. He rubs his face with his hand. “My apologies, it's been a long few hours.”

“Thank you, sana,” Dale says, patting your arm with his injured one. “I knew I could count on you.”

You’d rather he not have gotten hurt at all, but you can’t deny the warmth, the pride that fills you at his words. You stroke his hand in reply. “Of course.”

[Part Twelve]

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Aaahhh can I pls request a family imagine where Cheka draws on his arm with markers so that he and Leon have matching lion tattoos?? (=^w^=)

Tagging @jessamine-rose, as this was originally their request, made off-anon.

Tumblr mobile was being dumb and didn't save the completed version of this before posting. This just happens sometimes when I have stuff in my queue 😭 I had to take the initial post down, rewrite the other half of the imagine that didn't save, and then repost it (which is what you're looking at now).

Imagine this...

“... tan! Ojitan!”

Leona groaned, tumbling onto his back and pressing a pillow over his ears. No dice--his nephew’s persistent voice still cut through. A familiar, high-pitched and cheery whine that made Leona’s head throb unbearably.

“What is it?” he snapped, glaring at Cheka from beneath his pillow arch. “Can’t you see I’m trying to sleep here?”

“You’re still sleeping? It’s so early in the day, there’s so much time left to do stuff.”

"That's precious napping time for me."

"You're so weird, Ojitan."

Leona let out a sardonic rumble of laughter. "You have no idea."

The cub grinned, putting a hand on his uncle’s shoulder and gently shaking him. “C’mon rise and shine! I have something cool to show you!”

Ugh.

Leona rolled his eyes, but relented with a sigh. (From past experience, he knew that if he didn’t, he would soon find Cheka sitting on his on his stomach.) “Make it quick, then.”

“Hehe, okay! Guess what I have?”

Leona’s gaze was immediately drawn to Cheka’s right hand, which had remained behind his back the entire time. Clutching onto a drawing pad, no doubt, judging from the markers and torn papers scattered all over the floor of the room. The efforts of childhood whimsy and wonder.

Instead of smiling, Leona frowned. “I thought I told you to make it quick. And I despise guessing games.”

“That’s no fun, though!” Cheka leaned forward on his tip-toes. “Guess, guess! Only one time is good.”

“... A monkey’s uncle.”

The cub’s free hand flew to his mouth, attempting to shove his giggles back in, but to no avail. “That’s silly!! You’re not a monkey’s uncle, you’re my uncle--and I’m not a monkey, I’m a lion!”

“I wouldn’t have known that if you hadn’t told me just now,” he replied sarcastically. “Thanks so much for enlightening me.”

“You’re welcome! Hehe, I’m surprised I know more than you do.” Cheka flashed a grin, ever the oblivious child. “Okay, thanks for waiting! It’s time for my big reveal!”

“Oh, goodie.”

Cheka revealed his right hand, which was balled into a tiny fist. His fingers unfurled, revealing... nothing in his palm. Leona stared down at the emptiness, his expression blank, touched with a little dubiousness.

“... Are you surprised?” Cheka looked hopeful.

Leona threw his head back and laughed. “Is this some sort of a joke, furball? If it is, it’s not a very good one.”

“That’s only half of the surprise! The other half is... this!”

Cheka reached for his left sleeve and yanked the fabric up, revealing a flash of ink upon his caramel-colored skin. Black as burnt sugar, pointed teeth and a mess of a mane sprawling out... not unlike the dark swirls that danced upon Leona’s own left bicep.

“Ta-daaah!!”

His eyes bulged. “That’s...”

... A really crappy imitation of my tattoo.

“Cheka. When the hell did you find the time to do this?” Leona demanded, thrusting a finger at the marker-made mess on the boy’s arm.

“You were napping up until a little while ago, so I sat around and looked at your arm to copy it on mine!”

“You were watching me sleep?!”

“I needed a model! I can’t remember what the tattoo looks like from memory....” Cheka’s ears flattened, worry marring his innocent face. “Um, Ojitan... Could it be that you’re angry with me?”

“... I don't care. Better you than Rook,” Leona grumbled, sinking back into his bed. “You’d better wash that off before you head home. The servants will be beside themselves seeing their impressionable little prince like this.”

Leona grimaced at the thought over their beady eyes bearing into him again. As though he was not already regarded with enough scorn. To them, he was less like a man and more like a wild beast. Simultaneously feared and hated.

“Nuh-uh! I’m never gonna wash it off, cuz I wanna keep matching with you!” Cheka declared stubbornly. He flexed his left arm, causing his shoddily done lion’s mane to flicker. “I’m gonna be just like you one day! I’ll be smart, and strong, and cool... Oh! And I’ll even be a Magical Shift star, too!!”

“Don’t make me laugh. There are tons of role models for you out there. Better people to look up to and idolize, like your old man. After all, you are his flesh and blood... and the prized prince of the savanna.”

“What if I want to be like Papa and Ojitan?”

“You’re chasing an impossible dream.” The words came out more strongly than he had intended them to, each syllable dropping like a cement brick. “If you were smart, you’d know when to quit.”

You’d accept second place and be done with it already.

“... You don’t want to follow in my footsteps.” Leona waved a hand, his tone bitter. The once vibrant viridian of his irises had dullened, twisting into something darker.

“Your future’s brighter than mine. It’s so bright, it hurts my eyes to look at it,” he spat, his spirit shining with spite. “That’s what’s waiting for you, so you’d better take it before someone else comes along to try and steal it from you... someone like me.”

Cheka went quiet, staring at his uncle with a startled expression. The look of an antelope ensnared in a predator’s trap. Hurt and fear, all culminated into one. “Ojitan...”

He’s the same as them. I should have known.

“Do you get it now? I’m not someone worth some wide-eyed kid’s admiration,” he snarled, turning away from Cheka--afraid to meet that sparkling gaze, full of endless possibilities. “If you understand that much, then leave, and--OOF!!”

A small body tackled into his from behind, cutting Leona off. His assailant planted their face against his broad back, and their scrawny arms wrapped around his waist to give a squeeze.

“Leona Ojitan... I didn’t understand everything you said just then, but... I think I kind of understand. You’re... hurting right now, aren’t you? It hurts so much that you don’t know what to do.”

“Me... hurting?” Leona scoffed, even has he balled his hands into fists. His fingernails dug into his palms, leaving marks. “Ridiculous. You’re imagining things.”

“I don’t think it’s imaginary.”

“... What do you know? You’re just a kid.”

“I know lots of things!” Cheka tightened his grip on his uncle, his muscles straining under his skin, the lion of his makeshift tattoo stretching thin. “Like when you hurt like this, a hug’ll make it all feel better! Papa and Mama told me! So... Until it stops hurting, I’ll keep hugging you like this!”

“You’ll what?!” Leona paled, starting to buck and flail against his nephew. He attempted to pry him off, only to have the cub immediately cinch back onto him moments later. “O-Oi, Cheka...!! Let go, I don’t want--no, I don’t need any hugs, damn it!!”

“Hehe! Nope, I can’t do that! Our arm marks match, Ojitan! So I want our smiles to match, too!” The cub squealed, rubbing his cheek against his exasperated uncle’s. “You can’t run away from me!”

“This is why I told you to wash off that stupid marker...!!”

[redwinterroses]

hey so here's an idea for a "two best friends but one turned evil and asked the other to kill him before he went too far gone" trope (you know exactly what i'm referring to)

the first character, looking into his friends eyes, stabs him in the heart. then they both fall down and the first character is left on his knees, head down, holding onto the sword embedded into his friend's chest, sobbing uncontrollably.

he doesn't touch the sword again and instead ties a ribbon around it in memory of the one he lost

you're welcome :)

- anon fierri

Not that this has been on my brain all day or anything, but... well. Okay. It has been. And then @/3lsmp posted that stuff about a zombie AU and-- well. This happened.

Yay for my first shulker box fic! (1,728 words, with mirrored/connected first and last lines)

Zombie stories don't have happy endings so... neither does this. Be warned.

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.

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Jimmy’s waiting when Scott gets back home.

He stands in front of the door to the house they’ve been living out of, with none of his gear or weapons on him. He’s leaning against the old oak that grows next to the sidewalk, one foot perched on a root that ripples out of the ground and cracks through the old concrete. The sun is setting behind him, but the twilight shadows don’t quite hide the bloody stain that spreads from his right shoulder.

Scott’s feet come to a stop of their own accord, and he very specifically does not move his hand to the hilt of his sword. He shifts his satchel— filled with goodies he managed to find today; he discovered an entire village that hadn’t been raided yet— on his arm, its weight heavy after an afternoon of walking. He hates the wary tone in his words when he calls out:

“Jimmy?”

Jimmy, looking up to see him, gives a shrug. “Told ya this would happen,” he says, and there’s a quirk to his smile that could break other hearts.

((hard to break what’s already shattering.))

Scott swallows. “Show me.”

Jimmy pulls the collar of his shirt to the side, and Scott winces at the bloody mess that is his mangled shoulder.

“Skizz got me,” Jimmy says. “It was stupid— I should’a been faster, but… I mean, it was Skizz, ya know? He still kinda looked like himself, and I thought… I dunno what I thought. But by the time I realized he was already gone, he’d got my shoulder in his teeth and…”

((the earth is crumbling away beneath him. this is a nightmare. time to wake up now.))

((please wake up now.))

“Hey, don’t worry.” Jimmy covers the wound back up. “It doesn’t hurt or anything.”

“It doesn’t— No, Jimmy that’s not the way to make me feel better.” Scott takes another step forward, his arms aching to reach out and his gut telling him to get away get away get away— He can feel his throat closing, swallowing emotions he refuses to feel.

“Look— ” Jimmy takes a step forward and Scott backpedals, half-unsheathing the blade at his hip. He hates himself for it instantly, but the instinct—

The instinct is what keeps him alive.

Jimmy just puts his hands up placatingly. “Hey, hey— I’m not that far gone yet.”

“You’re fine.” Scott tries to sound scornful, and nearly succeeds. “We’ll get you patched up and you’ll be good as new in a few days. Don’t be such a drama queen.”

With a laugh, Jimmy shakes his head. “Nice daydream,” he says. “That would be cool.”

They stand there, in a silence that shouldn’t have been awkward, for a long moment. Then, at the same time:

“Scott, you know— ”

“So I picked up a— ”

Pause.

“You go first,” Jimmy says.

((Jimmy always puts others first.))

Scott grits his teeth and forces his voice to be light and cheerful. Nothing is wrong. They’re fine. “I found canned soup!” he says. “Five cans— one’s a little rusty, but I’m sure it’s fine.”

“That’s… um. That’s good.”

Scott steps around Jimmy—

((not too close. don't get too close— no. damn you, coward, get as close as you want, there’s nothing wrong— ))

— and moves toward the house. “So…” he says, “I’ll just… start up the fire? Get dinner going? I think we’ve still got some— ”

“Scott.”

Jimmy’s voice stops him, and Scott winces. He drops his head, unable to look Jimmy in the eye.

“Don’t make me do this,” he says. His voice struggles, and his free hand goes to his throat, as if he can pull the plea from his chest. “You… you can’t make me do this. You can’t.”

((i can’t, i can’t, i can’t— ))

“You gotta.”

((too close!!))

Scott’s head snaps up, and one hand flails behind him, catching against the siding of the house. Jimmy is right there—

((danger! danger!))

But other than the tell-tale red gleam in his eye and the bloody stain on the shoulder of his shirt, Jimmy looks the same. Same golden hair, same dimple as he quirks half a sad smile, same gentle hands spread wide. Unarmed, though that won’t matter soon. He stands close enough that Scott could reach out and touch him— punch him, maybe, for being such an idiot… or wrap him in an embrace that will never let go.

“Skizz got me an hour ago,” Jimmy says, and his voice is as low as a secret. “I’ve got… what. Maybe twenty minutes? Another hour if we’re insanely lucky?”

“You’re fine,” Scott says again. But this time it comes out as a plea and not a statement.

“I’m not.” Jimmy shakes his head. His eyes shift to the side. “I… to be honest, I’m already feeling it.”

“Feeling— feeling what?” Why was he asking. What a stupid question.

And yet… yet he had to know.

Jimmy drops his hands to his sides, and they clench and unclench. Scott watches, mesmerized, his heartbeat fluttering in time with Jimmy’s hands curling into white-knuckled fists and uncurling into trembling claws.

“I can’t— I can’t describe it. It’s like I’m on fire. Only I’m drowning at the same time. Or something. And I— ” he takes a deep breath, and meets Scott’s gaze. A low growl comes into his voice, and the hands squeeze tight into hard twists of bone. “I look at you, and all I can see is how easy you’d be to kill right now.”

Scott’s sword is drawn before his denial can catch up.

((instinct keeps you alive))

Jimmy looks down at the shining blade, and finally his façade of cheerful nonchalance wavers. There’s a crack in his voice as he says, “There we go. That’s… that’s the way it’s gotta be.”

((i can’t, i can’t, i can’t— ))

And then, as if he can hear Scott’s internal scream: “I don’t— I don’t want to become like one of them. I don’t want… you to see me like that.”

Like one of them. Scott’s memories skip over images of white-eyed creatures, people he used to know, monsters with mindless hunger driving them to rip, to shred, to devour—

Jimmy wakes up crying some nights. He tries to be quiet, Scott knows, but in the single room they’ve barricaded against the darkness, every sound is magnified— and Scott's always been a light sleeper. He knows Jimmy dreams of them, dreams of blood and gore and of being left alone— or worse, of being the one to do the shredding.

He knows because he’s dreamed it too.

“I won’t let that happen,” he says, his voice firm. But there’s a tremble in the sword between them.

“You didn’t let it happen. It just… it just did, dude. That’s life.” Jimmy takes a deep breath, and with a far too gentle hand, takes hold of the sword blade and guides it to rest over his heart. “Anyway, you promised.”

.

.

.

“Right so, if I get bit, you have to take me out before I can hurt anyone.”

“Ew. What a horribly morbid things to say.”

“I’m serious! I couldn’t deal with it if I turned into one of those things and came after you or any of the others— ”

“It’s not gonna happen, so don’t be stupid about it.”

“Come on— just say it. Promise me that if I start to turn, you’ll… ya know. Kill me.”

“Jimmy— ”

“Promise me, Scott.”

“…Fine. But only if you promise the same.”

((it won’t happen. it'll be fine. they’ll be fine.))

“Of course, dude. I promise.”

.

.

.

“You promised.”

Scott’s face is wet with hot tears that he can’t feel himself crying, and he wants to drop the sword— wants to fling it away from both of them and let fate do its worst. Who cares if he dies too?

((jimmy cares. If you let him destroy you, it’ll destroy him first.))

“Damn you,” Scott whispers.

Jimmy smiles.

The sword enters his body too easily.

It slides between the ribs, the only sound the soft catch in Jimmy’s throat as the blade bites into his heart.

For a frozen instant, they both stand there, outside the house they’d claimed— the home they’d defended. Jimmy looks down at the weapon in his chest, one hand reaching toward Scott—

And he falls

((he falls and falls and falls and Scott is falling too and the sword clatters to the ground and he’s clutching at Jimmy’s face and bundling the body to himself and pawing the hair away from his eyes and Jimmy’s hand is on his and— ))

There are no final words. No poignant goodbyes, no tearful proclamations or whispered last regrets.

There is only an ending.

There is only Scott, silent and dry-eyed, kneeling on the ground under the oak with Jimmy’s lifeless hand clasped to his chest.

.

.

.

He doesn’t move, even as night falls around him—

((them))

— and the cicadas start their mournful chorus. Doesn’t stir until something rattles down the street and he dimly realizes that Jimmy would murder him if after all this, Scott went and got himself shredded by a zombie anyway.

Jimmy’s body is heavier than he expected, and yet somehow lighter than it ought to be. As if it’s missing everything that made it Jimmy. He drags it—

((him))

— inside the house and wonders what exactly he’s supposed to do now. Dig a grave, he supposes, but— where? In the yard? It seems so… anticlimactic.

((death is anticlimactic. life is the climax. death is… an afterthought.))

He leaves the sword where it fell. He can’t… he can’t bear to touch it now. Scott doesn’t believe in curses—

((yes you do yes you do you’re cursed this place is cursed and that sword is cursed and the ground where it lays is cursed and— ))

— and yet he can’t bring himself to fetch it. Someone else can find it.

He’ll dig the grave tomorrow.

Tonight… tonight he sits. Keeps watch. Hopes beyond hope that Jimmy will stir— knowing that if he does, it won’t be for any good reason. Knowing that if he does, he won’t be able to kill him a second time.

Tomorrow he’ll leave. Find a new place— far away. Sometime, maybe sooner, maybe later… he’ll find the end of his road too.

He hopes Jimmy will be waiting there, when he finally gets back home.

[m0srael]

For @hp-fearfest’s day 2 prompt: From Beyond the Grave. Thanks 4 the beta @corvuscrowned. CW: spooky vibes and graphic depictions of corpses.

(on Ao3 | T | 2.5k)

Making a Family Makes a Home

“Happy anniversary, love,” Harry pants into Draco’s wet, open mouth. He thinks he can make out the chirping of morning birds over their slowing breaths, and the warm lamplight in the room is slowly being suffused with cool grey from the dawning sun. They hadn’t slept at all that night.

Harry has never felt happier. He’s loved Draco for so long, and now, finally, he’s allowed to show him. The fact that Draco loves him back makes him feel incandescent, like he’s flying.

Draco hums tiredly in response, hands stilling in Harry’s hair. “‘Spose we can tell everyone to settle their bets on whether we’d make it to a year or not. I think Longbottom is the only one who went in our favor.”

Harry laughs gently and captures his boyfriend’s kiss-swollen lips in his teeth. “Fancy shocking everyone even more?”

“Always.”

“Let’s move in together…” Harry whispers into the dip between Draco’s collar bones, where sweat has pooled and started to dry. He darts the tip of his tongue out to capture the salty tang.

Draco goes stiff underneath him and says nothing.

Harry pulls back to gauge his expression. It’s firm, unreadable. “It’s just, we’ve been dating for a year and you’re here just as much—if not more—than you’re at home. We don’t have to stay here, we can find a place we both want to live, somewhere new. You talk all the time about how much you hate still living with your parents. We could… We could really start our life. Together. The way we want.”

Draco’s enigmatic expression breaks a little. “Oh, Harry, love. You know I want that. Of course I want to build a life with you. It’s just… I know I complain about mother and father, but they’re getting old. They need me. I’d… I’d worry about leaving them all alone in that big old Manor.”

“Yeah. I get that, I do. But…They have house elves, don’t they? To look after them? It’s not like you couldn’t visit whenever you want.”

“We couldn’t afford to pay the elves, after the trials. We had to let them go.”

“Oh, right. Sorry. Well, I don’t want to pressure you into anything, so—”

“Harry. I… Want to. I do. Just. Let me think about it a little?”

“Yeah. Of course. Of course, love. Take all the time you need. I’ve already got more of you than I ever thought possible. I’m happy.”

“Sap.”

*

“You promised you weren’t going to pressure me, Harry,” Draco snaps as he drops their dinner plates into Harry’s sink with a clatter.

“I know, I know, and I don’t mean to. But we’ve been together for nearly three years, Draco, and you still refuse to even stay the night half the time you’re over here. Is it… Do you not love me anymore? Has something changed, have I—”

He watches the shutters fall behind Draco’s eyes, like they always do when they have this conversation. He’s tried so hard to respect Draco’s request for time and space, but lately it’s like a chasm has opened between them, and Harry doesn’t know how to bridge it. His gut reaction to the feeling of impending loss has always been to hold tighter, to grasp and pull. He knows how suffocating that can be for some people, but he can’t help it.

Draco sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Harry, no, of course not. I love you more every day, you know that. It’s just... not that easy. My parents—”

“Oh, sod your bloody parents!” Harry bites back, sharper than he intended. “I mean—I’m sorry—but I feel like you’re sacrificing your own happiness for them. Again! I know you love them, but after everything they’ve put you through. Everything they asked of you. You deserve the chance to make your own choices and live your own life, Draco.”

“I… I know that. I do. I just feel so guilty, sometimes…”

“Look. We can look into some care homes, maybe. Neville says his Nan loves her community. Or—” Harry raises a hand to cut off Draco’s interjection, “—we can interview some live-in Healers. I can help you, you won’t have to do it alone.”

Draco’s face twists into an ugly frown. “No. How dare you—I’m not dumping my parents into some disgusting care home to be ignored and overlooked by overworked nurses. And I’m certainly not allowing a stranger into my home, Harry! Haven’t you heard of elder abuse? How could I do something like that to them?”

“Your home…”

“What?”

“You just called the Manor your home. I thought… I’d hoped you considered this your home.”

“Oh...well I—”

“Forget it. Look, I just need some space. I don’t want to say something in anger that I’ll regret later. Your feelings are valid, I just...feel a little hurt right now, to be honest. I’m going to Ron and Hermione’s for the night. Feel free to stay. Or not. Merlin knows you never do.”

“Harry—” Draco pleads as Harry turns toward the Floo.

*

“What do you want, Potter? I’m terribly busy.”

“Pansy, you don’t have a job.”

“And?”

“Nevermind, look. It’s about Draco…”

“Isn’t it always?”

“Please, Pansy. You know I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t serious. I...need your help.”

Pansy sighs, settling herself and her glass of scotch on the chaise in front of her fireplace, which Harry had just tumbled out of unannounced several minutes earlier.

“Fine. Make it quick.”

“Right. Well. Draco won’t move in with me.”

“Mm,” she hums, taking a drag on the cigarette in her other hand. “Sounds normal to me. I don’t see why anyone would want to live with you.”

“Fuck’s sake—” Harry hisses, beginning to pace across the hearthrug. “I know you don’t like me, you wish Draco were with someone else, whatever—can you please just take this seriously for like, one second. Please.”

Pansy exhales an exasperated cloud of spicy smoke into Harry’s face and sits up straight.

“Potter. Draco’s relationship with his parents is… complicated.”

“You think I don’t know that?”

Pansy eyes him sharply over the rim of her rocks glass for a long moment. “No, I don’t think you do, really. Not the whole of it, at least.”

Harry throws his hands up, frustrated. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

A series of emotions passes over Pansy’s face as she eyes him. Amusement, then scorn, then sadness, and finally pity.

“Pansy,” Harry says, slumping down onto the chaise next to her and letting his head fall into his hands. “I love him so much. I…want to marry him. But, I can’t if he won’t be honest with me about why he won’t live with me. I’ve done the best I can so far, but I can’t envision a future where my husband won’t even stay the night with me, let alone share a house with me. And I definitely can’t envision a future where we move into the Manor together.” He shivers involuntarily.

“No, I don’t think that would do anybody any good. Harry… I can’t say any more. I know, I’m sorry, but I just can’t. If you really need to know why Draco won’t move in with you, and he won’t explain it himself, you need to go see them. Lucius and Narcissa. I think you’ll find your answers there. I just hope you’re prepared for them.”

“He’s never asked me to go home with him. I haven’t… I haven’t been to the Manor since the War.”

“Mmhm,” Pansy hums, lips pursed condescendingly.

Harry stands and takes a palm full of Floo powder, gut twisting and thoughts racing.

“Harry—” Pansy says, stopping him as the flames flare green. “If you really love him—”

“Pans—”

“—You’ll let this go. You won’t go to the Manor.”

“I don’t… I don’t think I can do that, Pansy.”

Pansy draws her worried eyebrows down between her liquor-glassy eyes. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

*

Harry never received a reply to his owl to Lucius and Narcissa asking if it’d be alright to visit that afternoon. He isn’t surprised; he knows there’s no love lost between them even now, even after he’s been with their son for years.

He’d considered sending owl after owl until one of them responded—even if it was just to serve him with a restraining order. In the end, he knew he would never be at peace if he didn’t talk to them face to face. He needs to settle this once and for all, so he can move on. So he and Draco can move on, and move in, together.

After deciding that he’s given them enough warning, he apparates to Wiltshire.

When he lands outside the Manor, he’s confused. For a minute he thinks he’s apparated to the wrong location. The once-gleaming gates are rusted and bent, hanging from their hinges. Ivy creeps across the damp stone pillars and flagstones, eating into every fracture and crevice. The footpath beyond the gates is thickly overgrown with weeds and brambles, as though no one has walked it in years.

He pushes past the gates and begins fighting his way through the underbrush. His breath catches in his throat when he comes around the final bend in the path. There’s no way Draco has been living here for the last six years. There’s no way anyone has been living here in a long time.

The entire house seems to sag. The stone walls are covered in a thick layer of black muck. The same ivy that threads through the front gates has all-but consumed the lower half of the building, making it look as though the Manor is scrabbling up from the depths of the earth. All the windows Harry can see are coated in a thick layer of dusty grime; some are broken and grimace at him like mouths full of jagged, glass teeth. The once-resplendent gardens are now buried under thick snarls of thorns and wild, venomous tentacula that wave menacingly at Harry, welcoming him. To what, he doesn’t know.

Dread settles into the pit of his stomach like a heavy stone. His breathing becomes sharp and ragged, and he knows—beyond the shadow of a doubt—that something is very wrong.

When he finally picks his way up the crumbling front steps, he finds that the stately front door is cracked open. From the look of it, the lock fell from the moist, rotting old wood at some point.

He pushes the door open more fully and is hit with a wave of the thick, sickly-sweet scent of decay. His shocked brain finally jumpstarts into action. He jogs into the foyer, the clacking of his dress shoes muffled in the thick layer of dust on the floor. Despite the blood rushing in his ears and his short, wheezing breaths, he can hear the sounds of voices coming from a door down the hallway to his left. He recognizes one as Draco’s.

He moves quickly but cautiously toward the sound, pausing just outside the open door.

“Mother, I’ve told you a hundred times, you can’t have milk in your tea anymore. It upsets your stomach for days. Here, let me—”

“Oh, stop fussing, Draco. I’m an old lady I can do what I like,” comes Narcissa’s high-pitched, croaky voice.

Draco chuckles warmly, and Harry can hear the clink of teacup on saucer.

“So, Draco, my boy. How is your Mister Potter?” Lucius asks. Harry had forgotten how alike he and Draco sound, though Lucius’s voice is a touch deeper.

“Oh, well. Don’t tell him I told you, but I think he’s going to propose soon!” Draco replies, sounding genuinely pleased.

Harry’s stomach flips, despite his overwhelming unease.

“Oh, my love, that’s wonderful. I know you love him very much. Perhaps now you can invite him to come live with us? We’ve got more than enough room, you know,” Narcissa’s reedy voice cracks a little, and Draco clears his throat.

“Mother. No,” he responds sternly, almost shouting, “We’ve talked about this many times. You know I can’t bring him here. As much as I would love—” Draco sniffs wetly, as though he’s crying, “—to have all of my family together, he would never want that. He could never understand. He’s not...not like us.”

Draco sobs, then, and there’s a clatter of china as though he’s shoved his teacup away from himself.

Harry can’t take it anymore. He takes a deep breath, sets his shoulders, and moves around the doorframe to face them.

Draco glances up from the opposite side of the small table, startled. He looks like a rabbit caught in the gaze of a hungry dog--hunched and shivering, eyes wide and darting erratically. But then a smile cuts across his pale face. His pink lips curve up at the edges, but the expression doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Oh, Harry. We were just talking about you. You’ve come just in time for tea. Sit.”

It’s then that Harry looks to Lucius and Narcissa, seated in chairs on either side of Draco.

Neither of them move, and it takes Harry longer than he’d like to realize that’s because they can’t.

Their bodies are stiff and cold-looking. Their skin is waxy and grey, and both of their skulls are swathed in wisps of white-blonde hair that looks to have been tacked on with a hasty sticking charm. Harry shifts one step to the right, enough to see that Lucius’s eyelids are gone and his eyes have been replaced with shiny, black marbles.

He cuts his eyes frantically over to Narcissa, whose ivory teeth look too huge in her face. Harry realizes on a wave of nausea that her lips have rotted, exposing fleshless gums.

“Yes, Harry dear, Draco has told us so much about you, please sit. There’s so much we need to talk about. To clear the air.”

A manic laugh rips from Harry’s throat as what he thought was Narcissa’s voice drips out of Draco’s mouth like the chime of discordant bells. He takes several stilted steps backward toward the door.

Draco shoots to his feet, a soft, pleading look on his beautiful face. He moves toward Harry carefully, extending pleading hands until he can grasp Harry’s shoulders.

Harry wants to scream. He wants to run away from that place and never look back. But here’s Draco, his Draco, jarringly pretty among all this rot. Draco places a soft kiss on Harry's trembling lips.

“Harry. Please. Join us.”

The snick of the door echoes in his ears as it’s spelled shut behind him.

[clairecrive]

“Useless planning” - Sirius Black x reader

A/n: this is my first time writing Sirius even though I love him to death and he's my favourite... I lowkey think I didn't do a good enough job but oh well. Here it is, I hope you like it anyway.

Warnings: none, fluff all the way

Word count: 3K 

(let me know if you wanna be added to the taglist)

(I know this is Billy but I thought the sub to be quite fitting)

Insecurities were normal. Everyone has them. And the same went with flaws and imperfections. Nothing to be ashamed about. That's what y/n and Marlene were trying to convince Lily about. Of course, it's easier said than done but acknowledging the fact is the first step into accepting them.

"James tells me that they're beautiful and that I shouldn't worry about them but I don't know. I don't like them." Lily had confessed to feeling self-conscious about her scars and stretch marks and reticent she was in letting James see her body for this very reason. Of course, the boy you love telling you that you're beautiful the way you are is certainly flattering but not problem-solving in this case. At least, y/n thought so and let her friends know.

"I don't think seeing it that way is going to help."

"When has James helped to make something better?" Marlene snickered making y/n roll her eyes and Lily glower at her.

"They don't have to be beautiful and you don't have to look at them in that way. They're just natural, you know? There's a reason you have them, meaning that it's your body's reaction to something." Sometimes, it helped using the scientific approach. Others, however, sharing was indeed caring.

"And in fact, everyone has them. Look." So pulling her skirt up a bit, y/n showed the marks that adorned her thighs.

"How are you so confident about them?"

"I'm not, actually. And it has taken me a long time to accept them, let alone show them this way." In fact, it had taken a long time for y/n to come to terms with the way her body was and to accept it and love it. It was still a work in progress if she had to be honest. But she was not ashamed to wear shorts or mini skirts now and that was indeed progress.

"And, I'm not saying that James is wrong or anything. I'm sure he told you that because they're a part of you and that boy cherishes the ground you walk on like you're a saint or something. He just wants to help and that's sweet of him. I think though, that this is something you have to come to terms on your own too." Y/n felt like adding. By all means, James' efforts were appreciated but she didn't want her friend loving herself through someone elses' love.

"Y/n's right. Don't think you're beautiful because Jamesie says so but because you are." Marlene agreed before throwing a chocolate frog in her mouth.

"So you're saying that Sirius telling you you're beautiful didn't help you even a bit?" Lily threw with a suggestive raise of eyebrows pointed at y/n who barely shrugged not wanting to indulge her.

"It's like with Remus, you know? He has five people telling him that he's the most precious human being on this heart and that his scars hardly make him less attractive but does he agree? Of course not. And yeah, us telling him certainly helps but it's something he has to realize himself or the situation won't ever change." But she couldn't help herself and had to add, "Besides, Sirius says that about every girl at Hogwarts. It's hardly helpful."

"She has a point." Still munching on her sweet, Marlene agreed yet again even though this time her tone had grown sombre. It had been a while and she was over it but she had been one of those girls to make the mistake of fooling herself into thinking that Sirius was going to give her more.

"He doesn't look at them the way he looks at you though." Stubborn as always, Lily insisted.

"I'm sure it's 'cause he sees a challenge."

"If only he knew you liked him."

"Why don't you tell him, then? He's been after you since the year started." Following up on Marlene's lead, Lily wondered.

"Don't get me wrong, I like him alright. But I'm not interested in what he can give me."

"Mindblowing sex?" Marlene pointed out in an a-matter-of-fact tone

"Fleeting interest and attention." To which y/n sternly replied.

"His attention is hardly fleeting seeing as it's been months."

"Lily, why are you pursuing this? We both see how he is with girls and I refuse to end up like that."

"There's nothing wrong in liking someone and letting them know." Lily got defensive, maybe because she was thinking of James. Whatever the case, she wasn't going to change y/n's mind. She was not being delusional, just pragmatic.

"They're pathetic." Marlene snickered and even if y/n agreed to some degree, she ignored her.

"No there's not. It's the end result that I'm referring to." Y/n conceded but the problem wasn't that. It took a lot of courage to publicly pursue someone, that she had to admit.

"Which is?"

"Heartbroken," Marlene answered solemnly earning a nod from y/n.

The group of girls were utterly clueless about the material they had provided for the aforementioned guys who were currently under the invisibility cloak.

Remus rosy-cheeked but flattered at y/n's words. Not that it was the first time he had heard them but it was always nice to feel appreciated. James was glad that his efforts were not noticed by everyone but especially by Lily even though he didn't like the fact that she was still worrying about something that seemed so meaningless for him. Peter looked bored to death as he couldn't be bothered with girl problems while Sirius was pouting despite the fact that the girl he had been chasing for months had confessed to liking him back.

But that pout was short-lived as Sirius Black was known for being a man of action. Now that he knew why y/n was so reticent in giving in to his flirting, he had the key to solving this problem. The smirk he was so infamous for took its place on his lips while a plan was already forming in his mind.

"Stop blushing, Moony, we tell you that every day and so does y/n. Now c'mon I have a girl to woo." And with that, he pushed everyone away and filling them in on his plan when they were out of the girls' earshot.

The first phase of the plan was to take place in a couple of hours at lunch. He was to show that his attention was solely reserved for y/n and her only. Sirius knew that he had a reputation and even he was aware that he was a big flirt. While he knew that it was completely harmless, he could see how it looked in y/n's eyes. Or in everyone's really.

So when lunchtime came around, Sirius took his place at the Gryffindor table. Y/n usually sat with them, on the bench across from him and beside Remus. Deep in conversation with Moony, she didn't notice him sitting down but he didn't do anything to grab her attention. He waited patiently for y/n to be done with whatever she was talking about with Remus to finally speak.

"Hello there, angel. Aren't you looking cute tonight." The plan was in motion, his charm: on.

"Hi, Sirius." And yet, y/n appeared to be unbothered.

"I heard you got into a little of a catfight."

"You made it sound like we pulled each others' hair or something."

"Isn't that what happened?"

"Of course not. I was just telling Moony what happened, he can fill you in." She said dismissively while gathering her things.

"Why don't you do it?" Sirius tried to keep the desperation out of his voice but given the smirk Remus gave him, he was failing. Just like the first phase of his plan.

"I have a class to attend Black." Rolling her eyes at him, y/n stood up not before leaving a kiss on Remus' head, " see you later Moons."

"Don't I get a kiss too?" She heard Sirius' cry of indignation and didn't even turn around to respond.  

"My kisses are for those you can appreciate them and you get far too many of those from others to do so."

"I swear if I didn't hear her before, I'd say she's head over heels for you," Sirius complained to his friend slouching in his seat. His eyes following her silhouette until y/n walked out of the room.

"She's my best friend." Shrugging his shoulders, Remus brushed away his worries. Yes, y/n was affectionate with him but she had always been this way. There was nothing romantic behind her gestures.

"We've known her the same amount of time, why is she so comfortable with you than she is with me? You're not the one constantly flirting with her."

"She's cautious about opening up with people and as you've heard before she doesn't trust you with her feelings." He pointed out what Sirius already knew given her previous confession. The first phase of the plan had seemingly failed. Y/n hadn't stuck around long enough for him to put it into motion but he had not lost hope yet.

"You seemed to have your work cut out for you though, Pads," Remus said after a while and told him about the fight he had mentioned when he first sat down. Apparently, some girl was complaining to one of her friends about him and the way he had treated her. What had made y/n compelled to butt in and defend his honour though, was that the girl had twisted what actually happened, spreading instead some nasty shit about him to no doubt get her revenge. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, after all.

"You know how much she hates confrontations and arguing but she went straight into one for you. It must mean you've done something right."

Sirius couldn't help the smile that found its way on his lips at Remus' words. He had gathered as much seeing as he knew her well. They had been friends since first year after all. Also, because that meant that he didn't need most of the phases of his plan but one: earning y/n's trust.

He knew that he had it in some quantity seeing as you were friends. He just had to nudge her to take a step in the direction he knew she wanted to take but was too afraid to.

So, when your last class ended, he made sure to be waiting for you outside. As always you were one of the last to get out, Marlene and Lily on your side.

"Since when do you specialize in chaperone activities, Black?" Marlene snickered when she noticed him leaning on the wall.

"Only for the fairest maiden of the kingdom, of course."

His charm was one of the things he was most known for but he had never been able to work his magic on you in that way. One day, you were talking with Remus about some books you were reading and how enchanted you were with old stories and myths and legends. Sirius of course had no idea what you were talking about, not having read that particular book, but he was familiar enough with the subject thanks to his education. So he had started talking like a medieval knight just to catch your attention and maybe to annoy you but he was pleased to notice the amusement in your eyes and how you'd respond to him in a similar tone, playing along with him. Whenever you two started talking like this, the others would always look at you weirdly but none of you seemed bothered by it, least of all Sirius. Whatever he could do to make you smile, he'd do it gladly.

"And to what do I owe the pleasure, dear sir?" She played along and Sirius was counting on it. He briefly threw a suggestive look at Lily who seemed to understand as she pulled Marlene away ignoring her protests.

"Oh no, the pleasure is all mine, my lady. Would you give me the honour of coming with me? I have a surprise for you." And to top it all, he offered her his arm. Y/n didn't know whether to roll her eyes at him or indulge him but she'd be lying to herself if she said that she wasn't intrigued.

"How can I say no when you ask so politely, sir."  And so she took his arm and followed him through the hallways up to the Astronomy Tower. Y/n knew what this place meant to Sirius. They had even spent a lot of time there together. It had kind of become their place when they needed some peace and quiet or to simply spend some time together away from the noisiness of the common room.

"I'm here to prove that I'm worthy of your affections, my chérie." He solemnly said after you sat down. If this whole thing had been somewhat normal between you, this was certainly not and it definitely took her by surprise.

"What are you talking about?"

"I know you like me, y/n."

"That's hardly a secret, Sirius. We're friends, of course, I like you."

"I mean, you like me as I like you. Not just as friends."

"Who told you?"

"Most importantly, I know why you're refusing my advances."

"Look, Sirius-"

"Please, let me say this first and I promise that I won't bother you after if you say no." Despite the pun he and his friends would always throw around, he wasn't known to be this serious and he hardly ever was. Taken back by the sheer determination she found in his eyes and in his tone, y/n simply nodded and let him talk.

"I understand your reservations, if I were you I'd be thinking the same. You know me though, y/n, better than most and you know that I care about you. I can see why you'd be afraid of opening your heart to me but I swear I wouldn't be insisting so much if I wasn't sure that this is what I want." y/n had never heard Sirius talk about his feelings so freely. She'd be lying if she denied how his words touched her, her heartbeat would give her away.

But there was also something else on stake.

"It's not that, Sirius."

"Then what is it? Don't you trust me?"

"I do trust you. It's just- I don't want to get heartbroken and ruin our friendship at the same time."

"If you trust me then why are you so sure that I'm going to hurt you?" Sirius wears his heart on his sleeve, that was one of the things y/n had always admired him for. How brave he was to always show and tell every that went pass his mind. Now, seeing him like this, arms crossed on his chest, his eyes flashing, her heart helpelessly hurt and she almost winced at the fact that she was hurting him.

"Oh no, Sirius, no. I don't think you'd do that willingly. After all, it's not anyone's fault if you lose interest in me or just stop caring for me in that way. And when that happens, I'm not sure I can go back to just being friends. Thus, ruining our group of friends and that is not something I'm willing to give up to attempt whatever it is you're proposing." She quickly tried to explain, desperate to make him see that it wasn't about him, not completely. Mostly, she was afraid. Afraid of admitting her feelings for him, afraid of indulging them knowing that when you have something special, it means that you can lose it.

"That goes both ways you know." But Sirius was always able to see right through her. And he knew what he felt and now that he also knew how she felt, he wasn't going to go down without a fight.

"I did not wake up yesterday and realized I have feelings for you, Sirius." she scoffed, not telling him that she had been in love with him since they come back from the summer break in their third year. They were now in their fifth.

"It didn't happen to me neither. If you haven't noticed, I've been chasing you for months."

"Yes, while always having an alternative option on the go."

"I thought you had learned by now not to listen to rumours." Sirius tilted his head in a way that reminded y/n of an adorable puppy.

"When it comes to you and girls, Sirius, they're not rumours. At least, not the part that interested me."

"What do you mean?"

"I know that you treat them right and I know that you don't offer them more than what you give them. Those are rumours they spread in hope that other girls will stay away from you and you'd go back to them. But you do get with them. Sure, Katy was talking bullshit about you being an asshole and I know that's not true but I also know that you have been with her."

"A year ago."

"Then why is she still talking about it?"

"Don't know, angel. I'm pretty memorable if I do say so myself."

"So, you're saying that you haven't been with anyone in a year?"

"I've been too busy with you, chérie."

Well, that was news. Y/n had to admit that she hadn't seen this coming. And it definitely changed things. Sirius had been right when he said that she knew him better than most. And so, when she looked into his eyes, she knew that along with smug and cocky he was also being honest.

"Well, I've just checked your agenda, my love, and it seems it will be so for quite some time."

"Is that a threat or a promise?"

"A bit of both."

"I'm more than fine with it, angel. Now, give me a kiss and bring me to heaven."

[renegadewangs]

Van Zieks - the Examination, part 9

Warnings: SPOILERS for The Great Ace Attorney: Chronicles. Additional warning for racist sentiments uttered by fictional characters (and screencaps to show these sentiments).

Disclaimer: (see Part 1 for the more detailed disclaimer.) - These posts are not meant to be taken as fact. Everything I’m outlining stems from my own views and experiences. If you believe that I’ve missed or misinterpreted something, please let me know so I can edit the post accordingly. -The purpose of these posts is an analysis, nothing more. Please do not come into these posts expecting me to either defend Barok van Zieks from haters, nor expecting me to encourage the hatred. - I’m using the Western release of The Great Ace Attorney Chronicles for these posts, but may refer to the original Japanese dialogue of Dai Gyakuten Saiban if needed to compare what’s said. This also means I’m using the localized names and localized romanization of the names to stay consistent. -It doesn’t matter one bit to me whether you like Barok van Zieks or dislike him. However, I will ask that everyone who comments refrains from attacking real, actual people.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8

How the turnabouts have turned! It's time for Twisted Karma and His Last Bow!

Episode 2-4: Twisted Karma and His Last Bow

With Van Zieks's tragic backstory (…) exposed, it's time to head on into waters we've charted before, waaay back in the very first Ace Attorney game: The Prosecutor becomes the Defendant. It all starts off with some shenanigans which appear to have very little to do with Van Zieks (the arrival of Mikotoba and Jigoku, the Red-headed League, a missing prison warder, etc.).. Ryu does still run into Van Zieks very briefly in Stronghart's office, with Susato noting that there appears to be an awful lot of tension in the air. I expect Van Zieks is questioning that decision to leave Genshin Asogi's son in his care, but even so, he's very civil towards Stronghart. Susato also notes that Van Zieks gives Ryu a cold stare as he leaves, with Ryu wondering what he's done to earn that. This may also be a result of him being besties with Kazuma, since Van Zieks had already buried the hatchet towards Ryu for the most part. When Ryu asks about the decision to leave Kazuma in Van Zieks's care, Stronghart explains it was to best keep an eye on this 'mysterious amnesiac with no identifying papers'. Well OK then. Stronghart also explains he made Kazuma wear a mask because he didn't want to “burden Van Zieks with tiresome explanations about why he had an Eastern appearance.” … I would assume the very simple explanation is that it's because he's of Eastern descent, Stronghart. Regardless, the Lord Chief Justice has high hopes for Kazuma's future and isn't at all bothered by the fact that the guy has gone missing for a little bit.

Things take a turn later when Gina Lestrade comes barging into 221B with some pretty shocking news. Inspector Gregson was murdered. Yes, THAT Inspector Gregson. The suspect has already been arrested:

It's true that to the average civilian like Gina, Van Zieks's name is pretty much synonymous to the Reaper (of the Old Bailey). Even so, to have her outright calling him by that title adds a sort of emotional distance that's really striking. Gina explains they caught him at the scene and there were several witnesses, but Ryu thinks to himself that there's no way Van Zieks would have taken Gregson's life. So naturally, we owe it to our good pal Gregson (who actually was just coming around and being nicer to Ryu) to find the truth. Time to go have a talk with Van Zieks in prison!

… Okay that's funny. Don't worry, Barok, one day we'll all look back on this and laugh. Anyway, Van Zieks says he's in the last place on earth he'd want to be, with the last person on earth he'd want to see. And this line can easily be misinterpreted as Van Zieks saying he hates Ryu more than anyone else in the world, but what he's actually saying is that Ryu is the last person he wishes would see him in this troublesome situation. Ryu says he couldn't very well not come, but Van Zieks tells him to go home since it has nothing to do with him. Susato interjects, pointing out that Gregson has helped them out on numerous occasions and so, they're indebted to him. She pleads for Van Zieks's help with the investigation and he's silent for a moment, only to say: “There's really nothing I can tell you.” Which I suppose means he doesn't think he has anything helpful to say. Ryu asks about what Van Zieks was reading when they came in and assumes it to be a case report. Van Zieks says the Yard wouldn't share case details with a suspect (keep that one in mind) and explains it's a letter from Albert. Dear Professor Harebrayne has arrived in Germany safely! Ryu notes that Van Zieks usually never minces his words, but they seem to have less bite than usual now. No wonder, really, since he's in prison for the murder of an old friend. Van Zieks asks how much they already know about the case, so the two of them go through the facts and Van Zieks says they're well-informed. He's got nothing to add, because... Well.

Oh, this is going to be another one of those cases, huh. Susato asks what Van Zieks was doing at the crime scene in the first place, but Van Zieks points out he doesn't need to answer that, as they aren't representing him. When asked who is representing him in court, he says it'd be anyone other than Ryu. That said, he doesn't actually have any representation because of his reputation as the Reaper. Sixteen people he's prosecuted have mysteriously died and now that he's actually been apprehended for a murder, that whole Reaper ordeal is sure to be thoroughly examined.

BOY, have we got news for you! When it's pointed out that Van Zieks didn't actually have anything to do with those mysterious deaths (right???), he replies that no one wants to know the true identity of that killer more than he does, but it seems things may come to a head before he can uncover the truth. Van Zieks basically tells Ryu to leave, but being the kind-hearted gentleman that he is, Ryu offers to advocate for him in court. Van Zieks asks whether Ryu trusts him, which is a pretty fair question to ask. He's built up so many racist scumbag points and has such a bad reputation in town, it would be weird for Ryu to trust him unconditionally. Luckily, Ryu has been paying attention just as much as I have; he's heard Van Zieks speak in court and seen the way he treats people (uhh, English citizens, anyway), so he doesn't believe this 'Reaper' has it in him to take a life. Unfortunately, Ryu also has to acknowledge that feelings can't be used as evidence in court. Van Zieks considers the offer gracious, but...

“Not the police, not the judiciary... And not you Nipponese.”

One more scumbag point for putting “you Nipponese” in its own category for no reason. Either way, this man has built up such high defensive walls, you could see them from three galaxies away. Trusting no one is a pretty drastic way of living. Ryu thinks to himself that there's a chasm between the two of them that's 'just too wide and too deep'.

As a sidenote, presenting the attorney armband doesn't lead to any interesting conversation this time, but we can also present the Red-headed League advertisement! Van Zieks surmises that if it were a Black-headed League, Ryu would join without delay, which Ryu then confirms. Van Zieks says that sadly, his hair is neither black nor red. He goes into a most curious identity crisis of sorts, where he looks quite anguished as he wonders which coloured league he should join instead. There have been several debates over his hair color, actually, from lavender to purple to grey. Regardless, Susato points out that “people are troubled by the most unexpected problems at times.” It is unexpected, since Van Zieks needs neither the money nor the company that he would get from joining any such league. It's just the principle of the matter, I suppose.

Over by the crime scene in Fresno Street, Gina gets a little razzled when she suspects Ryu is thinking of defending “that Reaper bloke”. Susato points out that if “Lord van Zieks” really is responsible for the crime, he'll be judged fairly in court. This gets Gina to calm down again, because she really wants to know the truth of what happened and much like Van Zieks, she must know that getting the truth is what Ryu does best. A bit of conversation later, Gina points out one more interesting thing; Gregson apparently held a lot of respect for 'the Reaper'. “I take my hat off to that fella,” were his exact words, apparently. Ryu is skeptical, as am I, because I've seen the way Gregson talks about Van Zieks behind his back.

Gina explains that's exactly why he respected Van Zieks. That's... a little weird and ambiguous. So either he respected Van Zieks's ability to stand tall despite all the public scorn, or he respected the fear he struck into people's hearts. There's one more option; Gina keeps talking about the Reaper instead of Van Zieks, so it's possible that Gregson was talking about the actual Reaper. This seems unlikely, though, since he didn't seem to enjoy being part of the Reaper organization.

And now that we know Van Zieks is the defendant, one might be wondering: Who is the prosecutor? Who is the antagonistic force who will try to stop Ryu from uncovering the truth? Well, we find him over in Stronghart's office. Apparently he took an express train back to London from wherever it was he's been these past few days.

YOOOOUUUU!!! Though before we can address his presence properly, we need to discuss the new case. Stronghart wastes no time asking Ryu and Susato whether they've heard “the sickening news about the Reaper's latest devilry.” Which stands out, to say the least, since Stronghart has always been a strong supporter of Van Zieks up until this point. When Susato points out that surely he doesn't believe it, Stronghart says he believes only in facts, which all point to the unavoidable accusal of Lord van Zieks. Someone sure had a quick turnaround when it comes to his number one prosecutor, geez... Stronghart points out the irony that there's no salvation for anyone prosecuted by the Reaper of the Bailey, and now the Reaper himself must stand in the dock. Just as Van Zieks had already alluded to, Stronghart now claims the public will want answers about those mysterious deaths. Ryu and Susato both point out that which had been rubbed into our faces several times already; Van Zieks denies any involvement, and also there have been several investigations into whether he had anything to do with it. Stronghart kind of brushes this off, though. Turns out, Van Zieks is being traded in for a newer model number one prosecutor: Kazuma Asogi! Which seems weird at first glance, since Kazuma is a defense attorney, but Stronghart considers that a bonus:

“A devastation combination, wouldn't you agree?”

I do agree. Granted, it seems Van Zieks had already figured out the defense's strategies too, he just never actively used them to his own advantage. It also turns out that Kazuma personally requested the prosecutor position for this trial. Susato thinks it's pretty unprecedented to grant a newcomer exchange student such a request, but Stronghart offers some petty excuse about how this way, it won't look like the judiciary are closing ranks. Kazuma, who assumes his friend will take on the defense, says he'll see how Ryu's skills have been honed after practicing law in England for so many months. (Uhh. Actually, bestie, it was only about two months of being a defense attorney and six months of disbarment.) Ryu notes that Kazuma is being hostile towards him and wonders why. On a final note, when asking Stronghart about the gun found at the crime scene, we're told that it's issued to all members of law enforcement, including prosecutors. Van Zieks claims to have lost his. That's a troubling claim indeed, because it's difficult to prove or disprove. GOSH, if only fingerprints were allowed in court.

As Ryu and Susato turn to leave, Kazuma stops them. He once again states he wants Ryu to witness this trial as the defense counsel, to “see how it ends”. Since Kazuma has a very distinct vision for how he wants it to end, I guess this means he intends to confront Ryu with Van Zieks's guilt and have his bestie see that a man like him is unworthy of his trust. Either that, or he expects Ryu to use this trial to find the truth of what really happened with the Professor ten years ago, just as he used Albert's trial to dig into that incident. Still though, this reads as pretty scummy to me, because it means he wants Ryu to lose a trial and lose some of his belief in his clients. In the trial itself, it seems to me that Kazuma desperately believes Van Zieks to be a horrible person deserving of the guilty verdict. Therefore, he in no way can hold hope that Ryu will prove him wrong (unlike what went down in case 2-3 with Albert). Anyway, Ryu says that Van Zieks would never put his fate in his hands.

“... It's not easy to see behind the facade sometimes.”

Case 2-3 already told us this, but it's nice to have it confirmed by someone who was closer to Van Zieks. Because remember, Kazuma spent three months by Van Zieks's side (and even fighting by his side), so of course he would know more about his personality than we do. Kazuma hands over a photograph of Barok when he was younger and

GOOD LORD, HE CAN SMILE. Or he could when he was younger, anyway. Kazuma states the picture was displayed in Gregson's office. What he's 'trying to say' is that if Ryu really thinks he can trust “the Reaper” (distancing choice of words again), he might find that some straight talking will change his view. I got the impression we've been straight talking Van Zieks ever since we first met him, but okay. Let's take the picture and back to the gaol we go! Van Zieks is once again reading from some paper and Ryu points out that either he's an incredibly slow reader or it's an incredibly long letter, but either way, Ryu might even be able to read English faster than him. Naturally, this was said loud enough for Van Zieks to overhear.

Scumbag point for hypocrisy, but also a scumbag point for “Nipponese”. When Ryu asks whether it's still Albert's letter he's reading, Van Zieks says he had the case report brought to him in secret. So wait, the Yard does share case details with its suspect? Hilarious. Once again, Van Zieks insists the situation has nothing to do with Ryu, up until the prosecutor's name is revealed to him. And so, the masked cardboard cutout student has become the master! Ryu notes that all the color drained from Van Zieks's face, which is pretty impressive when there's barely any color there to begin with. Ryu has the opportunity now to thrust the photograph into his face, so let's do that. He's immediately alarmed, since he assumed it to be lost and would never have expected Gregson to have it. When Ryu says that Gregson had a deep respect for him, he dismisses that as nonsense, only to correct himself. “There was a time things were like that.”

Van Zieks thanks Ryu for that nice glimpse into the past, and Ryu thinks to himself that there was a glimmer in Van Zieks's eyes- a brief twinkle. He considers that “an insight into the true nature of this man known to all as the stone-cold Reaper of the Bailey”, with “the true nature” being highlighted as orange. So this right here is undeniable; this is what the narrative is illustrating to us now. The true nature of Barok van Zieks is that of someone who was hopeful and jovial; kind-hearted, as Albert knew him. What we see now, that harsh exterior full of harsh words, is not his nature at all.

Van Zieks is more willing to talk now. He once again speaks of Klint, rehashing the same story we've heard several times already. Van Zieks claims there's not a single day where he doesn't curse the name Asogi. He considers it a cruel twist of fate that the man's son intends to crucify him in 'some kangaroo court'. Clearly, he doesn't think highly of the upcoming trial if he refers to it as a kangaroo court, but that's likely because he knows he isn't the real killer. When Ryu points out that he still doesn't understand why Stronghart apprenticed Kazuma to Van Zieks, the explanation is that “it's what he does”. Van Zieks believes that Stronghart knew Kazuma's true identity from the outset, but still provides no real explanation as to why Stronghart 'did what he did' and even assigned Kazuma as the prosecutor this time. Van Zieks goes on to contemplate the name Asogi some more and calls it 'the epitome of his bane'.

I've talked before about how utterly flawed it is that Van Zieks attributes Genshin's crime to his race and/or cultural upbringing and proceeds to tar every single Japanese person with the same brush. There's no need to go into this again; we all know it's wrong. Turns out, even Van Zieks knows it's wrong, but we'll get back to that momentarily. First, Van Zieks needs to talk about Klint even more. (good lord...) He explains that Klint van Zieks was hunting down a mass murderer and “assigned to the investigation as his partner was a certain visiting student dispatched by the Yard.” This was Genshin, of course, and I believe this is the first time it's said that he too was looking into the Professor case. So Van Zieks already mentioned in the previous case that the Japanese students had left a deep impact on him, and also that he once toasted friendship with a Japanese person, but now we have this:

“But none of us saw the true nature of the man.”

True nature is once again in orange here, but this time as a red herring. Van Zieks believes that the Professor murders were Genshin's true nature, when it isn't quite true at all. Regardless, since Van Zieks was still in university at the time the exchange students were in the country, I don't think he would've had that much contact with Genshin. I expect he encountered the man on rare occasion while Klint associated most with him. Every meeting was enough to foster this respect and friendship, though, so it's clear that young Van Zieks was easily influenced and had a very open mind towards a foreign exchange student. But then, that's what makes the next portion of the story all the more damaging.

“My esteemed brother... The people I believed in... And any semblance of right prevailing over wrong!”

As Van Zieks also already alluded to in the previous case, he found himself in a very dark place. That isn't surprising. Every positive thing Van Zieks knew in his life, from his family to his closest friends, was ripped away from him in extremely close succession. What must've been the final nail in the coffin was Genshin outright admitting to his crimes. It erased all doubt that perhaps there was some sort of misunderstanding or a frame job. Going over everything Van Zieks has said so far, it seems he didn't just blame Genshin for the tremendous loss he suffered; he blamed himself. He must believe that his trust in Genshin blinded him to this supposed 'true nature', just as it must've also blinded Klint, and that the whole tragedy could've been prevented if only he'd been more cautious. So now, in present day, he no longer trusts anyone. He outright says so.

Van Zieks goes on to talk about how he was the one who prosecuted the Professor. Since he'd only just graduated, such a thing usually wouldn't be allowed, but he “beleaguered the ascribed prosecutor until he consented.” This person was Mael Stronghart, who back then was apparently still no more than a prosecutor. A highly accomplished one, but a prosecutor nonetheless. Since Klint was the Director of Prosecutions (or Chief Prosecutor???) at the time, that means he actually ranked above Stronghart. Interesting. Regardless, since Stronghart agreed to let Van Zieks lead the prosecution and instead only acted as an advisor, Van Zieks now feels indebted to him. That certainly explains why he's usually so good about following Stronghart's orders and not asking questions.

“And, of all things, as a lawyer.”

Ahhh, this is the part where Ryu enters the chronology. Our protagonist points out that he's felt Van Zieks's animosity since the first time he faced him in the courtroom; his obvious deep loathing of Japanese people. And here comes perhaps one of the most important, yet most overlooked lines Van Zieks will ever utter in these games:

“But for so many years, that hatred had festered inside me, I could no longer control it.”

So here, Van Zieks admits to two things. First of all, he admits that he was wrong to hold such deep loathing and by extension, to give that loathing a voice. He's a man of logic, after all. To cling to something which he refers to as illogical is about as wrong as one could get. Not only that, he admits that this was an unstoppable force he should have controlled, but was too weak to do so. The hatred overpowered him and did away with common sense. He behaved stupidly and irrationally because for ten years, hatred and negativity was all he knew. But what's even more striking here is Ryu's answer, which is also often overlooked:

Ryu, bless his heart, doesn't blame Van Zieks for succumbing to this weakness. Bear in mind, he's the victim here. Van Zieks wouldn't have encountered many other Japanese people in those ten years, if at all. This means the first person he lashed out against was Ryu. Naturally, Ryu can't speak for Susato or Soseki, who received their own verbal assaults and might have different opinions on the matter. Ryu is just one man, but in our narrative, he's the main protagonist and the main target of these outbursts. Is it misleading and perhaps even problematic in the grand scheme of things to have the protagonist sympathize with such motivation? Well, that depends on many different factors. There's no easy answer for this because it's a nuanced, cultural sort of thing. Personally, I was a bit bothered by it, but not to the point that it ruined the experience for me.

Van Zieks admits that just as the Japanese were the bane of his life, Kazuma Asogi must believe Van Zieks to be the bane of his. He is, after all, the Reaper who sent his father to the gallows. Van Zieks thinks that Kazuma intends to take revenge in court and... Really, this is true.

There's a quick bit of conversation about Gregson now. Turns out, the only reason the Professor was caught at all was because Gregson forced an autopsy on Klint despite it being considered the highest taboo at the time. Van Zieks says that as a result of Gregson's powerful conviction, he could avenge his brother's death. He looks quite torn, a bit pained. He must believe he owes Gregson something for this. The conversation then moves on to Van Zieks's revolver, which he claims to have misplaced an undetermined amount of time ago. “I must have stowed it somewhere, I suppose. Or left it somewhere, perhaps.” Van Zieks clearly doesn't think highly of firearms as a weapon, since he's constantly carrying a sword around instead. Susato points out that Ryu has a talent for misplacing things in common with Van Zieks, which leads to one more scumbag outburst.

… Dude. Come on. You just admitted it was illogical. You came so far! Scumbag point for you. Still, as the conversation rounds to a close, Van Zieks utters the words “Mister... Naruhodo”, much to Ryu's surprise. This is the first time he's actually said Ryu's name! Van Zieks once again reiterates that he's lost all confidence in England's judiciary system. He doesn't trust the police, the judiciary or lawyers. Even so, there's still one thing he's willing to believe in.

“That which you see in the eyes of another across the courtroom: a simple determination to know the truth. From the very first time we clashed in the Bailey almost a year ago now... I couldn't deny it, even though I dearly wished I could. 'Here is a loathsome Japanese... who has absolute integrity as a lawyer.' There are only two other men I've known with that same look in their eyes: my brother, Klint. … And Genshin Asogi.”

This is interesting. So at first when he saw that look in Ryu's eyes, he must've been reminded of Genshin. And again, this is why he directed such hatred towards Ryu; he saw someone who wasn't alive anymore. But now he recalls that Klint also had that same gaze, and so he wants to believe that Ryu is not similar to a deceitful murderer, he's instead similar to his beloved brother. (Boy is he going to have to reevaluate how he judges people when he finds out that his beloved brother was the deceitful murderer.) Van Zieks says that when he saw the photograph, he was reminded of a time when he could laugh, free of the shackles of mistrust which plague him now. This is very relevant since Van Zieks indeed can't laugh anymore. We never see him do it. He can't even smile.

“But at times the mire into which I've sunk makes it almost impossible to breathe.”

Someone please get this man to a professional therapist. If he means that in a more literal sense and he does occasionally feel like he can't breathe, that's telltale signs of panic attacks. It could just be, of course, that he's being overdramatic and the “impossible to breathe” bit is just fanciful wordplay to go with the mire analogy. Still though, considering he's also mentioned being in a dark place and that he's willing to die so long as it serves a useful purpose, and that he drinks his wine to stave off tedium... He's clearly depressed. But then, he seems to know it. He acknowledges that the way he is now is not the way things should be, and that he needs to fight to overcome it. And so:

“... In tomorrow's trial... Will you advocate for me?”

Boom. Swallowed his pride and turned to Ryu for help because he knows it's what's best for him. He no longer trusts anyone, but he's willing to trust Ryu because once he starts opening up again and has that trust repaid, then perhaps things can gradually go back to the way things were when he was younger. Mind, he still hasn't apologized for his actions, but that doesn't change that Ryu at least is willing to extend a hand to Van Zieks. It's a little sad that Susato doesn't properly form her own opinion on this and instead just goes along with whatever Ryu says. I would've liked to know just how she feels about Van Zieks's attitude and whether or not he deserves to be helped. She doesn't object to it, at least, and since Susato usually always speaks her mind, I can only assume she genuinely agrees with Ryu's sentiments.

The next day, in the defendant's lobby, it's remarked there's a 'menacing tension' in the air and Ryu surmises out loud it's the result of the menacing appearance of the defendant. Well-deserved, that remark. Touché. Van Zieks asks him for a little more courtesy in a polite enough manner, but considering the lack of courtesy he's shown Ryu over the past 8 months, that's hypocritical. He informs Ryu that this is a closed trial without a jury, which bums me out because it means no more Summation Examination. I would've liked to see Asogi react to that. (S)Holmes comes in and has the weirdest little banter with Van Zieks that I honestly can't... really decipher. There's several things about it that really strike me as being off:

- “And I you. I see London's celebrated great detective is as active as ever.”

- “Oh, you exaggerate, my dear fellow. Compared to my paltry engagements with a few trivial cases... The Reaper's overbearing presence is a far greater deterrent to the black roots of crime in our capital. And whilst I may not agree with your methods... There is at least one point on which I would readily commend you.”

- “What an honour. And that would be...?”

- “Your eye for a good lawyer, sir. […] Behind this lawyer there is a very great mind. My own.”

Alright, so... First of all, we know (S)Holmes is super arrogant and would never refer to his past cases as “trivial” in all sincerity. Plus, it's established that he's very weird with compliments, such as referring to Gregson as “the best of those blunderers of the Yard”, so complimenting Van Zieks directly on the effect he has on crime feels off. Aside from that, (S)Holmes addresses Van Zieks as the Reaper and continues to talk about 'his methods', when it's already been established (S)Holmes doesn't believe Van Zieks has anything to do with the Reaper killings. Taking all that into account, I can only really assume that the first half of this above conversation is (S)Holmes being weirdly passive aggressive towards Van Zieks, with Van Zieks being passive aggressive in turn. It really, truly feels as if there was some sort of backstory between these two that they had to scrap at the last second. Regardless, the exchange ends with (S)Holmes warning Van Zieks that this will be “quite a trial”.

Gina Lestrade shows up with Yujin Mikotoba (….. when did they meet???), saying they intend to watch the trial, and I am very impressed with how (S)Holmes manages to disappear from the scene and not say a word when his old partner arrives. Anyway, Gina looks Ryu square in the eye and asks him why he agreed to take Van Zieks on. Everyone's saying it was him who killed Gregson. Considering everyone was saying it was her who killed Pop Windibank six months ago, you'd think she might want to tone down her attitude, but she's clearly in mourning and lashing out. See? People who are hurting can say insensitive things. Ryu insists he doesn't believe it to be true, but Gina demands to know that if it wasn't him, then who?

“An' if it turns out it was 'im wot killed the boss... Then God 'elp 'im!”

It's interesting to remember that during The Unspeakable Story, Gina wasn't afraid of Van Zieks for his Reaper reputation. She didn't believe in the curse and didn't think she would end up like the other defendants. Now, she absolutely no longer gives a damn whether Van Zieks is the mysterious Reaper or not. She only thinks he might be a murderer who took away her mentor and that's what has her judge him so fiercely. Van Zieks remarks on her fiery eyes and tells her that the culprit does indeed deserve every inch of her loathing. “At least that may be some solace to the deceased.” So here, in a roundabout way, it rather looks as if Van Zieks is sympathizing with Gina's anger. At the very least, he's condoning it, just not towards himself.

Entering the courtroom, it becomes clear very fast just how serious this trial will become. Just as was alluded to before, the judge confirms that the 'Reaper of the Old Bailey' has been undermining Her Majesty's justice system and therefore, the people will demand answers on this matter. Ryu thinks to himself the trial will be a lot more far-reaching than just Gregson's murder. Sure enough, Kazuma is at the prosecutor's bench and ready to get that vengeance Van Zieks referred to in jail. Shockingly, the first witness he summons is actually Van Zieks himself. The judge is surprised, but Kazuma explains that as a prosecutor, Van Zieks believes in the oath of office he's taken; he'll be compelled to tell the truth. Because contrary to what happened in Memoirs of the Clouded Kokoro, Van Zieks is against perjury! (I WILL NEVER GET OVER WHAT HAPPENED WITH SHAMSPEARE!) Sure enough, he takes the stand and Kazuma says the court would like to hear him explain some things away.

He really is just brutally honest, isn't he? Both in his courtroom methods and in how he shows his emotions. He doesn't sugarcoat, he doesn't beat around the bush, he definitely doesn't lie... At most, he may withhold some information. Unfortunately, his testimony is mostly useless. The judge remarks that he didn't want to imagine this day would come, but ever since Van Zieks became known as the Reaper, he's been dreading it. The judge, our neutral ground, seems to be convinced that Van Zieks may have actually done the deed. That's not good. Kazuma acts all smug, saying that Van Zieks indeed hasn't explained anything away and that his testimony barely qualifies as an excuse. Van Zieks notes that his 'mute apprentice' has a way with words. Meanwhile, Ryu thinks to himself that Kazuma isn't behaving like himself, which is a sentiment they'll keep repeating throughout the case. … I gotta be honest here, I didn't notice all that much of a difference between this Kazuma and the one from the very first case of the game. I mean, come on, he sliced a man's hair off and cursed his descendants just for insulting Ryu. He's slightly more arrogant here, maybe, but since he was only the assistant there and is a leading counsel here, it makes sense for him to be more proactive and confident in his methods. Then again, I'm not a Kazuma expert; maybe there's something I'm missing.

In his testimony, Van Zieks revealed that he was investigating Gregson, but when pressed on it he won't admit the exact reason for it. He only says he'd identified a distinct possibility Gregson was involved in a case he was investigating. When asked how he even knew where Gregson would be, he openly admits to having stolen into his office and consulted his diary. (“Dear Diary, today I dropped my fish 'n chips on the way to Fresno Street-”) When told that illegally entering Gregson's office would warrant serious consequences, Van Zieks says he was aware of that risk.

The rest of the testimony is pressed without further hitches, though what did strike me as interesting is that at one point, Ryu suggests the gunshot might've originated from outside the room, but Van Zieks immediately says it's out of the question. He shoots the possibility down with evidence only he could have experienced (the bang sounded inside the room and he could smell gunpowder), and in doing so, only implicates himself further. Detrimentally honest, this one. Not only that, but he picked the gun up.

NO KIDDING that was carelessness. Is he related to Miles Edgeworth after all? Kazuma talks about how three street peddlers overheard the bang and burst through the door with some force. Van Zieks states they almost gave him a heart attack in the process (omg) and Ryu thinks to himself: “(But you're supposed to be the Reaper...)” C'mon Ryu, haven't you seen enough of this man by now to know he gets jarred easily?

When the testimony rounds to a close, things get interesting. Kazuma uses his defense attorney skills, as promised. He uses evidence from the Court Record to point out contradictions in Van Zieks's testimony, thereby 'proving he's lying'. Hey, what happened to Van Zieks believing in the oath of office and being compelled to tell the truth? Did Kazuma call Van Zieks to the stand just to expose him as a liar? He wins the judge over quite easily by illustrating these contradictions and casting doubt on Van Zieks's integrity. Tragic, because as Van Zieks says:

Van Zieks steps down from the stand and disappears for the remainder of the trial day. He doesn't even show up during intermission in the defendant's lobby. Characters do still talk about him, though!

I mean... He ain't lyin'. At one point, Kazuma utters the words “the defence is fated to lose. And the prosecution to win,” which once again confirms that Kazuma basically asked Ryu to take part in an 'unwinnable' trial. Which, y'know, is technically fine. Losing a trial isn't the end of the world, especially when the defendant (in Kazuma's eyes) is actually guilty. Still though, personally asking Ryu to take on Van Zieks just so he can watch the man be exposed as a killer is kind of... Kazuma, sir, are you also unable to control your hatred and having it lash out in illogical ways? Is that a parallel with Van Zieks I spy?

The rest of the trial isn't directly related to Van Zieks. It's just a whole bunch of roundabout arguing with street peddlers, red-headed scammers and the revelation that one of those peddlers is actually Daley Vigil, the missing former prison warder. Despite knowing of the dangers, Kazuma asks Ryu to help him forcefully break some of the man's black psyche-locks (c'mon, we all know that's what's impeding his memories) and they send the man to the hospital as a result. Welp. Unveiling the truth is becoming increasingly dangerous in this game and that's really upping the stakes for us.

Into the next investigation day we go! Ryu surmises that it's clear now “Van Zieks definitely didn't do it.” Even so, there are some unanswered questions about the man. What was he even doing at the crime scene and what's with that investigation into Gregson he didn't want to talk about in court? Heading on over to the Chief Justice's office, we overhear him pressuring Kazuma into 'continuing the trial as instructed'. Once he takes note of Ryu and the others, he tells them that he wanted Van Zieks's trial concluded that day and blames 'Asogi's unwelcome inquiries' for it taking longer than necessary. Stronghart's becoming increasingly ominous, here... I don't know for certain why he doesn't just go the extra mile to have Van Zieks proven innocent so he can keep using his Reaper tool to intimidate the masses. I suppose it's because with Gregson dead, he's lost his most important strategist in the killings and the tool of the Reaper's curse can't be used as easily anymore. Assassins probably come a dime a dozen, so Shinn can be replaced, but Gregson... Not so much. Ryu asks Stronghart whether Kazuma truly believes Van Zieks to be the Reaper, but Stronghart says he wouldn't know. He once again talks about the history of the Reaper with its very long run of coincidental deaths and tells us nothing new or interesting.

To prison we go, to visit Van Zieks himself! He's reading a book now, but we're never told what it is. He tries to ignore the visitors, but just as always, eventually comes up to the bars to talk.

YOU FREAKIN- I CAN'T- WHY- How many more times must we teach you this lesson, old man?!!! Thankfully, even Ryu is fed up at this point.

Finally. He spoke up. I've seen a lot of people criticize the fact that Ryu never properly confronts Van Zieks with the damage he's been doing, and on the one hand I would agree. Calling people out on their bullshit is a very useful step in having them notice their mistakes. However, I'd be remiss if I didn't point out that is also a very Western view. It's very easy for us to think that Ryu should stand up for himself and call Van Zieks a prejudiced little tosser who needs to think before he speaks, but that simply isn't part of his character. There may be several reasons to explain why he doesn't confront Van Zieks more firmly, but I'd like to focus on just two. The first is that Ryu is an exchange student who came to England as a 'guest' and is facing not just one racist. Not even five or ten. Everywhere he goes, he's surrounded by people just like Van Zieks. We've seen it in the judge, we've seen it in the jurors, we've seen it in Gregson and in witnesses... Ryu is a minority in a very literal sense, since there's only one other Japanese person (two if we count Soseki) we know of in this entire city. There's a very natural, very understandable defense mechanism which may kick in when surrounded by potentially dangerous individuals, and that is to withdraw; to be as quiet as possible and to attract as little trouble as possible, since 'they outnumber you'. Bonus points for the extreme difference in social standing between Ryu and Van Zieks.

There's one other thing which adds to the above. Ryu was written to be your everyday Japanese person, and their view on confrontation is quite different from our own. I remembered this from a job interview I once had with a Japanese company and looked into it again to refresh my memory: Japanese people are non-confrontational. It's very important for them to maintain a sort of harmony during conversation and therefore, they'll rarely utter negative sentiments, such as criticism, in a way that will cause embarrassment to the person they're addressing. Instead, they employ something often referred to as indirect communication. “The pattern of Japanese indirect communication uses far less words to convey intent in a more subtle manner. Indirect communication uses expression, posture, and tone of voice of the speaker to draw meaning from the actual conversation.” This is very deeply ingrained into the Japanese culture and, if the sources I reviewed are correct, it goes all the way back to the feudal days. Mind, this attitude isn't even limited to Japan. I've been told there's several other countries who adopt that very same attitude and if you cause someone else to lose face, it can have some very severe repercussions for you. Kazuma is a bit more outspoken than Ryu, for example when they face Jezail, but this makes sense also, since Asogi was written to be more progressive. It seems to me that Ryu has been using indirect communication quite often already and, since Van Zieks is woefully unequipped to read this type of communication, Ryu has now finally resorted to something more direct. It's still not a sharp call-out, but rather, the above line reads to me as something in-between direct and indirect communication. And it works.

HELL FROZE OVER! We've done it, lads! Or, as Iris puts it:

So even the rest of the cast is acknowledging this is a big deal and we've made tremendous progress. Could someone else have confronted Van Zieks in a more direct, more Western way before this point? Sure. But would he have listened? The judge has already snarked at him several times during trials and it's always been brushed off as nothing. The only person he might've listened to would've been Albert, but what is the narrative significance of having a side character confront Van Zieks? There isn't one. This was a very impactful moment where Ryu himself resorted to a more Western tactic to get his point across and Van Zieks, in turn, finally uttered an apology. So now we get to have an earnest conversation with the man at last. Van Zieks says he was impressed; not by Ryu but by Kazuma. On first glance, this seems like a mean thing to say, but... Van Zieks is already intimately familiar with Ryu's performance in the courtroom. Why would he still be impressed by that? Kazuma, however, he's never seen in action before. Van Zieks thinks it's all rather “sardonic”.

It's called a cruel irony, Barok. A common tool in storytelling. He himself considers it “retribution for having played the part of the Reaper all these years”. So once again it's discussed how the Reaper minimizes the amount of crime in the capital and since that's a goal Van Zieks is committed to, he never said anything to disprove the rumors. Ryu insists that someone else is profiting off Van Zieks's silence on the matter and is basically using him as a scapegoat. As it turns out, Van Zieks wasn't quite as passive about the matter as he's led us to believe.

Hm. Alright, so he thinks it's good the Reaper's curse is reducing crime in London, but clearly he wants the Reaper organization brought to justice. In a way, he's profiting off these 'accidental deaths' since the fear that comes from them aligns with his goal of crime reduction, but he doesn't actively condone the Reaper murders and wants them halted. Since there's so much accurate information about the accused used in the killings, Van Zieks surmised a while ago that someone from Scotland Yard must've been involved in the killings. It's taken him “many years” to identify the central figure in the organization: Tobias Gregson. Naturally, everyone is shocked. We knew Gregson! And sure, he wasn't exactly a kind person, but he certainly didn't appear to be a killer. He was very rough around the edges, but from what we'd been led to believe, he had a good heart. … A decent heart. Mediocre, one might say. Ryu asks whether the reason Van Zieks was investigating Gregson was to expose him as the Reaper, but Van Zieks repeats the notion that the Reaper is not a single person. He doesn't have a doubt, though, that Gregson was a key member of the organization who did all of the planning. Believe it or not, Gregson was the brains behind the killings; the tactician who investigated and plotted, then left the dirty work to an assassin by the name of Asa Shinn. (LOCALIZATION WHY)

So now that we have this information, we can come to a very interesting conclusion. Both Gregson and Shinn are dead now, so by Van Zieks's reasoning, the Reaper is dead. You'd think this is good, but it does in fact make it very difficult to find the truth. Rather, Van Zieks believes that the truth died with Gregson (he hinted as much twice already) and while the seasoned Ace Attorney player knows it won't be impossible to expose a dead person as a killer, it'd be a hectic ordeal. The seasoned Great Ace Attorney player will know the Reaper hierarchy extends just a bit higher and the two who died are only pawns, but... Y'know. Approaching this from a first-time-player point of view, you'll know things will get troublesome.

There's another topic of conversation where Van Zieks once again addresses how sharp Kazuma is in court. He didn't miss a thing.

OUCH. So when Ryu first arrived, Van Zieks saw Genshin whenever he looked at him, not only due to his roots but due to 'the look in his eyes when searching for the truth'. Now, he sees Genshin in Kazuma, which surely makes a lot more sense. Van Zieks goes on to say that it's true some of the aristocracy from 10 years ago were problematic and abusing their power. “In a way, Asogi was carving out a canker from society that we British couldn't deal with ourselves.” So here, he sounds almost complimentary of the Professor's actions- specifically Asogi's actions. As if it would've all been well and good, were it not for the Professor's final victim. “But that's precisely why it makes no sense. Klint van Zieks was a noble and upstanding man. He wasn't corrupt.”

Remember way back in The Unspeakable Story when I surmised that Van Zieks boiled Genshin's actions down to his race in order to avoid the belief that there might've been a reason his brother was killed? We see it here again. Van Zieks is in doubt. He may say vocally that “it makes no sense”, but that line in itself is already telling. The fact that he acknowledges it and draws it into question implies to us that he's skeptical of the story. Deep down, he knows something is amiss. He knows there's some sort of explanation he's missing, but if he were to dig too deeply into it, he'd have to acknowledge that perhaps his brother was corrupt. And this still isn't all of it. There's one more thing Van Zieks has to discuss before we can round this conversation to a close. Ten years ago, shortly after Klint died, Genshin saved his life.

There's that phrasing again. “True nature”. It's not in orange this time, but it's there all the same. Van Zieks is convinced that Genshin is the one who had a hidden true nature. In this story, we learn that 'the scum of London' had already targeted him several times even before he became known as the Reaper, simply because of who he was and who his brother was. JEESH. Harsh. So on the night in question, a couple of thugs also tried to kill him (allegedly) but Genshin stepped in to protect him. Genshin became lightly wounded as a result. This is the part where I would have expected them to explain Van Zieks's scars, but he never mentions being wounded himself, so we can't be sure this is when it happened. Curious. This was the perfect opportunity and they let it slide. So anyway, two days after that incident, Genshin was arrested.

Some more telling lines here. Van Zieks thinks he'd never recount the story to anyone; not because there's no need to tell it. It's because it must be difficult to talk about. On its own, that might be a farfetched conclusion I wouldn't make, but Ryu confirms it with his follow-up line: “Thank you... for confiding in me.” We can take this line to mean exactly what it says; Van Zieks confided something painful. He let down some more walls. Growth!

So with all this out of the way, there's a whole load more investigation to do before this case is over. Most of it has to do with Genshin's will, a mysterious trunk belonging to Gregson, the missing time of death on the autopsy report... Nothing too relevant to Van Zieks's character. However, if we go into the prosecutor's office and examine things while Kazuma is there, we do get some fun tidbits about how Van Zieks wouldn't trust anyone else to touch his things and would rearrange it all himself whenever needed. From the sound of it, Van Zieks is very meticulous and a loner, which aligns with what we know about him. Some more conversation later, we reach the topic of the Reaper with Kazuma. He agrees that Gregson was definitely involved in the Reaper organization, but there's one thing that's more important. “Who's been giving orders to the Inspector?” In my eyes, it's a bit of a stretch to assume with certainty anyone was giving orders; Gregson might've just taken up the vigilante justice by himself and found some way to pay Shinn enough money to get in on it. Kazuma insists, though, that Van Zieks is 'the real Reaper'. We as the audience already know that's nonsense, we know Kazuma is wrong. Or perhaps we might think that if somehow Van Zieks pulled the wool over our eyes and Kazuma is correct, that'd be one heck of a wild twist. Kazuma gives no real reason why he believes this, he only goes on to say that ten years ago, it was Van Zieks who 'decided his father must be a mass murderer'. Shockingly, Susato is the one to jump in here and outright say to Kazuma that he's wrong; that Van Zieks only saw that 'justice was done as the law dictates' and he wasn't to blame for Genshin's execution. Kazuma insists that people condemn people and the law is just a tool they use for it. So I suppose that's exactly what he's doing right now. He's condemning Van Zieks, just as Van Zieks once condemned Genshin. We're cycling! And my main question now is this: If Stronghart had been the prosecutor in the Professor's trial instead, would Kazuma be just as vengeful towards him? Because remember, it's people who condemn people. This implies that anyone who had taken on the job of prosecutor at that time is the one who 'decided that Genshin must've been a murderer' and would need to take responsibility in Kazuma's eyes. Kazuma's beef isn't with Van Zieks personally, it's with the prosecutor who used that tool of the law and also evidence.

HAHAHAAA! HAH! If you align this screenshot next to the “Klint van Zieks was a noble and upstanding man” line, you get a wonderful parallel. These two prosecutors are both dead wrong about their beloved family, and they're about to find out in the worst way possible.

One murder mystery spread out over two episodes? You bet! Stay tuned for the last case, The Resolve of Ryunosuke Naruhodo!

[cooliogirl101]

They're in the middle of a jigsaw puzzle when Sayuri suddenly goes still. Ichigo is the first to notice.

"Sayuri?" He asks cautiously. "Is something wrong?"

"What's going on?" Karin asks sharply, looking between the two of them. Next to her, Yuzu bites her lip worriedly as she takes in Sayuri's blank expression.

"No. I just--" She lets out a slightly shaky exhale, which is so uncharacteristic of his normally unflappable mentor that Ichigo can't help but straighten up. "I didn't expect him, of all people, to come." There's a look in her eyes that Ichigo's never seen before, that he can't quite decipher. "He must be quite curious to show up himself. That, or he's more bored than usual."

"Who?" Ichigo asks. She glances at him.

"No one you need to worry about just yet," she says calmly. "Ichigo, why don't you take your sisters and head over to Tatsuki's house? I'll be with you shortly, I just need to take care of something first."

"Wait, what?" Karin demands. "Sayuri, what's going on? Look, if it's someone dangerous, we can help. You've been teaching us about the shinigami world and you've been training us for the past six years, we were able to take care of that hollow last month by ourselves, without that shinigami's help-- we know how to fight and defend ourselves and we're not gonna leave you behind!"

"You won't be leaving me behind, you'll be helping me. Your presence would only be a distraction," Sayuri murmurs before glancing at Ichigo. "There isn't much time. Ichigo, Tatsuki's house. Keep your spiritual energy suppressed, the way I taught you."

He looks at her for a long moment.

"You'll be fine?" He asks finally. She nods.

"I promise," she says. "Keep them safe."

Ichigo's mouth quirks up slightly.

"Always," he replies, grasping Karin and Yuzu's hands. "I'll see you later, sensei."

~~

"You're late."

Sousuke pauses, looking up to glimpse a woman sitting on a nearby roof. She's clothed in white, dark brown hair twisted up into an elegant knot, a zanpakuto at her side. A shinigami, then-- just as he'd suspected.

"I've been broadcasting my spiritual energy for the past ten minutes," she says. "Does it always take so long for a shinigami captain and lieutenant to find their way?"

"My apologies for keeping you waiting. That was rude of us," he says, faintly amused at the stranger's attitude despite himself. "You know who we are then?"

"A bit obvious, with the uniform," she replies, hopping down. "What's less obvious is why you're here."

"We heard reports that an unknown shinigami had settled in Karakura Town," Hinamori says, speaking up. "We came to see if that was true."

"Any unseated officer could have confirmed that," the woman replies. "It doesn't explain why the Gotei 13 sent a captain and a lieutenant to investigate."

"The Gotei 13 takes matters of rogue shinigami very seriously," Hinamori says, straightening up. "How did you get that zanpakuto?"

"The same way you did. I was given it." The woman tilts her head to the side. "The Gotei 13 isn't as good at keeping track of its former members as you might think, little lieutenant." Her gaze flickers to Sousuke. "Your captain should know that, even if you don't."

Hinamori's expression tightens at the subtle hint of scorn in the other woman's voice.

"Zanpakuto belong to members of the Gotei 13 only," she snaps. "If you are no longer a member of the Gotei 13-- if you ever were-- then you have no right to it."

"Now, now, Hinamori. We're not here to pick fights," Sousuke says quietly, even as he keeps his eyes on the stranger. This woman, whoever she was, knew a startling amount of information. An alarming amount, even. "The other reason we're here is that we heard that a former high-ranking member of the Gotei 13 had been sighted here. That he had settled down with a human woman and that there were children involved." Sousuke smiles genially. "I don't suppose you could help us out with that? The product of a human and a shinigami...they could be putting everyone around them in danger, even if unintentionally. Their very existence would draw hollows to this town in droves."

"I'm sure if you help us out, the Gotei 13 would be willing to take you back," Hinamori adds earnestly, relaxing slightly at the sound of Sousuke's voice. "We could work something out, make a deal. You must know something about them, they're children, they can't possibly control their spiritual energy that well yet. In fact," she says, turning around. "I think I sense some--"

She never gets to finish the rest of her sentence.

Sousuke automatically reaches out to catch Hinamori as she stumbles, hands pressed to the gaping wound in her throat. The stranger watches detachedly as Hinamori gasps and struggles to breathe, the bright crimson coating her fingertips the only sign she'd moved at all.

"Her wound isn't fatal," the stranger says calmly. Her sword rests at her side, still unsheathed. "It doesn't have to be, anyway. Not if she gets to medical attention in time."

Sousuke looks at her, eyes bright.

"Who are you?" He asks softly. In the background, Hinamori gurgles, tears streaming down her face as she tries desperately to stem the flow of blood. He ignores her.

The stranger simply smiles in response.

"I'll make you an offer. You can stay and ask me all the questions you like-- I'll even give you some answers."

"C-Captain--" Sousuke doesn't even twitch as he feels wet fingers brush weakly against his face, gaze still fixated on the figure in front of him. "C-Captain, please--"

"But that would mean staying," she says softly. "And with every second you remain here, your lieutenant's chances of surviving grow smaller." The stranger's smile turns faintly mocking. "Choose carefully. After all, the great Captain Aizen the shinigami world knows and loves wouldn't let his subordinate die choking on her own blood, would he?"

Sousuke's jaw clenches for the briefest moment. Then he steps back, unsheathing Kyouka Suigetsu to unlock the Senkaimon.

Just before he steps through, he pauses.

"What's your name?" He asks, even as Hinamori's breathing grows quieter. The stranger looks at him, expression unreadable, and something about her eyes-- he could swear he's seen those eyes before.

"Sayuri," she says. "My name is Sayuri."

She turns around.

"The next time you come find me, wear your real face, will you?"

(A few reasons she attacked Hinamori: 1. no one sends someone of captain and lieutenant level for "just a friendly talk" and 2. when Sousuke said "we're not here to pick fights," he was lying. Yes, she's well aware that by attacking a lieutenant, she more or less declared war on the Gotei 13 but a. this has the benefit of shifting the attention off Ichigo and his family, b. it buys her some time while Sousuke takes Momo back to heal, and c. she really, really didn't feel like facing Sousuke in a real fight just then, and this was a relatively easy way to avoid it.)

[eppysboys]

I think Paul stans hate Stu because Stu was just as mean back but never got called out for it

Well, that's incredibly misguided of them!

First of all........this idea that Stuart was 'just as mean' comes from fans pointing at three sources* in partiuclar and drawing conclusions to soothe their own anxieties about Paul not being perfect. This is not a case, from my point of view, of two people bullying each other in equal mesaure, whatever that means. Yeah, it sucks Paul gets all the bad press for picking on him and being jealous when George was jealous and John + George were cruel to Stuart too. I'm not denying that, I'm not trying to make Paul a villain. I just object to the weird /need/ to make sure Paul comes across as clean and shiny as possible and take some quotes and twist them into a case for a Stuart Sutcliffe that 'was just as mean'.

Consider that just about everyone Stuart knew would use the word 'gentle' to describe him - never one to initiate a fight. But he would stand up for himself at times, and good on him. So maybe, just maybe, he got fed up with John's friends picking on him constantly with jealous jabs and snapped back? Just a thought?

*First source is the money thing. Something Paul never mentioned himself (maybe understandably worried about the unfair 'stingy' label he's gotten by some people). The money quote was in the context of borrowing packets of cigarettes, but we don't know how much money Stuart and John were borrowing to wind up Paul. Stuart had spit out the silver spoon and was not recieving welfare because he had entered art school too young to be eligble and wasn't recieving help from his mother, it seems. I understand that's not how inter-class tensions work, but you know.

Second is Stuart refusing to let Paul and Dot stay over at Astrid's place and having an intense outburst in the aftermath of Paul and Stuart's fight on stage.

"Dot must have sensed things were coming to a head, because the next night, while she and Cynthia were “dollying up” at Astrid’s house, the phone rang. It was Stuart, convulsed by a white rage, sounding completely irrational. When he learned that Dot was there, “he insisted that Astrid toss me out,” Dot recalls. Astrid calmed him down enough to determine what had happened: Paul and Stuart had finally had it out, not in private but onstage in the middle of a set, in full view of an astonished German audience."

I don't excuse Stuart's cruel and mean side. I'm just cautious and sympathetic because I remember that in the lead up to that fight was the start of Stuart's health problems (headaches, weight loss, nausea attacks, exhaustion, indigestion) that were causing great frustration and pain for him and would lead to 'uncharacteristic anger flare ups and paranoia' + Paul and George had upped their game and were treating Stuart especially poorly since he had come back from Hamburg and rejoined the band + Paul had been taunting him with certain words about Astrid, someone he loved and cared about most of all + other personal stressors + all the shit we don't know.

*Third is the from the same source above, (presumably it's Dot) saying Stuart 'flaunted [his friendship with John]. Time and again, he put it under Paul’s nose and gave it a scornful swish.'

So that's it, from what I've seen, is the case for Stuart being 'just as mean'......... compared to mountains of first hand sources outlining a situation where a gentle, passive young man is teased and picked on and tries to retaliate despite being outnumbered and outsized and his efforts to be a good friend to these people.

He died at 21 before he could have the opportunity to reflect on his behaviour like Paul did. How biographers frame their relationship is not his fault and not his doing. If you don't want the Stuart vs Paul thing to be a bigger deal than it is, then have compassion for both of them and don't pick sides! They were boys!

I understand wanting to analyse how biographers talk about this and apply context and stand up for Paul where it is deserved, but I've seen wild takes that are clearly a product of anxiety about how Paul is framed and the need for everything to always be everyone else's fault and never his.

[kiara-pendragon]

Ahamkara

“Why the Ahamkara, you ask?” The Exo Warlock was cleaning the barrel of her Sacred Provenance when she was asked this question. “Honestly, it’s kind of a long story. Let’s just say, she has granted me a certain amount of immunity to Savathûn’s machinations.”

It was evening in the Annex, and she was talking with an ally from House Light. The Eliksni Captain was watching the Traveler. “Still is confusing.” She chittered like a bug. “Ahamkara feed on desire, twist your wishes to suit their needs.”

“That is correct.” The exo sighed, looking to Trinity, her ghost. The Ghost Shell was the Ahamkara’s skull. “I would lie if I didn’t say that Fenrir tried to take advantage of things in the start, but we eventually reached an understanding.”

“So why did you continue?” The Eliksni chittered.

“Because she needs me.” She looked down the barrel of her pulse rifle, inspecting it. “And the benefits to myself and the City outweigh the issues in the beginning.” She chuckled, putting the pulse rifle away and taking out her Null Composure. “You know how it is, Pheriks. I do what I do for the Last City, and all who live under the Traveler’s Light. And I am willing to do anything to keep my people safe.”

“What about the Vanguard?” Pheriks looked to her as she worked. “The Praxic Order?”

The Exo laughed. “Oh I’m certainly way up there on Aunor’s naughty list, but I know Ikora told her to leave me alone.” She uncovered the capacitors in the fusion rifle, inspecting them one after another. “Power only corrupts those seeking power for power’s sake.”

“I hope you know what you’re doing, Shep-13.” Pheriks nodded standing up and stretching as she took out her modified scorch cannon. “Misraaks worry whenever you guardians meddle with forces you don’t understand.”

“I know. Tell him he doesn’t have to worry.” Shep closed the capacitor bay again, putting the Null Composure away. “I understand his worry, and I have seen what happens to those who go too far.”

Pheriks bowed. “Then I wish you well, Ally of Light.” She activated a transmat, and with that she was gone.

Shep-13 stretched, taking on her helmet again. “Let’s get back to work too, Trinity. Heard the Scorn were harassing people on the Shore again.” She nodded to her Ghost. “Shall we get going?”

“Very well, O Guardian Mine.” The Ahamkara Skull spoke.

“Let’s get going.” Trinity chirped cheerfully. “Transmat firin’” She spoke, mimicking the Drifter’s tone. And with that they were gone too, already on their way towards the Tangled Shore.

[sh1tbird-shantytown]

original post/idea came from @memes-saved-me

and thank you for encouraging me to write it! i had lots of fun <3

———

Steve Harrington’s parents weren’t around often. People knew that, they were aware. Now, they weren’t home much, yes, but they weren’t not home enough for it to be a worrying case of neglect. They still called in, had the neighbor keep tabs, and came home at least three times a month.

When you asked Steve about his family he’d simply shrug his shoulders and tell you that his father had a firm in the city. When someone asked Mr. and Mrs. Harrington about their son they’d wave a hand and mention how ‘he’s just on his way to graduating’ and then change the subject. Was Steve Harrington the perfect son? Maybe not. Were the senior Harrington’s good parents to begin with? Debatable. But they had something close to functional. They digress.

And so, as children who didn’t have prominent leaders in their life usually turn out, Steve was a lost cause when it came to actually living on his own. He had the money for food and his parents kept up with the bills. But he was horrendous when it came to actually keeping the house up to shape.

Until he had to figure it out to save his own ass.

The first instance was messy.

His first party had been wild. Junior year. Half his grade and then some had shown up. He’d gone all out. The long, fancy dining table had been loaded with foods all fatty and desirable. Kegs had been placed outside for peoples free flow. The expensive stereo which had been installed that spring blasted music from a collection of mixtapes. And by the end of the night, the party had been raging. Raging as in fights broke out, people got reckless, everyone started getting destructive.

That was when Steve regretted not having a plan, he was too sober to just let it go and deal with it in the morning. He knew that wasn’t a good idea. Multiple things happened all at once. Someone dragged a keg in from the backyard, too drunk to find the strength to carry it. And apparently too deaf to hear it scratch up the maple wood floorboards. Then, two seniors bashed their heads into the wall. Successfully denting two very noticeable holes in the drywall. But, oh, that wasn’t all the destruction. Some junior (Steve vaguely registered his name as Jake) was thrown into the wall, actively also breaking a shelf there too.

He had turned off the music and then clanged pots together to get them all out. It worked. A little surprisingly.

And then he’d been left with a damaged house to deal with.

He picked up all the litter both indoors and outdoors, put the little leftover food into the fridge, vacuumed, and then went to bed in exhaustion.

===

The next day he’d then been overwhelmed with many worries over the destruction caused to his home. He was just thankful it had been Saturday. He had the weekend to figure this shit out. He went around the house and made a list of everything that needed repair.

1.) The floor

2.) The holes in the walls

3.) That shelf (REPLACEMENT)

4.) The table

Oh yes, the table. His family’s long, fancy table had an abundant number of scratches engraved into it. Something no amount of waxing could fix.

His first thought was to look for all the tools his prestigious father had to offer. So, he looked everywhere. The basement, the attic, the closets, the offices, the shed. And he did find some. A hammer, two screwdrivers with different points, a tape measure, a wrench, a measuring level, and exactly 28 screws. But even that wasn’t enough and he knew. Next stop was the local hardware store.

Mr. Jimmy was the local handyman and he was nice enough to everyone. But not so much to the Harrington’s.

“What’re you doing here, boy? You know, son,” Jimmy’s neglected beard rustled when he spoke and his shop smelled of anchovies and cheese doodles. “I used to know yer Mama. Back in the day. She was a purdy thing, that woman.” He sighed something fond, “I miss that there woman. She’s not the same. Barely see her nowadays.” Steve was used to Mr. Jimmy’s delays, wasn’t subsided too much.

“Hey, Mr. Jimmy,” he stepped through the threshold of the old shop. “I’m looking for some tools today. Think you could help me?”

Mr. Jimmy regarded him with squinted eyes, “You using yer Daddy’s money?”

Steve blinked, “Yeah?” Mr. Jimmy folded his arms impassively. He had obvious tan lines that peaked out through his sleeveless shirt. Skin red over age.

“I don’t want no money from that bastard’s account!”

“But—“

“I’ll have none of it,” the bulky man stepped forward and Steve’s back hit the cold glass door.

“But, Mr. Jimmy, you’d be taking from him. Wouldn’t that be better than just letting him keep all that money for himself?” Steve reasoned. Adding the suggestive and innocent lilt to his tone, worked his bystander charm.

The scornful eyes grew with joy, “Why—“ he laughed suddenly, loud and invasive just as he was. “You’re a rotten little junior, aren’t yeh!” he galloped over to his counter with the same joyous lilt. Steve stood still in case the man swerved into another decision. He watched as Mr. Jimmy himself walked around his shelves, searching. “What kinda stuff you lookin for anyways?”

Steve struggled to find his voice, “Er- Uhm- Hah. W—Well I have to replace some wood flooring, fix a scratched table, replace a shelf, and patch up some holes in the wall?” He received a raised eyebrow before the man started hurriedly piling supplies throughout the shop into the counter by the cash register. Steve didn’t even want to think about how much it would cost. Although, if he thought about it, replacing everything and then paying someone else to do it all was probably more of a hole. Sure, the emergency cash that had added up over time would be gone, but at least he wouldn’t be disowned for the ruined furniture.

“That’ll be $78.75,” Mr. Jimmy pressed some buttons and Steve startled a little when the loud clang of it opening echoed. He pulled out his wallet anyway and dug around for the cash. He handed over four twenties only a smidge reluctantly.

Mr. Jimmy was giddy at least, “This here money will do me some good,” he nodded to himself as he stored the greens away and started packing the supplies in tightly within big paper bags.

“I’m sure my father will miss it,” Steve fibbed, “Keep the change.” And carried the three hefty loads up and out the door.

===

He had Queen playing the speakers and a crow bar in hand. What he was supposed to do now that he supposedly had all of the materials was a toss up to him. But he had to try.

He got down on all fours and began prying between the first ruined board and one of the unscarred ones. It lifted with a creak and he watched it carefully as he moved the bar up and down repeatedly. At one point it didn’t peel off any more and so he went side to side with it. Still nothing. He tried to push forward but there was too much resistance.

“What the hell? Come on you pathetic piece of wood!” he muttered exasperatedly. He pulled back a little and then slammed the bar back under the board. There was a sharp snapping sound that made him freeze. But the board was unstuck. And, oh would you look at that. He was unceremoniously proud. The floor board popped off. He saw that there was some dried up white lines underneath. He decided that it looked like that stuff in the bottle labeled ‘liquid nail’ and placed the board to the side.

He spent the rest of the late morning tearing up floorboards. By the time a late lunch break was approaching, he had accomplished removing all the damaged floor. He went into the kitchen to wash his hands quick before calling for a pizza when he realized the water accumulation in the sink. And it wouldn’t go down.

“Okay!” he cried in frustration, “What the actual hell now?” He got down again and opened the cupboard doors to the pipes coming down from the sink. There were steel pipes that started from the sink and curved around down into the bottom of the cabinet. There were rings that Steve assumed connected them. So to see what was backing up the sink he’d have to unscrew a couple. Right? He got up and dusted his pants off (a lost cause by this point) and went over to the pile of tools by the front door.

He grabbed a wrench, or at least what looked like one the plumber had used when he’d visited once or twice when Steve was a kid. It took him a minute but he finally loosened the mouth of it and fitted the groves over the ring of the pipe. He twisted and some water started dropping down. It started making a puddle so he hurried and grabbed a pot, placing it right underneath. He twisted again and again and again.

He sputtered as some sprayed into his face, “Awe hell! Disgusting!” but he kept twisting anyway.

Eventually it came off. But the water was quickly overflowing. Not to mention rancid. He yelped in shock and ran all around the kitchen trying to find more bowls. He found one, a china bowl that was his mother’s great aunt’s. He yelled out as he saw the grey water streaming down onto the kitchen floor at that point. He ran back and held the fancy ceramic serving bowl up to the open pipe. He sighed in relief as it worked and when it stopped, finally, just barely brimming the bowl, he saw tons of little pieces of orange.

“Who the hell put orange peels in my sink?” he muttered as he carefully waddled out to the back yard. It was cold out and he didn’t have shoes nor socks on. He jogged on his toes all the way back to the tree line and tossed the gross contents into the bushes there. He ran back shivering with a tight hold onto the rim of the china bowl. When inside he set it on the counter and fluttered about gathering towels. He mopped up the rest of the water mess and went to turn on the sink to check his work.

“Wait!” he jumped down in panic just as he turned the water on and off in the same second. The water inevitably dripped down through the open pipe but it was only a little. He leaned his head tiredly against the open cupboard door, face sweaty and hairline damp. He took the wrench and attached the rings back on snugly. Then, he turned the water on with a quick flick at the knob. He laughed happily as nothing leaked and the water trickled down without blockage. He leaned back against the counter and panted as the slight adrenaline rush flowed away.

===

Some time later he figured that he should probably work on the holes in the wall. He had some sort of paper roll made of one thick strip and a big bucket of smooth and pale mud textured stuff. He took the wide spatula thing that Mr. Jimmy had instructed of him to use and stared at the two dents in the white accent wall.

“Ummm,” Steve looked from his full hands, roll of paper stuff around his wrist and mud bucket in one and the spatula in the other. “Well what the hell do I do now?” he asked himself. He could really use Mr. Jimmy’s insight right now. Or Tommy. Tommy knew this stuff his uncle was one of the local handymen. But Tommy had also been the one to drag the keg in so maybe not him. He stepped up to the biggest of the damages and pulled off a piece of the thick paper. He held it up to the wall and blocked off the hole.

“Oh!” he realized excitedly, “I see,” Steve nodded to himself proudly and crouched to set the bucket on the floor. He stuck the spatula in and took some up with it. “Like paste,” he mumbled to himself and started smoothing the mud stuff on one side of the tape strip he’d measured out. He grinned and stuck it to the wall over the hole so that the top and bottom connected to the uncracked wall. He did that same thing until the whole hole was patched up. He looked at the pale ‘paste’ and looked back at the wall thoughtfully.

He started, then, to slather more joint compound (he’d finally read the bucket) on top of the tape (he had also then remembered the rushed instructions Mr. Jimmy had thrown out). He smoothed it out tediously and left it be to repeat on the other hole. When he’d finished with that task he found his arms and pants speckled with clumps of dried and crumbly spackle. Steve didn’t think it would be this messy. He picked it off his arms as he walked back to the upturned floor. He winced as the dried beads pulled at his arm hair.

Now, to get the new flooring in, Steve grabbed the hammer and the cylinder with the glue stuff. He really had no clue what it was supposed to be. But he did have an idea of what he had to do. So, he laid out all the new flooring, which he was happy to note was just about a perfect match to the old floor, and started patching the right lengths in place. When he had the puzzle figured out he stared at the tube thoughtfully. He scratched at the tip to see if it would give and when it didn’t he went to the kitchen for scissors.

He snipped off the cap and held it upright as he ran back to his station. Steve turned over one of the boards and pushed in the bottom to get the contents out. Which proved more difficult than he’d hoped. A spurt squirted out but then it stopped.

“Okay,” he sighed defeatedly, “What the fuck?” he set it down and went back to his pile of hardware supplies. There was an odd contraption that did have a base with the same diameter of the cylinder canister. He shrugged a grabbed it, “Worth a try.” He fitted it in and adjusted it so it looked somewhat how he assumed it should. He set the point on the board plank and pulled the trigger a few slow times until the glue came out. He laughed a loud ‘AH-HA’ and swirled it around. He flipped it over after setting down the canister and contraption and fitted and locked it in as best he could with the hammer. Sure, there was about two dents because he hit it a little bit too hard. But it was in and he only had five more boards to fit in. He felt happy enough.

Throughout the rest of the installment he had managed to not get the ‘liquid nail’ on his hands and there weren’t any too obvious dents in the floor, nor anymore scratches. He went back to his list to cross things out and check his progress.

1.) The floor

2.) The holes in the walls

3.) That shelf (REPLACEMENT)

4.) The table

He knew he had to use that block thing to sand down the dried compound. and then he had to repaint the wall white. But that would be simple. The shelf though, that was something else. He had seven wood planks that Mr. Jimmy had cut down for him already. He just had to screw them together and sand them down. Mr. Jimmy had said something about stain or wax but Steve waved it off, the only thing that went on the old shelf was little boxes that held his great great great grandmother’s spoon collection (something he had stored away before his party).

He went outside to the patio with the small hand drill, the 3x4’s, and the thin screws that he’d bought from the store. He sat criss-cross on the concrete and set up the little shelf. It took fifty six minutes and a couple minor slivers and scrapes, but he had the shelf put together with the screws just barely noticeable. He inspected the wood and decided that it was fine as it was. A close enough replica. He went back inside with it, not bothering to sand all the little nooks, and placed it against the wall experimentally. If he put it down a little the holes from before would be concealed just fine.

He drew two little lines with a pencil down the line where the original screws had been. He knew he needed a post to screw into, that the drywall wouldn’t hold. See? He was learning. He lined up the backing plank and placed the level on top, shifting the shelf just so the bubble was in the middle of the lines. He then drilled a screw through it and into the wall. Before he let it go he drilled in the second with some struggle since the he kept loosing balance. But eventually, it was in the wall. His arms were sore and he felt a headache coming on but he had the new shelf up and if his mother was kind enough to not go inspecting it, it would pass just fine. He laughed victoriously and skipped a little around joyously. He was almost done.

“Just a few more things, just a couple,” he consoled his aching limbs. Drills were hefty little things and reminded him of those wild horses in movies that always tried to buck the cowboys off. He groaned a little as he spotted the mess of a table on his way to grab a snack.

He turned his nose to the visual reminder, “I’ll be back to deal with you,” he grumbled. “I need a damn Jell-O cup.”

===

It was actually the next day that he finally got to it. His parents would be back home Monday and he still had a few things left to do. So much for an easygoing weekend. Tommy had called that morning and asked him to go with him to a neighborhood baseball scrimmage, but he’d said he was busy and hung up. He had been mid-sanding down the dining table. And after three hours of perfecting and perfecting it all again. After so much time getting sore and sweaty and coughing from dust. The table was finally flat and there was no more sign of scratches. He got the cloth that Mr. Jimmy had thrown at his face the day before and opened the strong chemically smelling can. He gagged but dipped it in and started applying the wood stain carefully, following the lines of the wood on pure instinct. It made sense too even if he wasn’t totally sure if it was actually right. But, either way, within that hour he had the table back to its original color and left it to dry completely.

He stared at the bumpy wall of compound. He knew this would be bad. If the wood dust was bad, this mud stuff was going to be worse. He wasn’t that naive.

And he was right. By the time it was smooth he was coughing and in dire need of a glass of water. He was never having a damn party at his own house again. Tammy and Sara could continue to host them, people didn’t react well to the spaciousness in the Harrington house apparently. In a rush and loss of interest in his work, Steve quickly painted over the patches with white and left it to dry. He got the can of wax and rubbed it on around the table in his final task.

He was tired as hell and he still had to go to school tomorrow. And he really needed to speak with the person who put orange peels down the damn sink.

===

On Monday morning, at approximately 5:48 AM, Steve Harrington sat in the living room watching I Love Lucy while eating toast as his parents bustled inside.

“Hello!” he heard his mother chirp tiredly as she entered through the foyer. She hurried over and he gave her as welcoming of an embrace as he could. “How are you, dear? Foods in good supply?” she pulled away to inspect him with her hazel eyes, “Heating system still working alright?”

Steve nodded and smiled, “Everything’s just fine. But I have to go and meet Tommy before school, that alright?” he stepped to the side and towards the stairs.

“Of cour—“ his mother was cut off by the monotone cords of his father.

“Stephano, what is up with this mess!” In that moment, Steve Harrington didn’t think he’d ever felt as much fear as he had in that moment. He bolted to the kitchen.

“What mess?”

His father pointed to the wrench, screw driver, and tape measure on the island counter, “Away with this mess, Steve. Clutter is nothing to approve of. It accumulates and it’s unprofessional.” If he only knew.

===

Years later, when he was in everlasting love with Billy Hargrove and they had their shared, small and cozy Chicago apartment, his handyman skills came back to great use.

“Steve! Steve!” Billy shouted in a panic.

Steve rushed from the bedroom to the kitchen, socks skidding on the floors, “What is it? What happened?” he flocked around his boyfriend and checked for any injuries.

Billy pointed rigidly to the sink, “Somethings up with the pipes or something.”

Steve rose his brows in bewilderment, “You don’t know how to unclog pipes?”

Billy furrowed his, “You do?” Steve nodded and opened the cupboard, kneeling to check the pipes.

“Okay so there’s PVC pipes here, I don’t even need a wrench!” he peaked back up at Billy’s wide eyes. “Can you get me that bucket I usually give you when you get hungover?” Billy nodded and jogged out of the room. Steve got a hand towel and placed it down, “What did you put down the drain anyway?” Billy almost hit him in the face with the bucket when he turned back. He froze and took it from the nervous man.

“Uhm. Potato peels,” he answered.

Steve scoffed, “It’s always peels isn’t it?”

Billy stepped back when Steve started turning the rings, “What?”

“Nothin’.” He twisted it quick and managed to not get sprayed in the face while the murky water and loads of potato peel flowed out into the large bucket. When the flow stopped he reattached the pipes together and hefted the bucket out to Billy. “Put that down the toilet, Tiger.” He turned back and heard the sloshing in the bucket and the grunts from Billy as he went through the hallway. Steve chuckled to himself and wiped up the small water spillage.

When Billy returned he had opinions.

“First of all, that shit was gross as hell,” he left the bucket by the front door before returning into the kitchen. “Second of all,” he boxed Steve in with a smirk in his face, “I didn’t know you were so good at pluming.”

Steve rolled his eyes, “Finish making the calzones, Bill, and maybe I’ll show you how to fix that hole in the wall behind Max’s photo hanging in the living room. It’s suspiciously shaped like that baseball I told you not to throw around.”

Billy fumbled for his words.

Steve shook his head, “Don’t think you can hide that shit from me, Tiger, I’m the one that dusts.”

===

The next time was when Max and Lucas visited.

“William, do not throw that!” Steve scolded as he held a pan with tomato sauce in it. Lucas dropped his hands that had been ready to try and catch the ball and Max turned a page of her book from where she was on the sofa boredly.

Billy grinned and threw the football anyway, of course. Steve sighed and then grew furious as the same football smashed instantly into the rickety bookshelf and the sad, old thing crumbled on impact. It fell over from Billy’s uncalculated, rebellious force and the shelves snapped apart from the sides. Books strewn out in a messy wave. Steve stomped over and only lowered his near growl of scolding when Billy showed himself already terrified. Max grinned and set her book in her lap to watch.

“What did I say?” Steve demanded while whacking Billy’s shoulder with the oven mitt. The other flapped his hands back to stop the assault.

“I’m sorry!” he yelped, “I’m sorry! We’ll just buy another one!” Steve glared and whacked his head, lighter than before, but still with vigor.

“We don’t have the money, William! We bought the last one at Goodwill for $14!” He bustled back to the kitchen and put the pan into the oven to cook the sauce the rest of the way. “I’ll just have to go down and ask Jeffery to use his wood scraps and nail gun. He’s always kind enough.”

Billy, who had followed him in, looked skeptical, “Jeffery Jeffery or creepy Jeffery?”

Steve rolled his eyes, “Old man Jeffery. And Jeff isn’t creepy, he’s just anti-social.”

Billy went unswayed, “I want to go with you. Let’s go,” he went to the coat closet and Steve sighed, unsurprised.

Steve took his coat and boots from Billy and called to the kids, “Lucas, Max, the sauce will be done in a couple hours. If we’re not back by then just take it out and let it cool please!”

“Sorry, Steve!” he heard Lucas say sincerely.

“Got it, Boss!” Max answered with another flutter of a page in her book.

===

While Steve attached the air hose to the nail gun Billy watched with creases in his forehead.

“What are you ogling, Tiger?” Steve asked as he applied wood glue to a piece.

Billy stooped forward, “Can I help?” he was almost eager sounding.

Steve grinned, “I was hoping you’d ask.” He lifted his own hands from holding the planks together, “Hold that as I nail it together would ya?” Billy nodded a bit unsurely but placed his hands and pushed just as Steve had. Steve lined up the gun, pushed down, and pulled the trigger. Billy flinched at the loud noise and Steve set the gun down and stood up from his focused crouch.

“Are you alright,” he cupped Billy’s cheeks, thumbs gently smoothed the corner eye crinkles.

The other nodded and pecked Steve’s forehead before shrugging it off, “Was just surprised is all.” Steve nodded back and smiled kindly before returning as he was before and finished the line of nails.

Not too long later, the book shelf was put together and Steve handed Billy a piece of sand paper. He showed Billy how to use it and he got complaints in return due to the uncomfortable noise it made.

But they did return home with a lovely new bookshelf. And they’d made it together so it was all that extra bit of special.

Maybe Steve didn’t disapprove of that party all those years ago after all. Look what he got out of it?

The smile Billy got whenever he looked at that shelf filled with Steve’s mystery romance and his own horror thrillers, that fond and euphoric smile was enough for Steve Harrington in the long run.

[flowercrown-bard]

Poems for the Poet (2/ 5)

pairing: Eskel/Jaskier

word count: ~2k

read on AO3

previous   /  next

Content warning: self-deprecation, people treating witchers badly, self-loathing, panic attack, insecurity

Mutant, witcher, monster!

No one dared to spit those insults at Eskel openly – not yet. For now, the people of the town contented themselves with shooting him dirty looks, whispering behind his back and turning away when they caught sight of his face.

It was only a matter of time before the whispers would turn into shouts when fear became cruelty.

He had seen it happen often enough to know it was inevitable.

And yet, he had hoped that just this once it could be different. It had been different, when he had met Jaskier. It could be different again.

But these people weren’t Jaskier. They would rather claw Eskel’s eyes out than let him see their smiles or bite off their tongues before they let themselves utter a single kind word to him.

So Eskel kept his head low as he walked through the cobblestone street towards the inn, hoping they would tolerate him, at least for one night, if he didn’t attract too much attention. He ignored the whispers, the stares, the stench of disdain.

He barely flinched when something it him on the shoulder. He had known that sooner or later, stones would fly. He just had hoped it wouldn’t happen that soon.

With a sigh, he hunched his shoulders and ducked his head, making himself seem smaller, like less of a threat as he threw a glance over his shoulder to see if any more stones would be hurled his way.

What he saw instead, made him falter. What had hit him wasn’t a stone. It was a ball wrapped in leather, not dissimilar to the one he used to play with as a child before he had been brought to a place where boys learned how to fight and kill instead of playing.

Eskel crouched down to pick up the ball and take a closer look, but before he could stand back up again, he saw, or rather heard, the one who had thrown it at him.

“You found my ball!” The excited voice of a little girl cut through the disapproving murmurs of the adults like the sun pushing his way through clouds during a thunder storm. “I’m sorry for hitting you, mister.”

“Don’t worry,” Eskel said as softly as he could. “No harm done.”

He held out the toy for the girl who took it with a toothy grin.

“Thank you!”

Something warm and soft spread through Eskel’s chest. It had been too long since anyone had smiled at him, longer yet since he had spoken to a child that wasn’t destined for the cruelty of the trials.

Eskel couldn’t stop himself. For just a moment he forgot himself, too distracted by that soft glimmer of happiness in his chest. One moment of carelessness was all it took.

His lips twitched into a smile.

A snarl. A grimace. A twisting of his face into something hideous and fearsome.

The reaction was almost immediate. The girl blanched and reeled back, before she could even touch the ball.

“You’re the bad man!” She cried. If there had been any passers-by that hadn’t stared at Eskel before, they were now all fixing him with suspicious glares.

Eskel swallowed against the rapidly forming lump in his throat and dropped his smile. Perhaps that had been a mistake too. It was unnatural for people to be able to lose their smiles that quickly. It was inhuman.

“I’m not,” Eskel said soothingly. “I am not going to hurt you.”

“My ma told me that you’re bad!” The girl accused and pointed a finger at him before taking it back quickly and holding her hand against her chest in the same way people protected their hands when they were afraid a feral dog would bite them. “She said to stay away from the man with the ugly scars. She said you will take me away and eat me.”

Eskel flinched.

“I’m not –“

“I think it would be better if you left,” a low voice interrupted him.

When Eskel looked up from where he was still crouched, he saw three men walking towards him with stormy expressions.

Slowly, so as not to startle them, he put the ball to the ground and gave it a small nudge to roll towards the girl. She jumped back as if her toy was suddenly dangerous.

The men’s frowns deepened. Eskel held up his now empty palms in surrender as he stood back up ever so slowly.

One of the man took a threatening step towards him, his fists already raised and Eskel all but fled.

He tried not to listen to the angry and boasting shouts that followed him. It was in vain.

No matter how much he pretended, he wasn’t like his brothers. Geralt might be able to go on after Blaviken, saying that he didn’t need anyone and Lambert might be able to counter every insult with an even more cutting one of his own, but Eskel wasn’t like them. He was desperate and foolish and still clinging to the hope that he could be someone who wouldn’t be scorned and detested.

Another could-have-been. One that gnawed at him like a stray dog gnawed on a bone, tearing off the small bits and pieces that could still be something wanted.

Eskel had no delusions about how the rest of the day would go. He would find no place to sleep here, no hot meal and no contract that would be paid for. The longer he stayed, the bigger got the chances of pitchforks and kitchen knives being directed at him.

But his legs were so tired. It had been too long since he had eaten a healthy amount and ever since he had to give Scorpion away, he wasn’t able to carry his tent with him anymore.

He just wanted to rest. He just wanted to lay down for a while, knowing that he wouldn’t wake to a mob.

But the chances were slim. The best he could do was hide away in a dark alley to rest, hoping that no one would stumble upon him there.

He let himself lean back against the wall of a house, sliding down until he sat on the dirty floor. What more was some dirt, when his shirt already had holes in it? No one would bother to notice anyway, not when they had his face to stare at in fear.

His insides clenched and not purely because of the memory of the child’s laughter turning into cries at his sight.

He was hungry. So painfully hungry.

His jaw twitched as he rummaged through his bag for something edible, knowing full well that there was nothing to find.

Instead, his fingers found something else. Something, he had bought on a whim and quickly shoved to the bottom of his bag. Something he hadn’t been able to get rid of, even as it meant losing precious space in his bags.

Carefully, so as not to tear it, he pulled out the cheap paper, quill and inkwell he had bought months ago. For a long moment he only stared at them, overcome with the painful urge to smash the inkwell against the wall.

He wasn’t a poet, never would be. He was ugly and frightening and no one could even look at him without seeing all the things he couldn’t be written plainly across his face.

Yet he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

The memory of blue eyes flashed before him. Memories, of a blissful couple of days when it had seemed that maybe he could have, could be, something more. Jaskier had listened to what he had to say about poetry, as if his opinion was no less important than that of any scholar. He had explained the intricacies of word choice to him as if Eskel was worth talking to. As if he wasn’t too oafish, too big and too far removed from everything he could have become.

What had Jaskier told him back then? That poetry was a means to give meaning. That by creating something out of your pain, you refused to let it have power over you.

It wouldn’t work. Eskel knew that. No amount of words could ever distract from the life he hadn’t chosen. But perhaps…perhaps Eskel could make something beautiful.

It was a foolish thought, a desperate dream, but one that lodged itself into his heart, refusing to budge.

Eskel didn’t know how to write beautiful words and craft them into something more. All his knowledge about poetry came from the little he had gathered from reading the old poems. It wasn’t enough.

But it was all he had.

Before he could stop himself, he dipped the tip of the quill into the ink and put it on the paper. He hesitated, watched as the ink flew onto the paper like blood dripping off a sword and created ugly splotches.

Immediately, Eskel pulled the quill off the paper again.

He stared at that spot, that blemish, that failure.

The walls seemed to close in on him, suffocating him, crushing him. Though the sun was still up in the sky, his vision became darker, splotchy. Like the ink on the paper. Like bloodstains on his clothes.

He wasn’t good enough. This wouldn’t work. He hadn’t even written a single word yet and already he had ruined this.

He squeezed his eyes shut against the onslaught of voices, of doubts, of knowing he would fail.

It was no use. His heart sped up and he felt his breathing becoming shallow. He should be able to control this. A witcher shouldn’t let himself succumb to his own mind.

But Eskel couldn’t do it. He couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t let his mind drift off for mediation, couldn’t fucking breathe.

With the strength of a hundred men, Eskel managed to scrap together some semblance of calm, just long enough for his mind to stop spiralling for a second and to latch on to one thing only.

Poetry.

Eskel clung to it with all his might, forcing himself to think of lines and verses he had memorised until his mouth moved and formed the words. They were barely more than a whisper, but Eskel had spoken them before, time and time again. His body knew the correct intonation, the right way to inhale enough to have his breath last for the entirety of a line.

The words fell from his lips in a soothing rhythm, the familiarity of them battling against the fear and the strain to remember the lines left no room for any other, unkind, thoughts.

It was only when Eskel’s heart had slowed down enough that the sound of its beating didn’t drown out his whispers, that Eskel realised whose poetry he was reciting.

It was Jaskier’s.

Lines about eyes flashing bright like lightning, comparable to a force of nature that disappeared before one had time to marvel at it but leaving a mark in the life of whoever had gotten the chance to see it.

Lightning. That’s what Jaskier described Eskel as and it was the first word that Eskel put down on the paper once his hands had stopped shaking too badly.

He looked at the word for a long time. It felt strangely right. Like it belonged there. Like Eskel had been meant to put it – a part of himself – out there.

His throat bobbed and his brows twitched at the thought, but before he had time to doubt himself any more, he let the quill scratch over the paper once more, leaving words in its wake. A mixture of Jaskier’s words and the rhythm of the ancient elves.

Lightning across lips cuts bright.

A lowly flash, no more. Leaving flesh forever sore.

Scorching like flame. Scowling for fright.

Marring a mangled man, mutilating a mutant more.

Eskel stared at the words. The poem wasn’t long nor was it particularly good. But it was Eskel’s. Eskel had written something, gave meaning to the meaningless with his quill.

His eyes darted to the splotch at the bottom of the paper, right where the last line ended. Another imperfection.

His brows knitted together and his hand moved again.

It might have been childish - Lambert would have definitely made fun of him for it -  but as Eskel drew legs, a head and horns onto the blemish, he found himself almost smiling again.

The almost-smile stayed on his lips, even as he forced himself to stand up once more, carefully putting his writing tools back where they belonged. The paper with his poem he kept in his hand.

He should have just left right away, trying to go unnoticed. That had been his plan as he moved through the alleyways now, but when he passed the notice board at the corner of one street, he paused, staring. A thought formed in his mind, before he even understood why he had stopped.

He didn’t know what possessed him to do it. Perhaps a glimmer of bravery or folly. Perhaps a hint of the man he had wanted to became shone through for a split second.

A man who was loved. A man who made beautiful things and didn’t have to hide away in shame what he had created.

And Eskel had created. He had written a poem. He had become, even if only for one moment, what he had always dreamed he could be one day.

With one swift motion, Eskel pinned his poem to the notice board. Not somewhere half-hidden between notes about nosy neighbours or the price of eggs, but right in the middle where anyone who passed by would be able to see it. The words on the page were spidery and nowhere close to artful, but they screamed I am imperfect, but I am here. I exist despite your spite.

Eskel took a step back, just far enough that he wouldn’t be able to reach the board and tear the poem down again in a fit of doubt. Admiring his own work was vain, but for the first time since Eskel could remember, he had something to admire, something to be proud of.

He must have stood there for too long. Around him, people started gathering, noticing him. One man shoved him. Another yelled at him to get away, that there were no contracts here for the likes of him.

Eskel turned and fled, just as the first stone hit him, right where the girl’s ball had met his shoulder before.

With every shout, every insult, every truth, the mob tore down part of the meaning Eskel had been able to find for himself.

He could only hope that they didn’t realise that the new addition to the notice board came from him. He could only hope that no one would tear off the poem, as they tore at Eskel’s heart with their shouts.

He hoped that maybe, however slim the chance was, someone would find his poem and smile.

It was a foolish hope, born out of pain and despair not unlike the poem itself had been, but it was the only thing keeping him warm that night as he huddled beneath a tree, cold and lonely and dreaming of something he had come so close to having.