#She does not believe her victory is guaranteed by sitting back and doing nothing. It gave her purpose

[raisinghellonstarbug]

Stumbled Into Laughter, Stumbled Into You - A James Acaster x Reader Story

Basic plot: The year is 2019, and life has been quite dull for you since working in a job that you hate for the past two years after graduating from university. You used to do stand up comedy at uni, but you’ve been putting off pursuing it due to lack of confidence and motivation. Your best mates decide to encourage you to try a comedy mic night for the first time ever and while there you incidentally run into an old mate of yours, comedian Rhys James. That’s when your life gets turned around as you end up diving into the world of the comedy circuit and becoming close with other famous British comedians. In the midst of it all, you end up meeting a particularly distinctive red headed fellow who might end up being the very thing that brings meaning to your life again.

*

A/N: Hello Acaster fans!

So this was an idea I have had in mind for the last few months and I finally finished the first chapter of my story!

Just so you know, the first chapter does not include James, but be patient as he will appear soon (but maybe not quite as soon as you hope). I do reckon it will be worth the wait for his appearance, or at least I hope the story is still enjoyable! It is a slow burn so if you are an inpatient person, then this story might not be for you ;)

You can read this chapter below or if you prefer, there is also the link to the chapter posted on Ao3 right here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/33748507

-

Rating: M

Chapter 1 word length: 2326

Characters: James Acaster (duh), Original Female Characters(s), Original Male Character(s), Rhys James, Ed Gamble, Nish Kumar, Josh Widdicombe

Relationships: James Acaster x Reader/you, Original female character/Original Male character

Story tags: Romantic comedy, domestic fluff, slow burn, fluff and smut, British comedy, eventual relationships

Tagging: @laurabeech @rilannon @jasclearwaters @marklily @queensantiagoofthe99

Chapter 1 - Summer 2019

You were sitting at your desk at your mundane job, practically ready to blow your brains out on the usual, dull Thursday afternoon. It was really warm and stuffy inside the fifteen story office block building situated in Canary Wharf. This was a place you found yourself five days a week, doing the typical 9 to 5 hours. A usual day for a usual person.

Your job wasn’t a particularly riveting one. As an underwriter for an insurance company, some days could get especially boring. You knew how to do the job well, but it was not something you really loved. It involved all kinds of clients and claims in paperwork and it sometimes felt tedious and unfulfilling. But hey, it still paid your share of rent and bills. At least you could say you could manage in the hustle and bustle of the London lifestyle.

It was nearly hometime and you were itching to get home and relax. But before that could happen, there were those last set of insurance cover forms you had to copy to get sent to the HR department. And so you typed away on your laptop, clickety clack, clickety clack… the minutes went by like a chalk on a blackboard, scraping away at a snail’s pace.

You put your full force of concentration on the documents on the screen until it was finally done. A sense of achievement was necessary in these moments despite your lack of enthusiasm. It was in the little victories you reminded yourself. You rubbed the sweat from the July heat off your forehead.

* * *

The last 2 hours eventually passed by and it was soon the rush to get out of the door before you got held up by your colleagues. They were nice enough, but sometimes they could hold you back for half an hour chatting when you just wanted to get home, or your manager might try and get you to stay an hour overtime.

Thankfully you did get out promptly, and as you ran and dashed out of the office building saying brisk goodbyes to coworkers, you managed to make it to the tube with the train just arriving on time. But not without being moderately sweaty and hot though. Bloody stuffy platforms.

As expected it was still a busy train with plenty of 5pm finishers getting themselves situated on the half crowded carriages, but as it was only 10 past, it wasn't the worst time of day for commuting yet.

You perched yourself on one of the tube’s seats and let your shoulders drop, having held the tension in your body from sitting at a desk all day. You placed your head slightly back, balancing it on the window of the train. You looked up momentarily above you and then lifted your head back up to look at your phone and choose a song to listen to on Spotify through your wireless earphones.

The streams of sound from one of your favourite songs began to play softly in your ears and you smiled, knowing that the song gave you a little bit of wistful joy. You started mouthing the words.

Call it all for nothing, but I'd rather be nothing to you. Than be a part of something, something that I didn’t do (Best to You - Blood Orange).

The words half mean something but not necessarily anything. You began to wonder about being part of something that you’re not.

I just wish I could float away from my unexciting existence… you thought to yourself.

It sometimes occurred to you that you might have wanted something more out of life, but weren’t entirely sure what. It doesn’t make you dreadfully sad, but you know that life for you hasn’t exactly been the best it could be, and that perhaps something was missing. You wish you knew what it was.

You sighed, ignoring the feeling of sorrow wash over you momentarily and propped yourself back up in the uncomfortable seat of the train. You tried to keep yourself awake so that you wouldn’t miss your stop. The music continued through your ears.

* * *

You opened the door of the three bedroom flat that you had been residing in for the last two years with your flatmates and sighed with relief that you had finally reached home. You hurried to get your handbag off your shoulder and your shoes off, placing them on the rack next to the front door and walked through the hallway.

The minute you poked your head through to the lounge, bellowing a faint hello to whoever was around, you were suddenly greeted by one of your best friends and flatmates, Grace.

“Ahh Y/n! You’re home. Thank christ!”

She grabbed you and reached her arms around to embrace you tightly. You were perplexed by this gesture as it was so random and unusual given that Grace lived with you and saw you everyday of the week. You frowned and reluctantly placed your arms around her to return the hug.

As she then let go, she looked at you with urgency in her eyes and shrieked with excitement, “Oh Y/n guess what? It looks like I’m up for a promotion! Can you believe it?”

Now processing the reason for such an embrace, you raised your eyebrows in glee and smiled proudly, gushing back to your best mate who was obviously chuffed by the matter.

“Oh wow Grace, that's fantastic! I mean, finally. It is about bloody time!”

She smiled, “Yes I guess it is. But I mustn't get too excited. I haven’t officially got the promotion yet.”

“Ah but no. I’m not having any of that. You will get that promotion. It is a guarantee. They would be idiots to not give it to you.” Grace rolled her eyes and bit her lip. She reluctantly nodded and agreed.

The smell of food distracted you momentarily from the conversation. It was a particularly appetising smell.

Grace uttered, “Yes that smell is good isn’t it? Theo insisted on cooking us a nice meal for me as a celebration.”

You smiled knowingly, having known about how Grace and Theo had been in relationship limbo ever since you three became close friends at university. You knew they both had feelings for each other but often danced around the subject, completely oblivious to one another’s obvious attraction to the other. You reckoned they had to do something about it one day.

“Thank fuck. I wasn’t prepared to make dinner tonight. I am too tired for that.”

Grace then had her worried face on. She instantly knew, as she knew you too well, but funnily enough never picked up on Theo’s emotions despite constantly wondering about them, that something was wrong.

“Are you ok babe?” she asked with a look of pity that you scornfully resented.

You sighed, half lying, “Yes. I’m fine. Just tired is all.”

You made a beeline for the couch knowing full well that you were going to talk about it whether you liked it or not. You knew that Grace would see right through your dishonesty and insist that you told her the problem.

So you waited until Grace inevitably sat next to you and gave you that sympathy look she always gave you before coming out with the concerns that were floating around your brain.

“OK fine. I know you won’t leave me alone unless I tell you.”

“Ahh, you know me so well…”

“Yes, just as you know me. I’m just- I’m fed up. Work was slow. I don’t really feel like I’m associated with my life. I feel... disconnected, I guess.”

“Do you have any idea why?”

You shrugged and looked down at the floor and then back at Grace smiling sheepishly, “I don’t know. Maybe I’m not- not fulfilled? I just don’t thoroughly enjoy my life right now.”

Grace nodded and put a hand on your leg. You twitched your face in slight discomfort. You hated it when you were given sympathy for something that seemed so miniscule. It wasn’t like you were dying.

It was times like this when you just wanted to curl up in your bed, eat a tub of ice cream and watch your favourite comedy programmes. 8 Out of 10 Cats Does Countdown sprang to mind.

As you sat in momentary silence for a bit, Theo came waltzing through from the kitchen with his silly apron on that had a naked man’s body printed on it, and a spatula in his hand. He smiled at you.

“I thought I heard your voice. I hope meatballs for dinner are good tonight. Not mine of course,” gesturing to the apron as he said it.

You shook your head at Theo’s poor dad joke and stood up to hug him. You realised that you must be really down in the dumps to be hugging Theo. It was his turn to be confused. He looked towards Grace wide eyed.

“She’s had a particularly tough day. But mind you babe, you’ve kinda been like this for weeks now.”

You let go of Theo and turned to Grace, frowning and feeling slightly defensive. You placed a hand on your hip.

“Been like what? I’ve just been a bit fed up, that's all.”

“Yes but it’s not just a bit fed up. You said so yourself you feel disconnected. We’ve been waiting for you to say it.”

You looked to Theo and he nodded gently in agreement.

“Ok… but, nothing is really wrong exactly. My life is fine.”

“Fine, yes. But not amazing. We know it’s getting you down. And the job is the problem.”

“But I’m good at it. And it pays the bills. What else am I supposed to do?”

Grace then looked away from your eyes then, twitching her lip and looking as though she was holding something back. She then sighed and began to admit something you had not been expecting.

“OK look. We know what you can do. Theo and I have figured it out. We can manage money wise. It will be tight, but if you quit your job we should be able to help you out for a little bit.”

Your eyes grew wider than large saucepans. You were totally bewildered and your mouth slightly agape.

“What? Quit my job? Why? What work would I get instead?”

“Well, maybe you won't quit your job yet. Maybe you’re right, that's too hasty. Perhaps what I’m trying to say is-”

Theo then chimed in, “-what Grace is trying to say is…”

You smirked to yourself. How do they not realise that they’re already a couple but without the sex? They’re practically married for christ sake.

“...we reckon that you need to pursue your passion. Perhaps stop wasting your talents in an office job that you hate.”

Grace continued, “yes exactly. We have had an idea in mind. See, we want you to go to this thing… it’s no biggie but well, we’ve already booked it for you.”

Your mind was racing. You couldn’t understand anything that they were saying to you. It was all too much for you to manage.

“Booked what for me? What the hell are you both going on about?”

They both looked at each other with reluctance, pondering the moment and whether to tell you the whole truth. They both shrugged and Grace was then pulling her phone out, this whole conversation beginning to appear as though they had been trying to practice it.

Suddenly Grace’s phone screen was wavering in your face. You moved your head closer to see a photo on the screen. It was a comedy club night poster. Incidentally, it was an open mic night event happening on Saturday night. You began to then put the puzzle pieces together. You folded your arms and frowned heavily.

“What the fuck have you two done now?”

Theo softly spoke, “We… booked you a slot to do that comedy open mic event thing, on Saturday night.”

“Wait. As in to perform? You can’t be serious-”

Grace tried to reassure you and grabbed your arm.

“Look, we know it might seem daunting, but we just wanted to see you happy again. It’s been two years since we graduated and you haven’t performed since then. We thought it might be good to encourage you to perform again. You were always funny to us. And people at uni thought so too. You have the stand up talent, Y/n.”

You could not process anymore. You shook your head in disbelief and placed your head in your hands, rubbing your eyes from sudden exhaustion. You then threw your hands up in exasperation. It was not possible. You could not do that again.

Fucking no way. I can’t be on stage again! It’s too scary. University pub nights are one thing but a comedy club?

You shook your head again and placed your hands on your hips. Grace tried to speak up again seeing the frustration painted across your face. In fact it was anger that your friends chose to do this without your say so.

“Y/n…”

“No. Nope. I’m not doing it. No.”

“But Y/n, we were also going to tell you that Theo is also thinking of doing the same thing! He wants to do his music again. What harm would it be for you to rejuvenate your comedy skills? Surely you can write a quick couple of gags. Nothing strenuous. You have your old material from university, right?”

You had to get out of the room. Nothing that they were saying to you could be fully accepted at that moment.

You then gave them no choice but to let you go with your head in a flurry. They both watched you leave the room, mumbling something along the lines of I’m not really hungry anymore, I’m going to bed. Soon after, you darted across the other end of the hallway, ill-tempered and almost seething, and slammed your bedroom door shut.

[7-wonders]

Love That Moves the Sun and Other Stars

Summary: If you thought defying death, becoming the most powerful witch currently living, defeating Satan, defying death again, and becoming immortal was difficult, you were obviously mistaken. Coronation, royalty lessons, and pesky in-laws make the idea of facing Satan again more appealing with each day that passes. Luckily, your husband is by your side for it all. But will the love you share be enough to get you through these challenges?

Word Count: 1292 (just a short little introductory bb to set this up)

A/N: Ahhhhh I'm so excited for this! This is officially the first chapter of As Above, So Below's sequel. I've had so much fun revisiting these characters again, and I hope you have fun reading. If you enjoyed, please like, reblog, and comment. If you haven't read AASB before, strap in and click this link, because it's 70k+ words of pure goodness. Lastly, if you want to be on a taglist, let me know!

(moodboard made by the amazing @brattylovee)

She feels them before any of her other senses pick up on them. Being a goddess means her senses are especially attuned to any sort of disturbance, and that’s no different here. It’s an evolutionary trait, one meant to make sure that those gifted with immortality have an upper hand in case of danger, but there’s no danger here. Achlys, or Zoe (she doesn’t really have a preference which name you call her), smiles when she realizes that those she cares about are finally home. Indeed, those around her begin to pick up on this return too. Even Cerberus lifts his heads up, studying the noises he hears before jumping up in excitement and bounding towards the throne room. Zoe chuckles, standing from her spot in one of the many sitting rooms and transmuting herself to the throne room.

The hellhound does not even blink when he sees that one of his mistresses reached his destination before he did, screeching to a stop and barking happily. The king of the Underworld stands in the center of the throne room, his new wife holding onto his arm. Neither you (the aforementioned new wife) nor Michael can wipe the smiles off of your faces, both so wrapped up in newly wedded bliss that it’s impossible to not let the rest of the world see how happy you are. Only Zoe clearing her throat breaks your eyes away from those of your husband’s, and you grin even wider when you see her.

“Zoe!” you greet, untangling your hand from Michael’s to wrap your arms around your friend. “I’ve missed you!”

“Oh yes, because I’m sure you had plenty of time to think about those of us here while Michael was whisking you around the world.” Her eyes twinkle with mirth as she teases you, briefly letting go of you to customarily curtsey in the direction of Michael. “My lord.”

“I believe we’ve been past these formalities for about 200 years now, Zoe,” Michael says as he comes up behind you and puts a hand on your shoulder.

“Force of habit.” Zoe turns back to you. “So? How was everything?”

“Oh, the honeymoon was wonderful. Michael took me to Greece, and he did some magic to make Athens look like how it did when everybody thought you lived on a mountain.”

“Stunning, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know what was better, Rome, France, or Greece.”

“They all have their charms.”

“Bet the sex was good, too.” Hecate appears with her arms crossed, smirking at you and Michael.

“That’s really inappropriate--” Michael starts, but you cut him off.

“You wish we would tell you.” You wink, Madison laughing and pulling you into a hug. Knowing that she’s finally getting used to hugging, you smile victoriously. “Anyways, the honeymoon was great...for me, at least.”

Madison laughs. “It wasn’t great for Michael?”

“No, he felt like it was ruined because I made him meet my parents.”

Michael scowls as if to emphasize your point. “I’m a god, why is it that meeting my wife’s mortal parents intimidates me?”

“He’s just being dramatic; my parents love him!”

“Do they know that you’re married?” Zoe asks.

“No, we said we’re ‘dating’ and taking things slow, which, in Underworld time, we technically did.”

“Gods, I wish I would have been there for that conversation,” Madison chimes in.

The doors open, interrupting your conversation, and Michael’s right hand demon appears with a bow. “My lord, welcome back.”

“Thank you, Cassius.” Like a switch being flipped, Michael assumes the position of God of the Dead.

“I hope you enjoyed your vacation, for we have quite the workload for you to tackle.”

“Yes, of course.” You look at Michael with a pout, which really isn’t fair on your part considering you just spent the past month uninterrupted with him, but still...you thought you would at least be able to relax with him a little bit before jumping back to work.

“King stuff?” you ask.

Michael nods. “King stuff.” He kisses your head just barely, already on the move to go handle whatever’s first on the long list that Cassius is holding. “But don’t worry, you’ll have plenty to keep you busy, what with the coronation and all.”

“The coronation?”

“Yes, your advisors will explain it further.” Michael glances behind his shoulder. “I love you!”

“I love you too.” But he’s already gone. “Did you two know anything about a coronation?”

“No, but it’s kind of assumed that there would be one, since you married a king and all,” Madison says.

“You’re my advisors, so tell me about the coronation.”

Madison laughs. “We’re far too important to be anyone’s advisors. No, as the soon-to-be Queen of the Underworld, you have an actual staff.”

“But...do I actually need a whole staff?”

“Considering you’ve never done any sort of crash course on how to be nobility, I would say that you do.”

You nod sagely. “Like in Princess Diaries.”

Madison and Zoe share a confused look. “I have no idea what that means.”

“Oh, it’s a movie. Basically this girl finds out from her grandma that--”

“I wish I could say that I’d watch it, but I won’t.” At this point, Madison interrupting you is so normal that it doesn’t even phase you anymore. “But let’s face it, you’re going in completely blind. You need some sort of help.”

“Why from other people though? I’d rather that you and Zoe just helped.”

“Neither of us are skilled at planning coronations, and we can’t guarantee that we’ll always be around whenever you need to learn something related to your new role. We’ll certainly try, though,” Zoe says.

“Who’s this ‘we’ you’re talking about?” Madison jokes. “Don’t stress about it, okay?”

“I’m not!” you insist.

“I can see it in your face, you totally are. Nothing’s going to change, and you have nothing to worry about.”

“Besides having to learn how to be a queen?”

“Besides that. But I thought you knew that you would have to do this?”

“I did, but I just didn’t think it would be so sudden. I thought I would have some time after getting back before having to deal with this.”

“Okay, you need to get out of your head,” Zoe says, “and we’re going to show you that things will still be as they were before you married Michael.”

“How are you going to do that?”

“Well, how much of the Underworld have you explored before?”

“Not much. Michael took me to Elysium for a date once, and we went to see the Fates, but the only other time I had been out of the castle was when I ran and that monster almost ate me.”

“Perfect. We’re having a girls’ night out, then, and showing you the fun parts of the Underworld.” Madison squeals upon hearing Zoe say this, and you can already see the wheels turning in her head. You’re not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing yet.

“There are fun parts of the Underworld?”

“Why would we continue to live here if there weren’t?” Madison asks, and you admit that she has a point.

“Consider it, like, a bachelorette party! Mortals do that, right?” Zoe looks at you in anticipation.

“Yeah, but I’m not really a bachelorette anymore.”

“So? It’s a belated party, and any event like this is an excuse to go have fun.”

“Oh, alright.”

Zoe claps her hands together. “Perfect! Let’s go find some suitable outfits.”

Zoe and Madison each take one of your hands, walking and chatting about the places that they want to take you and where they think you would like best. Though you huff and roll your eyes, you have to admit: it’s good to be home.

///

Tag List: @ladyrindt @hecohansen31 @xavierplympton @michaellangdon @trelaney @dark-mei-rose @blakescoven @ajokeformur-ray @michaelsapostle @nsainmoonchild

[lovehugsandcandy]

the stories we tell (and the stories we live) (Coltx MC, RoD)

Pairing: Colt x MC, ROD

Length: ~2400 words

Rating/Warnings: N*FW (Not explicit but it’s there. And swearing.)

Summary: Colt’s story isn’t his own until it is.

.

When Colt thinks of stories, he thinks of the stories of his youth, hazy memories of sitting on his father’s lap and listening to tales of Kanekos past. He thinks of scenes from movies, car chases and explosions before the guaranteed victory, ending scenes and credits rolling with the hero beating the odds and riding off victorious into the sunset.

And then he gets older. 

And learns that stories are myths, hiding lies and false promises, wrapped in the guise of happy endings that will never happen.

Not to him.

And when he thinks of stories, he tries not to think of his own.

And when he does, when he thinks of the story of Colt and crew and the Kaneko name, he can’t of the beginning. 

It hurts too much to remember a time when he was a welcome fixture at the shop, when Pop greeted him with a smile, sometimes even a pat to his head. This was before, before those hands became angry and harsh, before the smiles turned to glares, before the words turned hateful and vicious, echoing the nightmares that creep into his sleep, shocking him awake in a cold sweat.

There are other stories, 

He steals his first car when he’s 11. It’s the first time he’s ever driven as well, the tips of his toes only able to graze the pedals when he leans against the steering wheel. It’s a massive effort to peer over the dash, to not press his scrawny chest on the horn, but he manages, denting only the bumper against an unlucky mailbox. But when he pulls into the garage, his father is more shocked than awed and his mother furious.

So he first leaves California when he’s 12, hustled onto his first airplane, deposited in an unfamiliar city with scabs lining his knuckles and a bruise blooming on his jawline, the first transition of many marking the flow between scenery and characters.

He’s first suspended when he’s 13. Everyone at this new school is despicable, but he’ll be damned if some upperclassman is going to throw slurs at him amidst a crowded hallway. He’s sent home, his opponent sent for stitches, and his mother spends five of her limited vacation days making his confinement as miserable as possible.

He first has sex in the dingy bathroom of a dive bar that obviously doesn’t care about liquor laws.

It’s a story he never tells. 

Stories are prideful things, lies portraying overcome odds and vanquished enemies until a triumphant, crescendoed victory. Curtains close on dreams attained.

His story has never gone like that and this memory is no different.

He’s 14, sipping something amber and toxic from a rocks glass because it makes him look cool, sitting alone as his knees knock against the stool because he hates everyone. His feet don’t even touch the ground yet, but it doesn’t seem to matter to the bartender, who keeps sliding booze across the slick bar top as long as the cash keeps coming from Colt’s pocket.

And apparently it doesn’t matter to the girl across the bar, all blond hair and glossy lips, pendant necklace dangling heavy above a low-cut shirt. She bats a heavy mascara gaze over her wineglass and it takes an embarrassingly long time before he recognizes the fire behind gaze.

His heart is racing when she perches on the stool next to him, and it’s with fumbling hands and drunken kisses that they weave a messy path to the bathroom.

Once they’re done, she buttons her jeans and smirks at him, waltzing out of the bathroom without a second glance.

It feels like a fitting end to his childhood, thrown from LA to end up staggering into the Bronx streets; his jeans are still unzipped but no one’s around to care as he turns the key in the empty apartment and sinks into freshly washed sheets.

If the saga of his childhood has ended (beginning as a worthy heir before being cast aside, thousands of miles away, lost boy and discarded son), then the story of his adulthood is beginning. Stories have beginnings and middles and ends, protagonists and supporting characters,  events when second matter, where every step taken leads towards a goal, an achievement of some sort.

He hasn’t achieved anything.

Not yet.

His mom gets off work at 3am, footsteps light as she makes her way to the adjoining bedroom. Once the light snores start, he creeps out of bed to spew stomach acid into the toilet, lights off, stifling the shameful hacking and choking.

He slips back into bed, mouthwash still tingling on his tongue, but sleep doesn’t come that night.

It doesn’t feel like a fortuitous beginning.

~~~~~

And then it doesn’t get better.

The fights continue.

He comes home weekly with bruised knuckles and wounded pride, counting the days until he can free himself from the cast of characters around him.

Every teacher treats him like an adversary, every stupid social clique shuns him, and it’s fucking bullshit but he doesn’t need anyone, none of these assholes at this fucking school. It’s him against the world, at least until he can get back to LA, back to the home and the legacy that belongs to him.

His mother wants everything from him. They’re alone, the two of them, and he falls into the role of trusted confidant and then wayward son and finally complete stranger; none of the roles he tries satisfy anyone in this fracturing family of two.

The girls want one thing from him and it’s so simple, so easy, and the best part is that he doesn’t have to think, just for a moment.

His dad wants nothing from him, and his teeth dig into his bottom lip so his sobs don’t echo through the thin apartment walls.

~~~~~

Stories come in chapters and his next one takes him to LA. It’s inevitable that he ends up here, speeding aimlessly through the crowded streets, ending up on the outskirts of a crowd that should part for him like the seas.

The first time he sees her, she looks like a baby hawk. Not that he’s ever seen a baby hawk, mind you, but her eyes peer sharply around the lot even though her steps are stuttering and small.

He would never have guessed that she would be more than a supporting character in his fateful return, but soon, she becomes everything. His mind is consumed with their future, ruling LA as a team, owning the next stage of the Kaneko legacy. Her insightful mind and sharp wit are both challenging and refreshing; it feels like he’s met his match.

His story is finally beginning.

But the pyre in front of him is actually the conclusion. Flames lick at his eyebrows as he drives by, staring into the wreckage for something, anything; her arms around his waist are the only thing keeping him upright.

And if his father’s explosion is the end, then the blaze at the garage is the epilogue, the wreckage a fitting end to the Kaneko legacy.

~~~~~

It takes years, four to be exact, before he’s comfortable taking a brief vacation. Building up the fledgling crew has been challenging and painstaking, but, brick by brittle brick, he has finally created a crew worthy of the Kaneko name. 

So he heads to New York. 

Colt cares about two people in the world and the irony of them being in the same city at the same time feels a little like choreographed coincidence and a little like fate.

He starts with his mother. She’s moved to Manhattan, and he needs to Google the route, feet almost taking him into the gritty streets he knows intimately well. He recalibrates off the train, unfamiliar buildings flying by as he crosses the East River and straight into her new setting and her new life. They walk through the tree-lined streets; she lives in Soho now and every step is strange. She leads him through farmers’ markets and points out breakfast joints, each one a reminder of how far away he is. As they amble, she speaks of her job before turning the conversation to Pop; his every reply is halting, pain and truth veiled through clipped words and terse responses, his hands buried in his pockets and shoulders hunched to his ears.

For two people who share a bloodline and a language, they’re incomprehensible to each other. Colt realizes, with sickening clarity, how much better his mom’s life is now, now that he’s gone and vanished across the country.

She holds him close outside her new apartment building (this one doesn’t have bars on the first-floor windows) and her eyes well with a sadness she can’t name (or won’t, Colt thinks bitterly, shifting on his heels in her embrace). Her hands linger on his shoulders, and she presses a lipstick kiss into his cheek; he furiously wipes it off as he strides to the subway.

His palms flash pomegranate pink as he swipes his pass.

Langston is eighteen stops uptown. It takes thirty minutes on the A train, and he’s wasting away every second, an eternity spent watching subway tiles and grim faces blur past.

He blends in with the crowd, rowdy college kids streaming into her dorm, and he sneaks up the stairs and raps lightly on the door. They barely talk but he’s immediately understood, her hands gentle under his jaw, up his shoulder blades, then insistent up his sides, gripping his forearms, tugging his hair.

She curls against him, the slide of her skin both foreign and reminiscent, and shakes her head. “I can’t believe you just showed up here. You’re lucky seniors get singles.”

“I can’t believe you let me in.”

“You thought I wouldn’t?”

“I guess I was cautiously optimistic.” He craned his neck to drop a kiss on the top of her head. “Guess I was right.”

She grabs his hand, tracing up and down each finger as if she were relearning every knuckle, every tiny scar. When her inspection is complete, she stills. “I waited for you.”

“What do you mean?” 

“For years I thought…” She trails off, and he wonders if they thought the same, that the other would reach out, bridge the miles and the trauma; he’s lost in the past until she curls over him and then there’s no time for thinking anymore.

They emerge the next morning, blinking away the sun, and she pulls him through her haunts, dragging him to the coffee shop where they know her order, her favorite path through the park.

She drags him with glee through the tourist traps and side haunts; they have beers at tiny dive bars, eat pretzels from rickety carts, and walk city blocks until his feet and cheeks hurt, hand in hand.

She glows here, radiantly beautiful, and he realizes that maybe she as well has been bolstered by his absence.

Even though it’s not Colt’s borough of choice, it’s hard not to feel comfortable as she pulls him down the packed streets, weaving through crowds with the same agility with which she wove through highway car chases. 

She’s at home here as she is behind the wheel, and something in his chest tightens. 

She belongs here, vibrant as the surrounding city, crafting her own story.

~~~~~

He needs to get back. 

Empires don’t build themselves.

He doesn’t tell her but, apparently, he doesn’t have to. It’s achingly slow as he slides into her, savoring every moment to remember when he’s back home, alone. She rolls her hips against his and it’s almost painful, blinding light flashing patterns behind his eyelids as she takes her pleasure from him, quivering above him until he can’t stand it, flipping her over in one fierce motion to bury himself, again and again, world dissolving with her squeal of pleasure in his ears and his teeth in her shoulder.

“I can’t ask you to come with me.”

She starts, head jerking off his shoulder, and he can’t bring himself to look into her eyes. Instead, he focuses on the assignments scrawled on her whiteboard, each one a reminder of a goal to attain, and the graduation cap askew on her desk, a reminder of the path she had chosen, her story told in the golden tassels dangling to the floor.

“You don’t need to ask.”

This time, it’s him jerking up, head spinning to face her. “What do you…?”

“I was coming anyway.” She settles back against him, and he counts the puffs of breath against his skin as reassurance that this is real. “I told you… I waited for you. I had a go bag packed for two years,” he feels her lips tug into a rueful smile against him as she continues, “a backpack stuffed in my closet with clothes and stuff, just in case you asked, just in case you called.”

“I called. Once.”

“Wha… when?”

“February of your sophomore year.” His hand slides up her back to tangle in her hair. “From a payphone in Torrance. It rang once, and I hung up. I couldn’t… I thought better of it. I couldn’t mess it up for you.”

“You don’t mess anything up for me. You help me be great. We’re gonna be great together.”

He springs two thousand bucks for an additional plane ticket and upgrades to first class. She points out the NY landmarks as they climb into the air and then curls against him as she dozes. They land at LAX, falling into bed in the loft at the shop, and, the next day, she climbs aboard the back of his bike, arms warm around him as they pull over to the cliff.

This isn’t a story.

Stories have heroes and villains and everything is tied up nearly at the end, when the evil is vanquished and the hero gets the girl and the sun rises on a brand new day when everyone lives happily ever after.

This isn’t a story.

It’s real life and real life has real people, all their virtues and flaws, hopes and dreams, and there are no storybook saviors riding in to save the day --- at least not in Colt’s life.

There’s only him and this girl and the sun setting brilliantly beneath the ocean below, lighting the cresting waves in purples and blues, and this isn’t the end, not at all.

.

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[voidsentprinces]

Sorry to bang on about this again, but Stormblood is fucking weird.

We go to Ala Mhigo to liberate it but the Resistance has scarce resources and man power. Despite that we get a victory to push back a Garlean Patrol. And like...immediately despite the Skull reports in the Peaks. Raubahn thinks its best we push for the Bridge despite Rhalgr’s Reach’s flank being clearly open.

After a massacre lead by Zenos puts a pin on the whole Ala Mhigan revolution. Our plan becomes: go to Doma and release it from Garlean rule. Which takes the form of the Pirates of the Ruby Sea pushing the Garleans back into Yanxia. Yanxia is like one village and an underground spy network against a well entrenched Garlean Force. But because this time Zenos is super bored and has part of his helm broken. He just abandons the insurrection and leaves it to Yotsuyu. A woman who he abuses physically and mentally for the fun of it and who has been set on a war path due to the wrongs Doman society has inflicted against her as well as her family and because Zenos wanted to see what she’d do with power. Despite having all the time in the world to nip the Namai insurrection in the bud, she sends her Roe bodyguard who isn’t exactly the Garlean Caesar to push into unfamiliar territory with a sizeable but not overwhelming Garlean Force. To hunt the Warrior of Light and hope that the natives don’t take offense to an army just willy nilly waltzing into its territory.

Speaking of the Azim Steppe, Hien meets us, goes hunting with us, and then decides to use us as a bargaining chip along with his friendship with the Mol. To force himself into a sacred culturally significant battle of the clans to crown head leader of the Steppe. While doing this, Gosetsu of all people becomes super narrow minded. In a world of giant fly metal ships, spirits, mythlogical and demonic beings, and the fucking Warrior of Light. Gosetsu draws the line in his belief at a singular, diminished clan of Au Ra who believe in direct reincarnation. Which he openly besmirches in front of them all and...truth be told I don’t think he ever makes amends or wraps his head around by the time we do leave the Steppe.

The Garlean force is destroyed and pushed back but like I said, while it was a sizeable force it was by no means their entire fucking force. There was nothing stopping them from just sending a bigger force against the Namai village and drawing out the House of the Fierce forces nearby. But no I guess just tying a bunch of explosives to the Doman Castle on the off chance you could kill Hien was just the best possible option. So the battle of Doma Castle goes down and we leave Hien to rebuild a castle and retake any outlying Castrums, by himself.

Get back to Ala Mhigo, who have not really gained any new resources or man power. But at least Thancred is here now and the Scions have pitched in. The Scions being...a very small rag tag group of people. Who were outsmarted like four times by a very arrogant man, his obviously on a pay roll Lalafell commander, and a dude who couldn’t even be trusted to handle Garlean shipments let alone be considered a good candidate for Crystal Braves. But because Zenos has become lethargic and even though he has a Scion hostage. He just sits back as we take a bridge, the entirety of the the Peaks, push the entirety of forces back to the Lochs and practically snuff or capture them there. Handing control over to Fordola. Who he’s seen is socially and mentally abused and made a pariah in the Garlean and Ala Mhigan ranks before...also giving her power to see what the fuck would happen....fucking christ.

We accomplish this all without the help of the Domans who we went to liberate for the purpose of having their man power to help take back Ala Mhigo. In fact, we get 3.9/4 way through the recapture before they show up to help us with. *checks notes* Taking care of a small force of Lupin Beastmen...and some flying Garlean Machinery. With no guarantee that we would even be able to best Zenos. Who diminishes his own power by fusing with a Primal which we are practically masters at fighting at this point. Only for Zenos to cope out at the last moment securing victory for Ala Mhigo. Because we gave Zenos mouth bleed.

After successfully taking out Garlemald in Doma and Ala Mhigo. Alphinaud takes a victory lap by going with Arenvald on a treasure adventure. Which funds the reconstruction of Ala Mhigo. We then decide to take an already Pariah Fordola and put an explosive on her neck if she even thinks of betraying us. Before throwing her at some Primals. Cause she goes a sharingan now, giving her the Echo which is...Hydaelyn Tempering for all intents and purposes. Sending her to fight Gods. During this down time we also secure a Salt trade deal between Ala Mhigo and Ul’dah. Allowing for the transfer of leadership between Raubahn stepping down as the Flame General to leave to his people. A situation which you would of thought the Monetarists would of taken advantage of. But, I guess because we consulted Godbert and Lolorito. I guess they ain’t gonna do nothin.

We do however do something useful in helping teach Meffrid’s friend how to defeat the Loch’s marauding creatures. Before going back to learn off screen two of the worst people in the world, who also were responsible for the Crystal Braves betrayal and the sacrifice of hundreds on Baelsar’s Wall. Have now been side line to being arrested off screen and thus far are never seen or heard from ever again.

We then invite Tempered Beastmen to a peace meeting and act surprised when they summon Lakshmi to summon everyone. Lyse then runs to get Fordola to help on a gambit and gets there and back to the Throne Room faster than we can fly to the Ala Mhigan Quarter and back. We then run off to Doma because Gosetsu might be alive, Alphinaud racks up a huge bill with the Scions by buying a sword. We then fight off an invading force of Garleans before ferrying an amnesiac Yotsuyu and crippled Gosetsu across the Ruby Price. Whose pirates are nice enough not to fucking charge us for damages rendered. We then don’t force one of Yotsuyu’s past abusers to stand trial because he was kind of useful to the Doman Spy Network erasing all wrong doings. I fucking guess.

We are then visited by Asahi who might as well of shown up mustache twirling. Because after learning from one of her past abusers that Yotsuyu was sold to a brothel by her parents. How the fuck would you ever even begin to consider talking with her brother? But fine, I guess you needed the Doman people taken to Garlemald. Which, Asahi does eventually bring. Only to find out, he brought a bunch of crystals with him to turn his sister into a Primal.

After both are dead. Alphinaud, despite knowing that the Ascian possessed Zenos has just sent Asahi to kill them. Decides to go back with the unpopular Popularis to try to be diplomatic with ASCIAN POSSESSED ZENOS in the fucking court. Alphinaud also clearly forgetting how peace-forward the Emperor was when we both ran into him back in the Sea of Clouds.

...this story...is fucking baffling.

I might be forgetting a few details...maybe I am missing something that makes some part of this make sense.

[lovelessdagger]

Starlight - Chapter Six: Devil in Disguise

Pairing: Din Djarin x OC, Din Djarin x OFC

Rating: Mature

Enemies to Lovers, Slow Burn, Canon Divergence

Warnings: Explicit Language, mentions of drug abuse

Words: 3585

Summary: In her youth, she hadn’t had the fortune of friends, or really any amicable or civilized relationship. Boarding school provided about as much of a social life as one could expect. What with Imperial propaganda as the basis of all education. Churning out brainwashed children one year after the other. When she was moved to private tutoring, she never stood a chance.

Not that she considered the Mandalorian to be a friend, she didn’t. She was lonely but not desperate.

Starlight Masterlist Here

Read Chapter Five Here

Read on AO3 Here

Something’s off with the Mandalorian, that much had been obvious since she woke. He’s avoiding her, to a much greater extent than she would have expected from him.

She doesn’t know how long she slept in his lap that night prior, how many hours have passed since Eadu. Wults. The breakdown which left her with little dignity.

All she knows is that she is alone.

The smallest part of her, the foolish part that still believed in hope and her being worthy of joy, actually thought he would be there. Greet her maybe. Give her another ration pack. Ask if she felt any better.

Say he forgave her.

She supposes she’d done a much greater deal to him than she had originally thought. All he wanted was to find other Mandalorians. Maybe find the girl he kept speaking of. That side of the dilemma was one she still hadn’t completely understood.

Feelings weren’t her forte. Certainly not positive ones.

Instead she’s alone. Convinced he’s locked himself in his bedchamber with the child.

She couldn’t blame him, not really.

She would have done the same. Actually, she would have done a lot worse.

At least Coruscant would break her back into reality. Into the future she had cemented for herself.

The entirety of her life had been a useless cycle. Wake. Meal. Lessons. Meal. Training. Meal. Meditation. Sleep. Transitioning into adulthood, circumstances only changed for the worse. Schooling was replaced with missions assigned by her father, the devil that he was. Meals grew few and far between, combatant training turned from dummies to fighting assassination droids to real people.

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

Working for Neri’Kelli offered little difference in routine.

Then comes in the Mandalorian. The annoyingly stubborn asshole that he is, ruining her mission, missions really. Daring to be kind to her, to give an ounce of a damn, why?

He said he cared for the girl because she was good, but what the fuck did that even mean?

Because she, for possibly the first time in her pathetic little life decided to be nice? That she she risked everything to tell Neri about him?

Was that good?

He doesn’t know her. He doesn’t know how vile she is. How sinful her soul is. How that girl is the most terrifying person she had the displeasure of knowing.

She wasn’t capable of good.

She never was. Never will be.

The funny thing about memories is how completely unreliable they can be. In memory, everything can be misconstrued in emotion, perspective, biases, intentional or not, vision is clouded. It was amazing how something so pivotal to the experience of life could just be… wrong. Objectively.

The Mandalorian’s memories, she decides, are clouded. By what she couldn’t say exactly. Ignorance, arrogance, a cocktail of both.

She can’t entertain the thought of his emotions being more than that. More positive, caring, intimate.

The girl isn’t worthy of that.

History was different. History was objective. Based in fact and reality. The assassin prided herself by working off history, not memory. Objective, emotionless stories of the past. She’s seen enough to not care for the fluff of things anymore.

Eadu was a mistake. Where history and memory became one.

Eadu tapped into that part of her again, the foolish side. The one that believed she could ever escape the Empire. That she could be normal if she wanted to.

The words of Wults circles her head, like a scratched record on repeat. “What is it with daughters presumed dead reappearing out of thin air?”

She must have been like her. The girl crying for her father. The girl whose history was stuck in the canyons, screaming for someone to listen.

Historically speaking, the exploded laboratory was a relic of the war. Rebel victory against the Empire.

But in memory, it was a girl, practically a kid really. Scared. Wanting her father. Believed to no longer exist.

A reflection the assassin would rather not think about in all honesty.

She sits in the cockpit alone, fumbling with the buttons of the Razor Crest. Radio static plays in the background, channels aren’t reachable in hyperspace but anything would be better than the ship’s eerie silence.

She should tell him.

But should and will are entirely different concepts. For starters, will requires a conscious. Morality. You didn’t get as far as her with nonsense like that.

In her youth, she hadn’t had the fortune of friends, or really any amicable or civilized relationship. Boarding school provided about as much of a social life as one could expect. What with Imperial propaganda as the basis of all education. Churning out brainwashed children one year after the other. When she was moved to private tutoring, she never stood a chance.

Not that she considered the Mandalorian to be a friend, she didn’t. She was lonely but not desperate.

He makes it to the cockpit before she can talk herself into it. The kid rests his cheek on the cold Beskar of Mando’s chest, babbling quietly into the metal. They sit behind her.

There’s no vocal acknowledgment of each other at first, nothing either could say would do justice to dispel the tension between them.

This would be the worst time to tell him. It feels too late now.

“We should be landing soon,” she says. “You got up just in time, only a few minutes until we’re out of hyperspace.”

Mando says nothing. He doesn’t nod, doesn’t do that sigh he does when he’s especially annoyed, nothing. Through the reflection in front of her, he watches the kid instead.

“We won’t be going to the club, he’s not there this late.” She rubs her hands on her thighs, fidgeting with the wrinkles she creates in the fabric. “Level 1313 isn’t the greatest place in the galaxy, the kid should stay here. It’s not safe, even with the two of us.”

Nothing.

A minute passes. ”If you’re upset about last night, I’m sorry. But I meant what I said, I’ll get you your information.” The ship beeps in the background. Five minutes until sublight.

“How am I supposed to believe anything you tell me?” Mando asks, stoic and hoarse.

“What?”

“How do I know all of this wasn’t planned? How do I know everything I know about you hasn’t been anything but lies?”

Her heart sinks into the acid of her stomach. He knew.

“Why are you helping me?” he asks.

How did he know?

“I owe you,” she says.

There was no way he could know.

“For what?” he asks.

She had been so careful.

She pauses. “Nothing. Everything.”

He hums and they fall into themselves yet again.

---

They’re on a cargo airspeeder roughly a quarter of the size of the Razor Crest. Mando doesn’t know how she managed to get one, or how they managed to bypass the New Republic tunnel checks into the Underworld. No one got in 1313, and no one left unless given a special clearance granted by the Senate.

The descent takes a total of three minutes, its enough for her to leave the operation seat and throw on a cape of her own, hooded, it covers her entire body. Her face is covered again, hair tied back and hidden. His mind felt in limbo. The duffle bag of her personals was tossed aside by the entrance. Tucked away, folded along side all her weapons and clothing, his cape had been there the entire time. It was with her.

“Stick close, even one piece of your Beskar is worth more than anyone’s life down here.”

Unless—

“I don’t need your protection,” Mando says. His eyes catches hers in their distance. There was no guarantee for his suspicions. Atikya having his cape didn’t necessarily mean she was Lumina. She could have killed her, taken a sick trophy instead.

But who was he kidding.

This whole time, she had been with him this entire time. In his ship, in his refresher, in his shirt. Asleep on his lap. With his son.

The kid.

He must have known. This whole time he knew. That’s why he’s been so attached to her. That mind reading, sorcerer, little green womp rat knew. Maybe it was one of those weird Jedi powers, recognition of… aura or something. He recognized her as someone Mando cared about and immediately assumed he should to.

And Mando let him.

It was so obvious. Sure their voices differed. Atikya fell deeper, more sultry, confident. Lumina sounded like a song, the perfect lullaby. She had sounded so hesitant, scared even. It was enough to throw him off.

Still.

Same hair, same height, same teasing manner. Stars, her laughter was exactly the same as that on Tatooine. It lit up the room in joy and filled his heart with warmth.

And her eyes. He catches them again before she turns away.

Fuck her eyes.

He couldn’t see it until she cried. Why couldn’t he see it? She had carried herself so differently in the past days. Always arguing, fighting, brushing him aside at any moment. Avoiding eye contact at all times possible… so quick to hide her appearance whenever necessary.

“Suit yourself,” she says. “I’ll get Neri to tell you what you need to know, then you leave. I don’t need you sticking around to see anything you shouldn’t. You’ll take this speeder back to the surface, no one should stop you on the way up. If they do, show them this.”

She tosses a holographic card to him, inscribed an axe symbol, blood droplets under it. On the back of the card written in gold lettering: THE HOLDER OF THIS CARD IS IN EXEMPTION OF NEW REPUBLIC ORDENACE AS DICTATED BY THE GALACTIC SENATE. In the bottom corner in gold foil, the official seal of the New Republic.

“What about you?” Mando asks.

She shrugs. “If there’s a filter in that helmet of yours, I suggest using it. If you’re not used to the air here it’ll leave you sick like hell, and that’s if you’re lucky.”

The back plank of the ship opens into the city, sprawling in smog, the air is thick. She looks back at the Mandalorian over her shoulder. Words on the brink of her lips go unspoken.

---

“My first time here I was just a girl,” Atikya narrates. Buildings are decrepit, walls covered in fungi excreting toxins, gang symbols, and shattered glass. “My father had employed the Mandalorian on your wall to help train me in stealth and combat. He brought me here to learn how to evade Imperial surveillance systems. It wasn’t always such a shithole here, there used to be police and proper businesses, families. Now it’s mainly criminals, homeless people, black market vendors. So we’re left alone.”

They walk past a group of men huddled for warmth, their hands surround a pile of old droid parts set on fire. They’re covered in dirt and soot, tattered clothes layered as if they were on Hoth. They cough and smoke, passing along bottles of alcohol. In Atikya’s passing their slurred speech turn to quiet murmurs, each one nodding their heads.

At a corner, a female Mirialan lays unmoving, stomach protruding and round. Mando stops in front of the body, he’s sick. A can by her fallen hand holds few credits.

“Shit,” Atikya curses. She kneels by the woman, her hand hovering around the body. It shakes, and her shoulders tense. She lifts the woman’s arm, littered with markings. “It’s only been a few hours, overdose.” She grabs the can, pouring its contents into her hand. “Hey!” She approaches two men on the other side of the street, tossing the credits at them. “Show the lady some respect,” she says, nodding over. “Be gentle.”

“That necklace could be worth a pretty penny,” one hisses in front of her. He lifts the Mirialan by the shoulders, the other taking her legs. “Is it available?”

“Only the jewelry. If I find out either of you stripped her I’ll hunt you myself. Understood?” They nod wordlessly, sunken eyes fearful and avoiding hers. ��Good. Get out of here, she deserves to rest.” She waves them away, the men leaving with forgotten apologies.

“Where are they taking her?” Mando asks.

“The morgue. She’ll be expedited for cremation, hopefully word gets out about her by tomorrow night. We try to do blackouts whenever we find these things.”

“Blackouts?”

“Yeah. Nights where the level is silent. No selling, fights, loitering, anything that could cause a scene. Every building goes dark, depending who’s found there might be a vigil,” she explains as they walk. “Sometimes we’ll find kids, they usually get a day or so. It’s community mourning tradition.”

“That’s… really nice,” Mando says.

“No one likes seeing dead kids, or pregnant women. We might be Coruscant’s worse, but we’re not that evil. Most of us anyways.”Above, pipes rumble and clash. “We need to hurry. It’ll rain soon.”

“Rain reaches down here?”

Her head shakes. “It’s not water.”

---

Neri’Kelli’s compound, to the best of the Mandalorian’s ability can only be described as unfortunate. They enter to a foyer of gold ornate statues of naked women, framed art works lining the walls. Black tiled floors are sprinkled in flecks of gold reflecting chandeliers lighting as stars.

Two Trandoshans guard the entryway, blocking the pair in ridiculous red velvet suits. They stand with trembling hands clasped behind their backs, heads turned down.

“Move,” Atikya says.

“No can do ma’am,” one speaks up shakily. “Orders from Mr. Kelli, you’re not allowed in.”

She laughs. “Is that right? I need to talk to Neri, get out of the way.”

“I’m sorry we-“ He coughs. He coughs and coughs and coughs. Each grows increasingly more violent than the last, he coughs so much Mando starts to worry he’ll drop dead right there. His hands fumble around his throat, pulling at his collar.

“He’s in the lounge,” the other guard jumps in. The choking one stops, dropping to his knees with gasps for air.

Atikya nods, stepping over his body, Mando follows in caution.

They find the Twi’lek watching a film projected on the wall in the back of the compound. Fittingly, he thinks, it’s a horror, symphonic devastating orchestra the background of the scene. There are no guards surrounding him, no flashing lights, smoke, drinks. Just him, in the darkness of the red lighting.

Atikya sighs, tossing her bag in front of his feet. “Neri,” she says.

He looks up, grin plastered across pointed teeth. “Ayy’Numa.” He looks around. “I see you failed me, again.”

“Considering you set me up? I take it as a victory.”

“Set you up? I’m hurt. I would never do such a thing.” He’s unbothered, terribly so, more engrossed in the fake slaughter playing before him. “No bounties, no information.” He glances at Mando, “You understand don’t you?”

“Cut the shit Neri. You’re going to tell the Mandalorian everything he needs to know. No tricks. No lies.”

“And if I don’t?”

She pulls out the blaster strapped to her hips, the barrel inches away from his forehead. “I can do this the ugly way too.”

He scoffs. “I always did say I wanted to be burned by you didn’t I? But I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he chuckles.

“And why not?”

Neri leans forward, pressing a button under the table his feet rest on. There’s a loud buzz, a metal door automates open. Two men step out, the Imperial emblem on their uniforms unmistakable. Behind them, two more Trandoshans. “I’ve been in contact with old friends,” he says. Mando whips out his own blaster. “You’re selling for quite the price dear.” His fingers snap, the Imperials walk forward, guns raised to the girl. A disapproving finger wags at Mando. “Down. You shoot them or me, they shoot her.”

“You sold me?” Atikya asks, barely a whisper.

“You sold yourself the moment you tried to leave me. I did what I had to do, it was about time you learned some consequences.”

“Consequences?” She stumbles on the word. “Is that what you’re calling this? Do you have any idea what you’ve done to me?”

“No worries. I was given quite the briefing earlier. When you came here you were just a scared little girl. Look at you now, you’ll be dead without me. What was your plan when you left? You have no one but me.”

“That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?” He points to Mando, a steady stride poised in his direction. “You can replace your Mandalorian friend as many times as you’d like,” he chuckles, turning back to her. “It won’t bring him back.”

“Stop it Neri,” Atikya says.

“I thought you would have given up, it’s been so many years doll. What will you do next? Find a man to replace your father?”

“Neri-“ The men grab her, one placing handcuffs, the other holding his gun to the back of her head.

“Perhaps a droid. They have the same emotional depth as him.”

“Neri you’re being cruel.”

“Cruel?” The Twi’lek laughs. “Cruel… No, no this isn’t cruel. This is deserved.” Neri cackles, he faces Mando again. “I’ve got no business with you,” he says.“Find Viroz Petiko on Canto Bight. He knows exactly where to find your Mandalorians.”

“The spice lord?”

“Aye. He’s a hermit, only comes out a few times a year. But you’re in luck. He’s hosting a ball in a fortnight. He’ll tell you all you need to know.” Neri pulls a cloth bag out of his pockets, handing credits to Mando. “I believe our contract is done.”

He looks at Atikya and nods, then to the guards who approach him. “You’re right,” he says, pocketing the money. “I’ll be on my way.”

The guards lead Mando out into the hallway, mutters are audible behind them, followed by laughter, shouting. Atikya’s voice is the main cause of the latter, curses echoing out the doorway. Then, gunshots.

Mando strikes the jaw of the first guard behind him, grabbing the gun of the other, he shoots them in the head. Its an easy enough kill, leaving the Mandalorian entirely unfazed.

He runs into the lounge, movie still projected onto the walls. In the middle of the room, a cloaked figure huddled on the ground. The bodies of the two Imperials fallen where they last stood, dead.

“Bad choice Mandalorian,” Neri’Kelli says behind him. He holds Atikya, his knife pressed against her throat. “I told you to leave.”

“Let her go.”

“Oh don’t tell me you care for her!” Neri laughs. He grabs Atikya’s chin, forcing it forward. “After all she’s done to you? You know just as well as I do how useless she is.”

“I wasn’t asking. Let her go before I blast your brains out.”

Neri clicks his tongue, “I was hoping it wouldn’t come to this. I’ll give you a choice Mando. Take her,” he says, tilting his head to Atikya. ”And she dies” He looks forward to the figure who’s head moves. “Or. The other way around. Take a look, I’m sure the choice is clear. Of course you could always walk away.”

The figure breathes heavy. Cautiously, Mando walks towards her, blaster pointed out.

“I’m fine, go away,” she says. It stops his heart, sinking it deep in the dark pit of his chest. His head snaps to Neri, Atikya is still in his arms.

“Hey,” he says softly, reaching for the hood of the cape. Slowly, he pulls it down. In front of him, her face stares, a growing bruise on her cheek. “Lumina?” He asks in a whisper. She sits in front of him, face perfectly captured from memory.

“You have to leave,” she whispers. “I’ll be fine. Go.” Her words earn her a strike at the back of her head by Neri, crying out she falls forward.

Mando stands, he punches Neri in the jaw, his stumble back is enough to free Atikya. She falls on the ground, gasping. Neri chuckles, rubbing the point of impact. He aims two blasters, pointed at each of the girls. “Shoot me and they both get it. Pick your poison. Tick tock.”

Atikya sits up, looking between them all. “He took my weapons,” she says. “I can’t get out of this. Come on, use your brain for once, shoot her.”

Mando stares at her, then Lumina, then her again. He had been so sure. So positive they were one in the same. Everything added up, until now.

“Mandalorian—” Lumina says.

“I won’t hurt you,” Mando shakes his head.

Neri gasps, looking down at the assassin. “Are those feelings?” He asks, amusement trickling in his voice. “Mandalorian,” he whispers. “Don’t tell me. This is too good.”

“What is taking so long,” Atikya presses. “You met her once! She’s the whole reason any of this is happening. Shoot her!”

“Stop it,” Mando warns, facing her.

“I’m right! I’m right, I’m right,” Atikya says. She tries to stand, Neri’s blaster shoots above her head. She ducks down, glaring at the Twi’lek. “If you walk out we’re both dead anyways. I can actually help you. I have helped you this entire time. What did she do? She left you. She doesn’t care about you, if she did she would have stayed!”

“Atikya,” Mando grunts. “You’re not helping yourself.”

“Why don’t you tell him the truth,” Neri says, leaning over her. “Go on. He doesn’t know does he? Tell him.” Atikya’s head shakes, she looks away. “You want to live don’t you?” Neri asks. “Tell him the truth and it’s a guarantee.”

“Don’t,” Lumina says. “No, you can’t. Don’t say anything. Neri… Mandalorian please..”

Atikya scoffs, eyes rolling. “Not so tough now are you? Fine,” she mocks “You want to know why you should shoot her?” Her hand reaches up unwrapping her hair. “I really really really thought you knew,” she muttered. Her mess of hair falls down, then her mask. “Now do you believe me?”

No.

No. This isn’t right. This isn’t right at all. Something is wrong. Something is very very wrong. This couldn’t be possible.

And yet.

There she was. Again. Lumina. Or at least her face, just as he suspected. But…

Hesitantly, Mando’s arm raises, pointed at Lumina, or ‘Lumina’, he wasn’t entirely sure what was happening. A demented fever dream if anything.

Neri laughs manically, lowering his guns. “What a turn of events. What are you waiting for? Shoot him.”

“Get up,” Mando says, holding out his other arm for Atikya. She takes it and stands, hiding behind him. “You have a lot of explaining to do,” he mutters.

Her eyes roll. “Can we fight later?”

“You,” he says, motioning with his gun to the other girl. “Who are you?”

She swears under her breath, eyes squeezed up. She looks up at Neri, standing slowly. “You promised,” she said.

The Twi’lek shrugs. “I never promised anything.”

“Who the fuck are you?” Atikya asks tightly.

“Stupid isn’t a good look on you,” Lumina says. “Mandalorian… if you know what’s good for you, you won’t shoot me. I’m not the one who’s lying.”

“Wait… Stars I know exactly who you are,” Atikya says, stepping forward.

“Atikya wait—“ Mando starts.

“Oh please tell me you don’t actually believe her!” Atikya cries.

“You don’t believe me?” Lumina asks.

“I didn’t say that,” he huffs.

“She’s a monster Mando,” Atikya says.“Obviously this is Torek, he’s trying to fuck with you. He took my face.” She reaches back, taking his hand in her own.

And the world stands still. No flutters deep in his heart, no flickers of light across the walls. If anything it’s a boring stagnation of credits. No outside force tormenting him with what ifs and annoyance.

Nothing at all, except for one thing.

“What?” He turns to her, head tilted.

“I’m the monster?” Lumina whispers. “Do you think I’m a monster?”

Mando steps back from the two of them, his hands falling to his side. He looks between the girls, brows furrowed. He tries to study their eyes in the seconds between his words. He catches contact to Atikya, and she tilts her head questioningly. She was missing something. The spark of secrecy and depth he saw on Tatooine. Her offhanded disappointment in everything. Even the flicker of rage that sparked when she was upset.

It was like there was nothing behind them.

No thoughts, no feelings, no hidden kindness she would never admit to.

“No, never,” he answers Lumina.

“Excuse you?” Atikya frowns. “You’re fucking with me right?”

“Calm down,” Mando warns, gun to her face.

“I am calm. You’re the one being an idiot with a gun in my face!”

“C’mere,” he says to Lumina, motioning to her. He leans down to her, eyes level to each other. She tugs down the collar of her shirt, silver beaded necklace placed across her neck. The one from the vendor’s stall, stolen on Taris.

“Mando,” Atikya says. “What are you—“ Blasters fire before she can finish. The Mandalorian stands, fresh smoke waving from his blaster. The girl collapses on the ground, ending with a bullet between the eyes. The body’s form changes, brown skin turning a scaly green, face morphing reptilian.

“You should have listened when I said to leave,” Lumina says.

He hums, staring down at her. “I’ve done the leaving thing before. I won’t do it again.” He takes a pause. “Lumina?”

She nods. “Lumina,” she repeats. “Well, I’m glad you came to your senses.”

“Right. We’re talking about this later.”

“Of course we are,” she sighs, lifting her gun from the ground.

“Dammit!” Neri shouts, hitting the wall. “You ruined it!”

“I think you’re done here Neri,” Lumina pouts, stalking towards him.

“Not so fast,” Neri chuckles nervously. “I’m still all you have. It was just a little game pet. Lighten up.”

“You know, I think I’ll survive without you,” she says.

“Ayy’Numa,” he says. “Don’t do anything you’ll regret. You used to be so good to me, remember? You’re mine. We’re the same deep down, you know that.”

She leans forward, wicked smile across her lips. “I’m done being you,” she whispers. “Mandalorian?” She asks, looking back. “Will you wait outside? I have a promise I need to keep.”

He nods, squeezing her side. “Take your time.”

The last thing Mando hears when the doors shut are Neri’s blood curdling screams, and he prays she gives him hell.

CHAPTER SEVEN: PRETTY

[nitewrighter]

Humble Pie

None of the prompts in my inbox are currently speaking to me, so I decided to fill in a gap in my fic continuity and write something non-shippy. So here’s McCree’s recruitment into Blackwatch!

-----

It was the most crowded the Panorama Diner had been in god-knew-how-long. Overwatch agents and local law enforcement mingled in a mix of blue and beige, some clustered around table booths hasty laptop and holo-comm stations, some pacing about the floor, talking on their own comms and headpieces with officers back at Watchpoint Grand Mesa or even as far as Zurich. The most crowded Panorama had been, and no one was eating.

Well... almost no one.

“You sure you don’t want any?” said Gabe, pressing the side of his fork into the slice of apple pie, sectioning off the flaky crust and gooey filling.

Jesse McCree frowned sullenly at his own plate, his own slice of pie already in a puddle of melting vanilla ice cream. He moved to pick up his fork and the chain of his handcuffs clinked with the movement. He glared up at Reyes from beneath the brim of his hat, but Reyes kept calmly eating.

“It’s good pie,” Gabe said with a slight shrug. The corners of McCree’s mouth pulled inward in a repulsed little scowl.

“Ain’t you got anything better to do?” McCree growled. There was a pitchiness in his voice that spoke to the last miserable ekes of puberty in all their acne-speckling glory still clinging to his scrappy form.

“Oh we’ve got all the time in the world,” said Gabe with another forkful of pie.

“Where’s Ashe?” said McCree.

“Her folks posted her bail, and I have a stack of forms from her family legal team roughly as thick as your head that forbid me from saying anything further on her involvement in this incident.”

“Oh,” McCree huffed a little and eased back in his seat, “Guess that means they’re coming for me next,” A smug smile eased onto his features, but Reyes didn’t seem to respond to that, just let McCree’s words sit in the air between them as his fork scraped across his plate, gathering bits of pastry and melted ice cream dappled with cinnamon.

McCree first basked in the silence as victory, but as he noted the lack of reaction in Reyes, doubt crept in slowly. Reyes gently set his fork down on the side of his plate and looked up at Jesse. The calm eye contact from Reyes was all it took for Jesse’s nerves to bubble up in his throat.

“I mean... “ a short nervous laugh rippled out of him, “Th-that’s what they said, right? They’d be representin’ me, too?”

Reyes said nothing, just gave him a steady look.

“Right?” that pitchiness sharpened in his voice, nearly making it crack.

“...it’s a tough truth of this world, kid,” Reyes said, leaning back in his seat slightly, “Don’t get involved with rich kids. They can buy their way out of trouble, but you...”

“No--” McCree interrupted him, “No--there’s--there’s been a mistake. Ashe said--she said---” 

“Maybe there was honor amongst thieves out here, under an open sky,” said Reyes with a weary shrug, “But I can’t say the same in the US legal system. And it’s a story jurors would love to hear: the pretty, oil tycoon princess just wants adventure, just wants attention, she gets mixed up with the dastardly local trash... falls in with a bad crowd... oh but she can change, she just needs another chance--it was Jesse McCree doing all the work, anyway, it was all his idea. Is that even his real name? Oh but don’t worry, 12 years in a maximum security cell oughta straighten him right up.”

All color had drained from McCree’s face. The look in those eyes would have been heartbreaking if Reyes wasn’t well aware he was a little shit.

“So that’s the stick,” said Reyes, picking up his fork, “Do you want to hear about the carrot, now?”

McCree tried to bring some hardness back to his expression, but his brow was still crinkling, realizing just how easy it was for Ashe’s family to throw him under the bus and how he had refused to see it for so long.

“...I ain’t a rat,” said McCree, staring down at the pie, “’sides, not like I can give you anything useful anyway.”

“I’m not looking for information,” said Reyes, “I’m looking for insight. A sharp eye. A steady hand.”

“Fresh blood,” McCree tilted his head up a little. Reyes gave a small single nod.

 A small scoff escaped McCree. “You can forget it. I ain’t a narc and I ain’t cannon fodder.”

“Did I say I was looking for a narc or cannon fodder?” Reyes pointed a fork at him, “Overwatch has plenty of those in our ranks already, rebuilding after the crisis is going to take more than bright-eyed button-up dumbasses star-struck by propaganda,” Reyes set the fork on his plate again and pushed it aside, now picking up a binder that had been on the seat next to him and flipping it open to CCTV photos of McCree. One was of him fixing up a dilapidated hover bike, another was of him carrying groceries in both arms for an old woman, and there were several photos of non-lethal gun wounds, “We had to do months of research to pull off this sting operation, and you know what I saw? Guts. Resourcefulness. Resilience. The ability to defuse high-tension situations. The ability to convince other people towards your own goals. The marks of a man who lives by a code... or at least is starting to. You wanted to be the goddamn Robin Hood of Route 66, but you’re young, you’re cocky, and you’re sloppy, and now you’re here.”

“You know how many ‘you have so much potential’ weepy speeches I’ve had to sit through?” McCree muttered.

“I don’t know, but I can guarantee you that whether you say yes or no, this is the last one,” said Reyes.

McCree’s glance fell down to his handcuffs. “It’s like that, then?”

“It’s like that,” said Reyes.

McCree was silent for a long time.

“I can give you the usual spiel--three square meals a day, roof over your head, travel the world and meet new and interesting people, top notch combat training--but you’ve heard all that shit before, and that didn’t convince you then, so there’s no reason it’ll convince you now,” Reyes went on, “You had fuck-all to do around here, but it wasn’t like you were going to join Overwatch or the army just to get out of here--you didn’t want to get out by fitting into someone else’s mold.” 

McCree made a near-scoffing “hm” noise that hinted at a smile.

“Did I read you right?” said Reyes.

“Fuck you,” the words came almost warmly out of McCree and his eyes were fixed on Reyes with a pensive curiosity that made Reyes wonder how interesting the conversation got out here in the middle of nowhere. McCree rubbed his chin, with one hand, the cuffs forcing his other hand to lift and hang lazily with the motion. “...y’know, I saw you in all those Crisis propaganda movies... thought you’d be more like Morrison.” 

“Morrison can have all the clean-scrubbed soldiers he wants,” said Gabe with a shrug, leaning back in his seat, “Me? I want the survivors. I want the cockroach motherfuckers.”

McCree snorted at this.

 “Dying for a cause you believe in,” Reyes followed up, “That’s easy. I saw loads of people do it... doing what needs to be done though... being willing to live with that shit afterward because there’s more shit to be done... It takes a certain kind of person to do that. And I’d rather have that person on my team than rotting away in a cell.” 

“On your team,” McCree repeated, squinting skeptically. 

“After the proper training of course. And there’s medical care. Dental. You get dental with the whole outlaw thing?”

McCree’s lips self-consciously closed over his teeth on instinct.

“And for what it’s worth, we’ll let you keep the hat,” said Reyes.

That smile tugged at the corner of McCree’s mouth. He resettled in his seat slightly, picked up his fork and sectioned off a bit of his own pie, now a virtual pile of pastry and apple mush beneath the melted remnants of its vanilla ice cream.

“Cockroach motherfuckers, huh?” said McCree, taking a bite of the pie.

“Working team name. Jack’s been pushing me toward ‘Blackwatch’ but what the hell does he know?”

“What does he know?” said McCree with a smile, taking another bite.

[polpoka]

Birthdays

Shippings-Bapen/Pensen

Rating- K+

(Fluff)

Part 1

Basen wasn’t the type to celebrate his birthdays. It wasn’t that he regretted being born or anything, he just didn’t think it was any different from any day. 

‘It wasn’t that special,’ he personally thought.

However, his lover didn’t think so. 

“What! You- you don’t celebrate your birthdays!?” 

Basen looked at him, confused. 

“Yes? What about it?”

Pen looked shocked and got up from his partner’s lap.

“So many things!? What do you mean, ‘what about it’. A birthday is meant to be celebrated. How are you alright with just not doing anything special? What about gifts?”

“Gifts? I don’t need gifts. My family already does a lot for me.”

“Eh? B-but it’s your birthday!”

“So?”

“When is your birthday, anyway?”

“In a week. Why?”

Pen’s jaw dropped.

“ A week. And you tell me now.”

Basen just stared at him.

“You never asked.”

Basen was getting under Pen’s skin.

“...But you know mine.”

Basen however, had no clue as to what was happening.

“You told me yours.”

Pen huffed.

“You were supposed to tell me too, you know?”

“Was I?”

“You really-”

Pen sighed, sometimes Basen really got on his nerves, even though that was what Pen loved about him.

“I’ll be getting you a gift for your birthday. So, do you have anything you want currently?”

“Nothing in particular.”

Pen frowned at the lukewarm response.

“Fine. I’ll get you something I can guarantee you’ll like.”

“ Don’t get me a pen. Hyung already bought me one from Capital when he was visiting.”

“Tch.”

Pen grumbled.

That was the one thing Pen had guaranteed that Basen would love. He got up from the couch and looked the other man in the eye.

“I’ll see you in a week then.”

Basen looked a little confused.

“Why? You could still visit me. I rarely get to see you anyway.”

“I’ll be busy selecting a good gift and planning a party in a week.”

“A party is unnecessary.”

Pen ignored the last statement and walked out of the room, grabbing his coat in the process.

“That idiot,” he grumbled, before remembering his first meeting with his brother.

“Just like his brother.”

***

He walked through to the roads to take a closer look at the shops. Thankfully, he had the liberty to do so, since his secret bodyguards would be insuring his protection.

‘Being under disguise isn’t that bad.’

He then spotted something that caught his eye. A monocle.

 He could imagine the younger man wearing the monocle and having a permanent scowl on his face.

Pen chuckled. ‘He would look hilarious in that, but it suits him. Weird.’

He hummed as he walked down the street, eying various titbits, varying from magical equipment to clothes to flowers.

Nothing seemed to suit Basen, and though there were numerous times he was tempted to buy something and get it over with, he remembered his words and sighed, bringing him back to his goal.

“What would he like?” Pen mumbled.

“Excuse me, sir, would you like some help?”

He turned to see a very professional-looking attendant.

“Yes, I would like to see something for a seventeen-year old boy. His measurements are xxx.”

“Is it for the young lord?”

‘This woman really does have a keen eye.’

“Yes.”

The woman however, despite her stoic face, was trying not to show how nervous she was.

‘This man...He’s the prince of the Breck Kingdom, isn’t he? That face is something I’d recognize  anywhere, especially since we specialize in nobility. What is he doing here?’

“Please sit here and look at these.” She led him to a room which had the prototypes of the outfits, for the demographic, and handed him a list of the outfits.

Pen looked through the list of outfits and finally, after half a day, found something that would suit Basen.

It was a gorgeous coat which he was sure would look good on Basen. The shade of brown used, had a richer color,and a lovely germanium was used as the fabric underneath, the exact color as Pen’s hair. It had no embroidery and would definitely appeal to the younger man.

He smiled at the wonderful choice.

He walked out of the store, happy at the fact he had managed to finish one of the many tedious jobs to come.

***

He headed back to the residence that the Henituse estate had prepared for him to proceed with the plan, but Pen was a little too tired and, honestly just wanted to rest. He collapsed on his bed after his arrival at the designated room, and just as his eyes were about to close, he heard a knock.

He grumbled, and reluctantly parted from his comfortable bed to open the door and see who it was.

Pen frowned.

"Well, well, well, look who it is."

Basen looked down at his lover's feet, a little flustered and still confused at the response he got.

Pen noticed this. He really wanted to smirk at his victory at proving his point, but still kept a stoic face.

"Didn't I ask you to not visit me for the time I'm here?"

"B-but I didn't know that you'd be so stubborn on that point! It's just a birthday,"

Basen protested.

"Just a birthday? It was the day you were born. It should be celebrated."

Pen sighed. His rational side tried to reason with his emotional side. He knew that Basen was a different person, but he couldn't just let it go.

'Why does he not celebrate? It's his birthday. It's a day to be celebrated. Why doesn't he get it!?'

Basen was getting frustrated. He didn't understand what the problem was, yet he was being bombarded with these comments on his life, which he believed to be completely fine. Basen knew he wasn't an emotional person. He knew that he wasn't able to understand what his partner was feeling, and so did his partner know that he couldn’t.

 He just couldn't help raising his voice;

"Just tell me what's wrong already! I don't get it! I don't get these things if you don't tell me, you know that!"

Pen's eyebrows loosened and he became stiff. Though, it wasn't often Basen raised his voice, Pen never liked it when he did. He paused for a minute, took a deep breath and got his thoughts on order.

"Come in."

Basen frowned, but went through with it, taking a seat where he thought it would be appropriate to sit as a guest.

Pen walked to the tea brewer in the room,

"I'll get the tea."

"No need. I won’t be staying here for long anyway."

Pen halted and went over to take a seat right in front of Basen. They both let their eyes search the other  for a while to study what they were feeling, Pen felt sorry for driving his other half, as he called him so lovingly, to such a limit. His guilt started to overtake his anger.

"I'm sorry. It was my fault."

Unfortunately, Basen was irritated, which made his vision clouded. This wasn't something that he felt that often, but the situation was just so irksome.

He looked at him in disbelief and disgust.

Pen flinched at the gaze.

"It IS your fault. Prince, we established that. Moving on," he sighed,"I think I needed some time to myself, since you're going to act like that." He snapped, as he gestured towards the door.

Pen knew instinctively that Basen was losing his temper. The feeling was icky and seeped through his organs and through his bones, slowly creeping into his heart.

'No.' He started to wave his hands in panic and also partly because of the fear of the other man's rejection.

"Please-"

"See you later, Pen. Do not follow me.Well, you won’t. Since, you don’t want to meet me anyway."

He was cut off with those icy words, his name said with such disdain, he felt as if Basen was using his name as an insult in itself.

***

Basen got up from the couch and walked out of the room. He was hurt. Even though this was such a small thing, his mind couldn't register the way Pen had treated him. He had completely trampled over his emotions and way of doing things. He needed to be away from his lover for some time, to at least cool off.

It wasn't that these kinds of arguments weren't normal and a daily occurrence, they did bicker occasionally, but this time it had gone too far. Never had he expected Pen to follow his way of life, nor did he think Pen would want him to do so. Pen was a person who was not that accepting, Basen knew that, but still he believed that some things were different about them and those had to be accepted.

 He walked down the staircase to find a maid or a butler.Instead, he saw a familiar face, yet found it unusual to see at home.

"Hyung!"

He walked quickly to close in on the distance between them.

The older man looked down at him with a cold expression. 

"Basen," his cool voice responded.

"Will you be staying for long?" 

"No. I'll be leaving after dinner.”

“Alright. I'll just let you know that Mother would like to see you.” Basen wasn’t surprised, since he was used to this.

He walked past Cale, who noticed that his younger brother who he wasn’t that close with, was odd. since he did promise Og! Cale to take care of his younger brother, he asked him about what happened, but not that much not to encroach on his privacy.

“You look depressed. Did something happen?”

Basen stiffened, but nodded and walked out of the residence.

Cale felt a bit concerned, even though he didn’t show it on his face.

***

Basen went into his room, all his energy had been sapped and he brewed himself some tea and took a seat on his bed. He gradually sipped on it, emptying the cup, taking his time. He huffed the steam coming out of the cup. He needed to calm his nerves. The tea he was drinking, Earl Grey, was also introduced to him by Pen. He unconsciously found himself smiling and remembering the times Pen had got him the tea, not to forget, the first time he had got it for him.

‘He was so excited,’ he thought, he looked at his reflection in the tea and frowned remembering the events that had just taken place. He felt the tea in his mouth go bitter.

“I need rest.” 

He mumbled.

He quickly gulped down the entire cup and kept the cup on his side table, before falling over in his bed. He could feel a headache coming over him. He exhaled sharply.

“I’m tired. That’s all it is.” He mumbled, trying to ignore the thoughts running rampant in his mind.

His eyelids drooped, shutting his thoughts along with his eyes.

[otp-armada]

"Bellarke doesn't make sense," they say. They say because Clarke hasn't done anything that resembles romantic gestures toward Bellamy. 

Conceding to march to her possible death in exchange for Roan sparing Bellamy's life. Obstinately fighting against Bellamy's stubborn wishes to remain outside the Ark while Praimfaya burns to the world to ashes. Shattering her soul by choosing 100 people to live and writing his name on the list, because he must survive. She can't have it any other way. Relinquishing 50 of those spots to Azgeda when Bellamy is captured and threatened, and Roan calls her bluff. Desperation driving her to the extreme to ensure the survival of the human race, yet unable to kill Bellamy to keep the bunker closed and the grounders from possibly killing Skaikru. Leaving the guaranteed safety of the fort to stay by Bellamy's side on the brink of global cataclysm. The bittersweet yet soft head and heart exchange she prompted. The hesitation in her last remark before imploring him to hurry. 

4x13 ends six years and seven days post-Praimfaya with Clarke radioing Bellamy on the Ring. An activity she performs daily for six years. In any six years of my adult life, my only daily consistencies have been limited to breathing, eating, and sleeping. This girl is devoted enough to send her equivalent of love letters into the emptiness of space for 2,199 days. Season 5 opens with her trying to survive by herself in an apocalyptic wasteland. She spends her journey narrating to him her unvarnished struggles during the most traumatic experience of her young life to date. Her despondency. Her loneliness. Her agony. Her desperation. Her small victories. Her discovered treasures. Her determination. Her doubt. Her guilt. Her defeat. Her morbid self-reflection. Her relief and contentment. Her happiness. Her admission of missing him. She shares all of it with only him. Only he is permitted to know her to this depth. Not any of her other people on the Ring. Not any of her people in the bunker, a group including her mother. Not a spiritual communion to the great, big love of her life Lxa, situated on her throne in the high heavens and waiting for her trophy wife, for Clarke to stay connected to her dearly departed. Isn't that the sort of behavior that might occur by a bereft widow? 

After finding an oasis to rest and call home, even after discovering a companion to build a life with, she continues with her radio calls. It doesn't matter that he never received her communications. The importance of the gesture- the intimacy of sharing her life and thoughts with him while he was gone- remains the same. The magnitude of her devotion to him made clearer through the absence of a single responding utterance. 

She lovingly tells Madi stories of Bellamy as her hero. Gazing warmly, hopefully up at the stars as if she longs for her vision to cut through an endless pitch-black sky and find dark curls and freckled constellations from thousands of miles away.

"Bellarke doesn't make sense," they say. They say because post-Praimfaya ended with an established B/E.

As Clarke looks up at the stars, questioning if she'll see Bellamy again, we transition to our first glimpse of Bellamy after six years, forlornly looking down on Earth to the very spot of green where he is unaware of who is yearning for him to return to her. Contrary to Clarke, who is covered in warm firelight when thinking of him, he is colored in cold, muted greys and blue, no speck of warm hue. (The rhyming scheme was unintentional, but hey, I'm going with it.) Behind him, his family is sparring, but he's distant from them. He's trapped within this tin can, his arms folded, his body taut, not facing the view on the other side of the glass, but still enraptured by the sight of his home below.  

We see what changes to the characters and their dynamics have taken place until, at long last, we uproariously cheer as Bellamy & Co. find a way to return to Earth, the sole event we've been anticipating for eleven months, to the point we could feel it at our fingertips, jittery and tingly. Bellarke reunion!! He's going to know she's alive! Yes! Finally!! Break out the champagne! We're celebrating, dammit! It's going to be so damn emotional! Authors start crafting mental fanfics. People are bouncing off the walls like bright, errant fireworks, unable to sit still. I can't believe it's finally happening...what do you think it's going to be like? Will he run to her? Will he be stunned and speechless? Will they sob uncontrollably?!? They'll be clutching the life out of each other! Another Bellarke hug!! The very best hug!!! They're never going to let the other out of their sight again! He's going to meet Madi! Mom, dad, and adopted preteen make three!!! There's no way they're not getting together after this!! He just got her back after six years of thinking she was dead!! The reunion's not going to happen this episode, but maybe next week, when do you think? You mean we have to wait seven days before----

B e c h o.

We stood on the precipice of what we agonized and crawled through for eleven excruciating months, only for an anvil to drop, and our heads to be clubbed. Our bodies fell through the floor, descending lower and lower with immense haste, to take up residence in the seventh circle of hell. 

Do you think the framing of these events wasn't intentional?

Do you think the powers that be behind the creation of that calamitous bombshell for our protagonist, intended for us to root for B/E? 

By us, I'm not restricting the effect of the blow to Bellarke shippers. The entire audience, casual and fandom alike, shippers and non-shippers, was meant to await this reunion. We were all meant to feel devastated by this revelation. 

If they didn't want to invoke in us feelings of support for B/E at their inception, how in the name of all things holy is a purported B/E endgame your conclusion? 

"B/E doesn't make any sense," they say, "when last we saw them, she was his enemy. Nothing more, nothing less."

Do I think their pre-Praimfaya status as antagonists rendered it impossible for B/E to have a convincing love story or sexual relationship?

I think, if Jason were so inclined, we could have gotten flashback Ring rendezvous of secret trysts between Bellamy and a googly-eyed, blonde-wig-wearing broomstick designated Clarke 2.0. So no, I don't consider B/E a deviation inherently outside the realm of romantic possibility. Jason is an artist, and this show is his canvas. He can give life to almost any whim he'd like in his work of fiction. Not only that, but B/E is also hardly the first pairing in this series modeled by the enemies-to-lovers trope.

"Bellarke doesn't make sense, they'd say, "absent any concrete evidence alluding to a romantic relationship." "Seven years running, and not a trace of romantic love," they'd conclude. 

Remind me, what was B/E's sublime prologue into coupling up again?

Furiously choking the life out of an enemy in a fit of rage two episodes before revealing her as his new girlfriend evidently can be considered by some an adequate precursor to a sensational romantic relationship. But endangering Earthkru's lives by risking the wrath of two societies in refusing to let Clarke die, pumping her heart for her to stay alive while begging her to fight so she can come back to him, cannot be. 

Either this show is quite the oddity, or it’s fandom's periodic knee-jerk, ass-backwards, charming zeal at play. 

The lack of rising development is all the more reason why B/E's grand unveiling demanded perfection. Instead, our first insight into their union is overshadowed by Clarke and the impending Bellarke reunion. B/E isn't central enough to the narrative to warrant focus that would put to rest any discord of illegitimacy. But you know which pair of the two is concentrated on for seven seasons now? Three guesses... 

But don't despair. Fandom has decreed, by its own appraisal, the shorthand of kissing and sex has rectified the discrepancy of a complete absence of pertinent on-screen development.

"It's not ideal storytelling," they say, "to exclude B/E's development. But The 100 has historically been a plot-driven, fast-paced, contained drama. It has always evaded expanding on character dynamics to fans' satisfaction.”

The writers have done more to present Josephine and Gabriel as soulmates with less airtime than B/E ever had in total. They don't lack the skill or time to fortify B/E in anyone's mind as the central romance. Jason made a conscious choice not to. Why would he? Does he think the endgame love story of the show's deuteragonist doesn't merit attention to detail by the writing? Or does it seem more likely, it was never his intention for B/E to cross the finish line?

And, for a plot-driven, fast-paced, contained drama, they sure have an awful knack for finding the time to showcase Clarke's kicked puppy reactions to an embracing B/E. We've had three thus far. One for science, one for emphasis, and one to say, "Do you people get it now?"

"Bellarke doesn't make any sense," they say, "if they wanted each other, they'd have gotten together by now." 

A long time ago, someone stated, "Lovers are supposed to do that you know and if they don’t do that it means their relationship isn’t romantic if sexual intercourse isn’t added." 

And to that, I posed the question, "Where exactly is it written that "if a pairing is not made canon by season [insert arbitrarily chosen number here], it will never be made canon, period?" Was I just absent from fandom class that day and skipped to the lesson on slow-burn ships?" We are going into the final season, and I stand by this question today as I did then. Bellarke could refrain from physical expressions of love and candid confessions to season 17, and their journey could continue to exemplify a love story. Because the absence of either one doesn't preclude two people from falling in love. Nor does the inclusion of either one necessitate two people falling in love. 

"Bellarke doesn't make any sense," they say. They say because Bellamy is her dearly beloved, but platonic, best friend.

Well, you've got me there. I'm stumped. How can it be possible for friendship and romantic love to behave as anything but mutually exclusive concepts? It's not as if friendship can be contorted to serve as a foundation for love.

 The cornerstones of strong friendships include trust, care, support, devotion, and many other features of a similar nature. Love- deep and genuine love, that is- involves frequent kissing and passionate, vigorous sex. The wilder the display, the stronger the pairing. The dozens of couples, love interests, and sexual liaisons before B/E who have kissed and had sex before dying must not have first consulted the manual for proper protocol.

And the inverse? Once two people fall in love, they cannot fall back to say, a familial connection. No, no, no. Such a regression would be the work of a tragic, reprehensible flaw in the cogs of the universe. Speak nothing of it.

"It doesn't make sense for B/E to break up," they say, "when B/E has stayed together for two seasons sans any indication Bellamy loves Clarke more than Echo, enough to want to leave his loving girlfriend."

How many times has Bellamy tried and failed to honor his commitment to Echo? How many weak attempts are met with a corresponding scene of Bellamy shifting his attention to the girl he tells himself to get over?

Echo leaves for Shallow Valley, his focus immediately turns onto persuading Clarke not to leave his side. He symbolically chooses Echo in the fireside scene by touching her sword. Yet, he looks at his girlfriend for the first time since their separation with the most aloof expression unsuitable for the occasion. No hope to be found anywhere. They share a brief reunion hug, no time for intimacy. He is reunited with Clarke and casts a nervous glance at Echo when bombarded with Clarke's appreciative gaze. Still no time for intimacy between B/E before a decade-long nap, but time can be carved out for a warm, flirty Bellarke reconciliation, complete with intensive heart eyes. No inspired, emotionally wrought, double sunlit embraces for B/E. If Bellamy is going to look out of a window at his future home, he'll either be by himself or snuggling Clarke into his side. There's no place for Echo in the lock of his arms anymore, only room for flanking him in the way loyal lieutenants tend to do. His girlfriend glances over at him as their exploratory team roughly plummets to new territory, and he does the same at Clarke. B/E reconnects lakeside, him asking for a swim with her and leaning into her arms at a campfire. He sits by her side on a swing set, amidst talk of moving their people into an abandoned village. And it's all well and good for B/E, right? They're presenting the front of a happy, unified couple. 

Until...Clarke walks away behind his sight, and he leaves Echo's side to seek Clarke's missing presence where the flirting and warm gazes and near confessions are kicked into overdrive. He calls Echo to hear his latest discovery, then proceeds to ignore the hell out of her, communicating exclusively to his co-leader. He stares wistfully at Clarke dancing with her new flavor of the night, cannot stop doing so even while excoriating Echo for her stoicism, expressing his frustration at her inability to fulfill his emotional needs. 

He recommits to Echo, as Clarke is kidnapped and her body is stolen, with nary a transition, suggesting we are meant to link the two incidents together. For all his resolve to face the future with Echo, he spends the whole of the next episode with a wary eye on Clarke, to the point that he is the first to realize Clarke is not herself. In the ensuing arc ranging from 6x05 to 6x11, approximately half of the season, what was B/E, again? Was that a thing concurrently happening with Bellamy's Operation: Save My Clarke? Because I seem to be able to recall only Bellarke goodness. Oh, my mistake, there was the consoling hug which, oddly enough, did nothing to soothe him. As evidenced by his choice to grieve alone. No girlfriend he wanted close by for comfort, knowing clear as day she couldn't provide it if she tried. Not with who he just lost. 

B/E gets another brief reunion hug, the majority of which is spent with him peering at Clarke. The show saw that hug and raised us an Austenesque-quality counterpart that would do Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy proud. 

"B/E endgame is the only sensible outcome," they say, "they love each other so much."

I don't contend they don't love each other. But we are shown two people determined but incapable of snuffing their deep-rooted feelings out of noble propriety, and most importantly, out of needless fear of unrequited love. And another two people who sought- and failed- to keep grasping the wisps of a gentle relationship slipping out of their hands since they left their comfortable space bubble. For anyone in this conundrum to be happy, the only natural course of action is for the latter to call it quits. The writing has been on the wall for too long.

Maybe a single Bellarke scene plucked out of the lineup can be interpreted on its own as platonic buddies being platonic buddies. But when all those individual moments are woven together, what forms is an ornate tapestry with a pattern so vivid, any inane rhetoric involving a hint of the word "platonic" is little more than ludicrous anti drivel transparently cooked up by those wishing a different endgame.

I hope you've enjoyed my second long-winded rant, @sometimesrosy, @jeanie205, @travllingbunny. One born of a teaching moment in which I learn for the umpteenth time it's best to steer clear of Twitter.

[write-a-bad-romance]

Two Hares Running Side by Side [Part II]

Part I here

Characters: Jean d’Arc, Napoleon Bonaparte, Sebastian, Comte de Saint-Germain, minor characters adapted from historical figures

Pairings: Napoleon x MC, Napoleon x Jean, Sebastian x Saint-Germain (main)

Words: 2940

Warning: Slight gore and major character amputation.

"Herr Mozart....or, Wolf as he asked me to call him, was unexpectedly amiable to my visiting him. One of his violinists even invited me to play, and I was elated when they applauded me and...."

Leon didn't need to read the rest of the letter. He understood.

There was little you could hide from Leon, not even in writing. He had long suspected his fiancé's fondness for the young musician. The more he read her letters, it was as clear it went beyond simple admiration.

Her feelings didn't go unrequited, it seemed.

Leon was a kind man. He didn't believe that he was, but everybody else insisted he was. He didn't climb the ranks of the Grande Armée through hard work and ingenuity alone.

Leon didn't want to accuse his own fiancé of unfaithfulness. Leon, on his part, believed his feelings to be earnest. But could he say the same for her?

With the letter crumpled in his fist, he strolled along the streets, in need of a distraction. He had gotten so used to having people around, to getting himself so busy there was no time to nurse festering wounds. Thoughts grew louder in silence, after all.

He stopped at a familiar bookstore, one he and Sebastian liked to frequent on breaks. Large yet cozy, and only sparsely crowded. It was the perfect sanctuary, and Leon grabbed a novel from the shelves to start reading.

But none of the words drew him in, and soon Leon put the book down to observe the other persons. One was particularly noticeable, a tall figure clad in a black shirt.

It was none other than Sergeant-Major d'Arc, flipping through a selection of leather-bound notebooks.

Jehanne, Leon gulped uneasily. Memories of gloved fingers stroking the nape of his neck resurfaced.

Leon (along with Sebastian and Saint-Germain) swore to pretend nothing happened to preserve the sergeant-major's dignity. The man in question himself woke up with no recollection of what transpired the previous night, and everything was back to usual.

But Leon's head was currently in a jumble, and it took him a while until he noticed that the other man had spotted him. 

Iolite eyes bore into emerald eyes, and Leon had never felt more vindicated in his entire life.

So he did what most sensible men would do, sweep it all under the rug and show your opponent your flashiest grin.

"D'Arc! What a coincidence!" he greeted. "You alone?"

D'Arc held his chosen notebook to his chest, a rosy-colored thing that didn't suit him. "Mm," he answered. "My friends are currently preoccupied....elsewhere, and I need to replace my old journal."

"Ah, so you're keeping a journal!" Leon exclaimed, only to scold himself because soldiers keep a journal nowadays and that it's an obvious thing to say. 

"Not for....reasons you might expect," D'Arc looked away. "I've been told that my writing is terrible. Gilles suggested I practice my cursive in a notebook."

The other man's bluntness never stopped being a surprise to Leon. "Ah."

They exited the store together, and Leon thought about following him for the entire day. Leon felt guilty for imposing himself on the man, but it was bound to be a long day, and he needed a distraction. 

Was it safe to assume he was close enough to Jehanne—D'Arc to take up his personal time? Soldiers don't usually grope their superiors when they're drunk.

It didn't hurt to ask, Leon thought. And his initial embarrassment was already long gone. "Seeing as we're both alone, why don't you accompany me? I can treat you if you like."

Leon could sense some slight hesitation on Jean's part.

"Fine," he muttered. "I don't see why not."

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D'Arc ended up following Leon throughout their entire excursion. The Sergeant-Major wasn't one for small talk, but Leon didn't mind the peace. 

He had to admit it was immensely refreshing to learn more about d'Arc. One, he was apparently skilled in sewing, and that he'd mended his own uniforms flawlessly. And second, he had as much interest in flower viewing as he did in testing weapons.

There were rumors about a soldier whose firearms expertise was unmatched and was second to none in swordsmanship. This mysterious soldier was said to swing his sword out in the open every morning without fail, even during midwinter.

The sharpshooter turned out to be d'Arc, who didn't seem to take much pride in his commendable habits. He even asked (insisted really) Leon to keep them a secret.

Even more blackmail material, Leon thought, amused.

But Leon felt some degree of affection for the innocent man, and something tugged his heartstrings when d'Arc marveled at the posh café they entered. There was probably none in his hometown, Leon wagered.

D'Arc, the humble man he was, refused everything else but water (Leon insisted he try the café’s renowned rose tea). And it wasn't until Leon ordered a plate of colorful macarons that the youth's interest was piqued.

And you said you're against sweets. Leon smiled as he took a bite of his own crêpe.

He was puzzled when d'Arc suddenly bent down and set a sheet of crumpled paper on the table. 

Leon's eyes widened in recognition but didn't immediately snatch the letter back into his pocket.

"Must have fallen when I took out some coins," Leon smiled. "Thank you, d'Arc. I didn't notice."

"I didn't read it," d'Arc whispered.

"I beg your pardon?"

But there was a tinge of redness on his cheeks, and the way d'Arc tried to bashfully hide his face was....was....

Darling. But damn the entire Grande Armée if Leon had to say it out loud. Last he checked, he had none of Sebastian’s inclination.

"Don't worry about it," Leon cleared his throat. "You've told me your secrets, and I showed you mine. It's alright."

D'Arc raised a thin eyebrow. Any other officer would've found the act insolent, but Leon wasn't just any officer.

He was a considerate officer. And a distraught one.

"I suppose I can't blame you for peeking then," Leon smiled wryly. "I should've kept my problems to myself. Put that letter back in my quarters or something,"

D'Arc listened calmly and took a sip of his tea.

"But maybe I'm just not capable enough to solve this one," Leon mumbled. "I'm never good at this.... at this sort of thing. She's always the one to go after me and make me sit down and....and talk. But we're far away from each other, and I'm at a loss on what to do."

Leon ran a hand through his black locks. He was crumbling in front of his subordinate, but it didn't matter. He trusted that d'Arc trusted him with his secrets, and that was grounds for confiding in the man, wasn't it?

And d'Arc's presence was calming, like a sturdy bastion amidst the whirlwind around Leon.

"We're drifting apart. My fiancé's got a fancy for this gentleman whom I had introduced sometime during the holiday. I can't entirely blame her," he continued. "He was elegant. Very charming, I might add. A bit standoffish, perhaps. But definitely attractive in every sense."

He straightened the creased letter over and over. 

"At least he can be by her side all the time," Leon toyed with his fork. "I never thought once that I'd be losing her. We've been friends together with Sebastian. I simply can't imagine the thought of us, well....not being together."

"I'm not supposed to leave this as it is. But," Leon's breath hitched. "I have too much on my plate right now. A part of me wished I could run away. I don't run from problems, I don't. But this? This is something completely new."

When Leon finally raised his head to look at d'Arc, the man was staring outside the window. 

Had Leon finally bored him?

"Choose your battles," d'Arc finally replied. "Be it at home or at the front."

D'Arc snatched a macaron and rotated it between his gloved fingers.

"I have no real experience in matters of the heart," he went on. "But you are a capable commander, Second Lieutenant Bonaparte. Even if you can't guarantee they'll eventually result in victory, you're always willing to see them through."

Leon listened to d'Arc, articulating his words like a saint. Do pious men all speak in tongues?

"Look," Leon countered delicately. "War and people are two very different things. You can't just think about...defeating the other person and be done with it."

Leon sighed. "Friendships may suffer, and hearts can break. I don't want to hurt her. I don't want to hurt...us."

"But does it hurt you?" D'Arc asked.

"Huh?"

"Does it hurt you?"

Leon laced his fingers on his lap. Did this cause him to lose sleep? Did it cost him hours of pondering whether the relationship had any hope of salvaging?

If the relationship was even worth salvaging?

"I'm not sure," Leon breathed. "I still love her. Very much. But I'm afraid I won't be getting much rest if I let this on any longer."

"Good," D'Arc nodded. "You can't fight a war while having...troubles from home lingering at the back of your head."

"Troubles?" Leon couldn't help but ask.

"My father," D'Arc confided. "I haven't spoken to my father since I left home. From the letters my brother Pierre sent to me, it seemed he hasn't quite forgiven me for departing."

"I see," it was a fairly common problem among recruits, especially those as young as d'Arc when he enlisted. 

To some, it sustained their will to survive the wars and come home. The less fortunate ones, however...

The coffee tasted bitter on Leon's tongue. D'Arc had to survive, and so did the other countless young men under his wing. Their wings.

Napoleon chuckled. Funny how he was moaning about his love life a moment ago. And now, he was concerned for the younger man's personal struggles.

Friends, eh?

"Is something the matter?" D'Arc tilted his head, exposing a swath of his slightly tanned neck. He had become less paler over the years, Leon noticed. 

"It's nothing," Leon ceased his chuckling. "Tell me more about your family, then, d'Arc."

His chest now felt a little lighter, and Leon decided he'd deal with the letter in the evening. For now, he was content listening to d'Arc talking about the mysterious Pierre and his hometown.

Twilight came, and Leon finally found his courage to write to his fiancé and ask about Herr Mozart.

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"So things didn't go well between both of you," Sebastian confronted Leon one day over coffee.

"I didn't— I haven't told you. How did you know?" Had Leon been too obvious? Or was it Sebastian's uncanny ability to read people?

"She's been writing to me, too. You both broke off the engagement pretty neatly, I must say," Sebastian sipped his mug. "You even wrote to her parents and told your mother. How gentlemanly of you."

Leon was wary of the tone in Sebastian's voice.

"But you didn't even tell me, your friend of ten years!" He hissed. "I thought you know better, Napoleon Bonaparte!"

"I'm sorry," Leon answered sheepishly. "I wasn't sure how to go about the entire issue, even when it was just between the two of us. I wanted to talk to you, but everything was resolved quicker than I expected."

Sebastian's lip thinned. "Congratulations,"

Outside, the wind was roaring, and mist descended upon the camp. 

"So," the grey-haired man clapped his hands. "You're free to pursue whoever you like then."

His friend's abrupt change of demeanor baffled him. "I've just broken things off with my childhood sweetheart. Is a man not allowed to rest?"

"Ah, but she already left you for another man. All while you were moping," Sebastian pointed out, "I'm not telling you to take revenge or anything. But I can see you've already sorted things out in that department."

"I have absolutely no idea what you mean," Leon retorted.

"You've got your eyes on somebody," Sebastian waved his hand. "Nothing can escape me, Bonaparte. Don't think I've been unaware."

"There is absolutely nobody," Leon swore. "I've not met with another woman for ages, and you know that."

Sebastian stepped forward and flicked Leon on the forehead.

"So is that what you prefer, Bonaparte?" The man grabbed Napoleon's shoulders, practically shouting in his face. "Lanky, quiet youths with narrow eyes?"

"I-I don't follow," Leon rubbed his forehead. That flick stung!

"So, you like them beautiful? Okay, I can see why!" The other man continued his rant, "Was I too manly for you? How come you're suddenly paying attention to other men when I'm already with Saint-Germain?"

"The fuck are you even talking about." Leon had all but lost Sebastian at this point.

Sebastian finally released his hold on Leon, who stared bewildered at his best friend.

"You said you had no interest in men when I confessed to you," Sebastian closed in on Leon. "But you're eyeballing Sergeant-Major D'Arc all the time."

It finally dawned on Leon that Sebastian was referring to their budding relationship. Their strictly platonic relationship.

"Is that what you're thinking?" Leon gulped. "Nothing more than brotherly affection. Yes, that's it."

But the slate-colored eyes only narrowed at him skeptically.

"Oh, I give up! I accidentally consulted him about her letters, okay?" Leon gave in. "I admit that's rather private considering I haven't known him for long, but he shared his secrets too, alright? I wasn't the only one airing my dirty laundry out in the open."

Sebastian stared down at him silently.

"What?" Leon frowned. "Are you jealous or something?"

But he was instead met with laughter from the other man. There was a mischievous glint in his eyes.

"No, at this point, no." Sebastian giggled. "I have my man, and you get yours. You're free to come crying to me whenever your relationship with d'Arc goes south, though. Consider we're even after keeping me in the dark about your breakup."

"Incomprehensible as always, Adjutant Second Officer." Napoleon squinted his eyes.

"Go at him while it's still eager, then," Sebastian brandished his mug exaggeratedly. "You're not the only one doing the ogling, you know."

"What—" but he was left hanging as Sebastian opened the tent flap and went outside. 

"Time is of the essence, Bonaparte!" The man shouted. "Good hunting, I say!"

Napoleon was left in the empty tent with another headache.

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Leon wondered if there was a sliver of truth in Sebastian's words.

God only graced his most beautiful angels, and d'Arc was one amongst throes of monsters in uniforms.

Some joked that he was a sort of holy man, sent by God from the provinces to aid the Grande Armée in its lowest point. Others say he was, in fact, a he-witch who could not die and could not be grazed by any bullet or sword.

He was a lucky bastard, Leon concluded. A lucky bastard who also happened to be a living embodiment of beauty.

D’arc was perfect in many ways that Leon and his men couldn't be. He was pious, educated despite his origins, and had no interest in women whatsoever. 

The sergeant-major was kind to nurses and milkmaids they met while passing villages, yes. But he was also known to fly into an unexpected rage when he discovered his lads were smuggling wenches into camp.

When teased why he didn't just volunteer to be a standard-bearer, d'Arc simply answered, "You men wouldn't survive a day without me behind the cannons."

It wasn't ambition, Leon noticed. Some men just found their purpose after escaping death after five battles despite no real hope of staying long upon entering the camp.

"I wager he's just horribly repressed," Sebastian joked one evening over wine. "Hey, maybe you'd get a chance with him. With those types, you never know!"

Leon thought of nothing when his best friend suddenly confessed that he harbored feelings for him, back when they were only with the army for six months. He kept mum when he learned Sebastian was visiting their blond doctor after hours and only coming back before dawn.

Hell, Leon himself was been looking forward to a quiet life with his fiancé and their children, back in Paris. He also never expected to be left to continue his life in the barracks, tending to an empty heart and a never ending war.

At least, there was now a face to look for after the smoke cleared.

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"We only had to amputate one of his legs. He'll make it through the night. I guarantee he survived." Saint-Germain's words rang in Leon's ears as he weaved through hordes of medics.

He didn't find Sebastian immediately after they retreated. And now he knew the reason why.

The ward smelled of soiled linen and painkillers. It was a miracle that they found a makeshift hospital nearby, a university building filled with rows of beds and better supplies than what they were used to having out in the fields.

Leon found Sebastian on a bed near the window. There was an empty space where the left leg should have been.

Leon scrambled to grasp at his pale hand, thankfully still warm. Yet the man barely stirred, even as the afternoon light streamed in and hit his bandaged face.

"Sebastian...." Leon whispered, "Can you hear me?"

But the man didn't. The morphine was potent, and Leon was left to stare blankly at his best friend's prone body. 

Nurses came and went, and more soldiers were wheeled in. The clamor inside the infirmary was constant, but Leon was deaf to everything but the slightest rustle from Sebastian's paralyzed form.

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[mosscaps]

❄ taz november celebration ❄

theme: “by the fire” for day six of @taznovembercelebration

summary: Taako is sent out to retrieve the Light on a barren ice planet in one of many stolen century cycles. He does not take it well. 

read on ao3 

“Stupid fucking ice planet,” Taako wheezes, whipping off his snow-dampened gloves and thrusting his hands over the fire. “Fuck!”

He regrets it instantly and draws his hands back, fingertips singed and stinging. He sucks on his thumb, stymied, the warmth of his breath against his knuckles barely touching the deep cold threatening to numb his exposed flesh.

He shoots a halfhearted glare at Lup tending to the fire beside him, lazily shooting bursts of flame into the crackling woodpile. “Can you maybe make it a little hotter? Or like, something besides lukewarm? I can’t feel my fucking face over here.”

She shoots him back a scathing look in response. The tips of her ears are a bright cherry red, her cheeks just a shade lighter. She’s bundled in three patchwork coats and has a scarf pulled up close around her neck, flyaway strands of yarn and fluff sticking to her lips as the harsh winter wind whips around them. She plplplbths, spitting the fluff out. “I’m doing my best, hot shit, does it look like I’m enjoying this?”

“Oh, no, Lup, I thought you LOVED—” Taako’s bitter jab is cut off by a whole-body shiver. It makes him bite his own tongue, and he lets out a stream of curses, clamping his arms in a vice over his knees in an attempt to preserve what’s left of his rapidly-waning body heat. “Gah!”

“I can’t turn up the heat, dumbshit, we’re sitting on ice,” Lup says, more to herself, the annoyance in her voice at her own impotence cut only by how hoarse she sounds. She massages her throat gently, making a face.

“Make the fire elf go on a mission on the ice mission, what a good idea,” she mocks, stirring the fire up to a crackling peak with a pointed vengeance. The ice melts slightly around the wood, dampening the ends. In seconds, the smoke turns black and fills the air around the fire, working its way into the twins’ noses and eyes. Lup curses ungracefully.

“Here,” Magnus says, appearing behind Taako and draping a cloak over his shoulders. Taako slumps under the weight, curling his stiff fingers around the heavy cloth. “Thanks, Magnus. Hey, quick Q—how are you not freezing your ass off right now?”

“My ass is toasty,” Magnus says. “Here, look.”

Magnus reaches under his ill-fitting eelskin coat, gifted by a particularly enamored young village woman, and pulls out a small burlap sack. He palms it and pulls the cord gently, so the top starts to unravel. Steam escapes from the sack, curling upwards until it’s snatched by the wind. Taako’s eyes widen. “You sneak!”

The sack, full of uncooked grain, wafts a not-unpleasant peaty scent over to Taako. It’s almost enticing after frankly too many weeks of poorly-cooked blubber. When they stayed at the village, the food was divine—inspirational, even. None of them had mastered how to cook it though, and even Davenport’s best attempts were unfruitful and generally tasted worse than they looked. “I thought we ate it all!”

“Don’t tell,” Magnus says, putting a conspiratorial finger to his lips. Taako shoots a conspiratorial look towards Lup, who mouths, there’s no one else here? as Magnus roots around in his jacket, his muscles bulging comically as he tries to stretch to reach the pockets on the back. Finally, he digs up a second and third sack, tossing them unceremoniously in the fire.

“Wh-” Lup starts to object, but the sacks don’t catch flame. Instead, they sit in the embers and start to steam, the scent of fresh grain wafting up to their nose.

“Divine,” Taako breathes, closing his eyes, warmed for just a moment. After an impatient few seconds, Magnus dips his hand in the fire and quickly grabs the sacks by their ties.

“Owch! Fuck!” He yells, clearly not having been quick enough to avoid a light scorching. He flexes his fingers, tossing the sacks between his hands, still steaming.

“Magnus, buddy,” Taako begins, the beginnings of a wicked smile in his tone, but Magnus turns and presents him with one of the sacks, and Taako quickly redacts his scathing roast of Magnus’ empty skull. “Ooh!”

Taako takes it into his hands, and Magnus turns to Lup and hands her the second sack. She takes it gratefully, pressing it to her face and breathing in the steam.

“Fuck, that’s nice. Thanks, Mag.”

The brief respite from the biting cold, no matter how pleasant, only serves to make Taako angrier. He sits and seethes on this frozen hunk of ice, ever-aware of the hulking shape of the Starblaster marooned miles behind them in the distance. If it weren’t for their own bad judgement in the beginning, they wouldn’t be walking across a fucking tundra to find the Light.

While Taako seethed, twin suns had dipped behind the horizon, leaving a gradient of blues and pinks behind in their wake. The pinks were now turning darker, the blues fading into the dark black of the universe, stars alight. He tries not to think dwell on its familiarity—you’re here now, you’re stuck here, you can’t change it—but it tugs on him all the same.

“Look,” Lup breathes, pointing to something in the distance. Taako bobs his head, trying to look from her angle.

“What? Oh, quelle suprise, more ice. Never woulda guessed.”

“No, doofus,” Lup says, pointing to a spot in the horizon past a cluster of massive glaciers. Taako still sees nothing but white, stretching on for miles, dim in the new dusk. Then, Lup clamps her hands around his ears and yanks, turning his head to line up with her own visions.

“Ow!” He complains, starting to slap her hands away—but then he sees it. Faint, but visible—a speck of light, different than the stars, shines from a snowbank just in their field of vision. The snow must have melted enough over the course of the day to finally reveal it. They had been right.

Taako scrambles to his feet, still smarting from the days’ journey, and rushes to get to his bag.  

Lup, a step ahead, extinguishes the fire quickly and spreads the logs across the ice. They skitter away from where she sits, punctuated with pops and crackles as the fire is lost to the icy air.

“Magnus!” Lup yells, hoarse. Taako frantically rustles through his bag, pushing past supplies before he finally whips out an ice-cold compass. He shakes it between his hands for luck, and points it with flair at the snowbank with its eminent light. North.

“YES!” Taako hollers, tossing the compass to Lup, who barely catches it in her big puffy gloves. She fumbles and holds dramatically it up to the Light, a perfect mirror of his own actions, and a triumphant smile spreads across her face.

“We found it!” Lup yells at Magnus.

“Let’s go,” Magnus says.

They walk across the ice in victorious silence, eager trepidation palpable even after ten, twenty, thirty cycles. It was never a guaranteed win, but it always felt like something. Now, there would be a new goal—notably, a goal that could be accomplished from the warmth of the Starblaster. Taako hoots, his voice echoing over the stretches of tundra.

“FUCK yes!”

Magnus makes it there first, digging through the snowbank with his bare hands. He pulls the Light up, snow coating his shoulders and hair, lifting it over his head triumphantly.

Taako turns to Lup to celebrate, but her expression is unreadable, partially masked by her thick coat.

“What?” She wrings her fingers, finally turning to him, her expression a storm of emotion.

“Just once,” she says, iron in her voice. “Just once I’d like it to feel like it’s the last time.”

She lets that sit, and Taako turns it over slowly. He grabs her shoulders and pulls her in close, sheltering her against the wind as they watch Magnus dance through the snow, the Light as his partner, catching the wind and spinning multicolored beams onto the icy ground.

Taako rests his head on hers. “I know,” he says. “But—” He hesitates, the urge to mince his words so forefront on his tongue that he has to bite back the lies before they spill out. Finally, he settles on telling her what he tells himself. A motivational falsehood. A hollow prayer.

“You’ve gotta believe. You’ve gotta believe that one day it will be.”

[fortune-fool02]

Partner in Crime

Diego Brando x Valentine’s daughter reader

Warnings: Spoilers for Steel Ball Run

Thank you to @ymisiposts​ for helping with this. Please enjoy.

Embarrassed. Humiliated. That was what seeped into Diego’s muscles and bones as he walked alongside his beloved horse, Silver Bullet, across the finish line of this phase. The mocking voice over the announcements only added salt to the wounds. 

The blonde male tugged his horse away from the eyes of the crowd, leading them somewhere else so she could rest and regain her strength after what Gyro and Johnny put her through. Once Diego hopped off his horse, he gently patted her neck, telling her to rest and that he was proud of her for enduring all of that before walking off somewhere. He needed to have a chat with someone. 

***

Diego leaned against the wall, his head hanging low as he waited. His hand resting against his head, supported up by his knee. This was quite a risk but he was willing to take it, anything to reach that step above Johnny and Gyro to make them pay for humiliating him and for damaging Silver Bullet. The sound of footsteps tapped against the pavement, catching the blonde’s attention. 

“You wanted to talk, was it?” The man was clad in purple, stone grey hair curling at his shoulders. Diego blinked before straightening his slumped posture slightly, 

“Let’s get straight to the point,” he started, “I have the Left Eye of the Corpse. I’ll hand this over to you.” he outstretched his hand, presenting the Corpse Eye in his gloved palm. The man reached to grab it and Diego pulled his hand back, 

“Whoa, let’s not get too handsy. I thought I said I wanted to speak directly to the President?” It was true, Diego had asked to speak to President Valentine, not one of his secretaries or whatever this man was. The man simply blinked at Diego then turned on his heel, making his way down the street again. 

“Hey, alright, alright, I’ll talk to you!” Despite the calls, the man continues walking, ignoring Diego completely and disappearing around the corner. Damnit! Diego slumped back down, a sigh slipping his lips. Wonderful, that was an opportunity wasted. 

As he stood up to leave the area, a new scent caught his attention. Sniffing the air a little, he turned his head to see someone leaning against the wall, their form peeking from the shadows. Their head took in their area, ensuring that they were alone before emerging from the shadows, their face shadows by the hood as they approached him. 

“Diego Brando?” they questioned and he narrowed his eyes at them. 

“Yeah? And you are?” Their gloved hands reached up to their hood, lowering it down and allowing their face to be seen. [Hair colour] locks fell like a waterfall, slightly curling around the shoulders, [Eye colour] orbs that held a sense of power in them that was shrouded in a sweetness, like a sweet poison. 

“I am [Name] Valentine, you wished to speak with my father?” This was President Valentine’s daughter? Diego had heard of her but, seeing as she was barely seen in the media, it was a little surprising to see her out and about in the world without someone shielding her. 

“Yeah, but his secretary, or whatever he was, just left.” the blonde slumped back down where he originally sat. She stood there, expression blanker than a blank canvas, 

“I know. I watched it.” she simply said. The entire, albeit short, conversation between the golden blonde male and the secretary she had heard and watched from the shadows. “Are you still wanting to make a deal?” She asked. Normally, [Name] would not interfere in business of her father’s but this deal had caught her interest and she could not resist it. Not when it was a Corpse Part involved. 

Diego narrowed his cyan eyes at her, a tenseness hovered in the air between them like a thin fog. Both of them watching each other, searching for any possible attack from the other to find nothing. Holding the Corpse Eye out, Diego let his actions speak for him; [Name] nodded her head, 

“What do you want in return for it?” There was this aura of her that Diego could not help but notice. Calm, like a still lake on a warm summer’s day; unlike the secretary. Seeing as he had no other option, he may as well tell her lest she takes the same route the secretary did. 

“Money. Simple.” he answered. To her, money should be no issue. Whatever he asked for would likely be a pocket change for her. “I, Dio, will collect the other Corpse Parts from Gyro Zeppeli and sell them to your father. That is the exchange.” In truth, [Name] was quite happy that the secretary abandoned this deal -not that she expressed it- as that meant that she could negotiate it. 

“And how much, exactly, are we discussing here, Mr Brando?” So polite. So formal. Something Diego didn’t believe the daughter of the President to be towards someone like him. 

“New York’s Manhattan Island.” She blinked, flecks of surprise flickering across her [Eye colour] orbs though they remained glass-like. Her entire posture reminding Diego of a porcelain doll that sits on a shelf as more of a trophy than anything else yet something laid behind those eyes, something that defined her as far more than a harmless little thing.

“I can make arrangements. Once you retrive the Corpse Parts, I will come to you.” Diego rose a brow at that, 

“What do you mean?” he asked. Wouldn’t it have been more effective if he went to her once he had the Corpse Parts? Unless.... “Does your father know you’re here, making a deal with me?” Her silence answered for her and that plucked at Diego’s curiosity. Why would the daughter of the President go behind his back and arrange a deal like this? 

“My father is unaware of this deal happening. And, if you don’t mind Mr Brando, I would prefer to keep it that way.” Interesting. Perhaps he was more fortunate to have the secretary refuse the deal for this is far more interesting for the blonde man. “So, you want Manhattan Island for the Corpse Parts?” [Name] questioned, returning the conversation to its original purpose and driving it away from her personal life. Her father would be furious if he found out what she was doing but [Name] needed to do this. 

She needed that Corpse Eye. Diego nodded, bringing the Corpse eye up to his cyan blue one and rolling it between his fingers a little. “Yes, that’s the trade.” He inhaled the air and caught a scent of someone else. 

“But you’d better hurry and scurry off into hiding, [Name]. That man’s coming back.” Her [Eye colour] orbs widened slightly at that, grabbing her hood and concealing her face again before walking past Diego. 

“Whatever happens, make the deal with him. That’ll give me cover to ensure our deal is secured. Next time we meet, Manhattan Island is yours, Mr Brando.” And with that, she was gone. Diego glanced down at the Corpse Eye in his hand, a smirk tugging his lips at the event that just transpired. Regardless of what happens now, his victory was already guaranteed. 

“That deal you wanted to make, let’s hear it out.” The man spoke. Diego smirked lightly, catching a glimpse of the President himself watching from the balcony above them. Perfect.   

[bechloeislegit]

2020 BeChloe Valentines

VALENTINE'S DAY DARE

Prompt from Tumblr User Anonymous: Bechloe Valentine's Day prompt. Highschool AU. Chloe is the popular girl and gets dared to ask the loner music nerd Beca to the valentines dance.

Beca was minding her own business as she walked down the hall toward the music room. She was knocked down as the turned the corner and ran into some of Barden High's cheerleaders.

"Sorry, Beca," Chloe said as she reached to help Beca. "Are you okay?"

"Leave the loser on the floor where she belongs," Alice, the Captain, said.

"Don't be such a bitch, Alice," Chloe chastised as she helped Beca stand.

"I'm okay," Beca mumbled, adjusting her bag on her shoulder. "Thanks."

Beca moved to go around the group and Alice stepped in front of her. Beca moved to the left to get past her; Alice moved again to block her.

"Come on, Alice," Aubrey said. "Leave her alone and let's go."

"She ran into us," Alice said, staring at Beca. "On purpose."

"It was an accident," Stacie said.

Beca looked up to find Alice glaring at her. "I'm sorry."

"That's true," Alice said, laughing. "You really are sorry. A sorry, lonely little music nerd."

Alice laughed harder and looked around at the other cheerleaders. They just stared blankly back at her.

"Whatever," Alice mumbled.

Beca sighed and moved to her right to get past Alice and again Alice moved to block her path. This time Beca was ready for her and as soon as Alice started moving, Beca moved quickly to the other side and passed Alice, bumping her shoulder in the process.

"Did you see that?" Alice screeched. "She purposely bumped into me again. Get back here, you bitch."

Beca kept walking, and Alice made to go after her, but Chloe, Aubrey, and Stacie stopped her.

"Leave her alone, Alice," Chloe said, holding Alice's arm. "You've had your fun."

"Yeah, Alice, watching you torment Beca is getting old," Stacie said. "What is your problem with her anyway?"

"Let's go," Alice said, ignoring the question. "We have practice."

The girls sighed and slowly followed Alice to practice.

~ 2020 BeChloe Valentine's - Valentine's Day Dare ~

Friday night found the Cheerleaders at Alice's house for a sleepover. The girls were in their pajamas, sitting on blankets in the basement.

Alice leaned over to whisper something to Emily. Emily swallowed and turned to the group.

"Let's play Truth or Dare," Emily said.

"That's a great idea," Alice said with an evil smile.

"I don't like this," Chloe whispered to Aubrey and Stacie. "Alice looks like she's up to something."

"The three of us had better be careful," Stacie said. "She may try and get us back for standing up to her when she was harassing Beca Mitchell the other day."

"I have an idea," Aubrey whispered. "If one of you gets picked before I do, pick me. Okay?"

"Okay," Chloe and Stacie reply.

"Truth or Dare sounds fun," Aubrey said. "Who's first?"

"Before we start, I need to know if everyone is in," Alice said. The girls all agreed and Alice continued. "Emily since the game was your idea, you'll go first." She paused before adding, "Right after I explain the rules."

"We know the rules for Truth or Dare, Alice," Chloe said.

"You don't know my house rules," Alice said, glaring at Chloe before smiling her fake smile. "The house rules are that if you've already chosen truth, you must pick dare on your next turn. If you choose truth and someone knows you're lying, they have to speak up and tell us the real truth. If you choose not to do the dare, then I will make you kiss whoever I tell you to."

The girls erupted and started arguing with Alice.

"What if we don't want to follow your house rules?" Stacie asked.

"Then, you won't be cheering for three games," Alice said.

"You can't blackmail us into playing," Jessica said.

"You all have already agreed to play," Alice said smugly. "Anyone who backs out now will be sidelined for three games while the rest of us are on the field cheering our team on to victory."

"I'm out," Chloe said, standing.

"Me, too," Stacie said.

"Me, too," Aubrey said.

The rest of the girls joined Chloe. Alice's face was red with anger; she did not expect them to band together against her.

"Have fun cheering alone, Alice," Chloe said and started walking toward the stairs.

"Wait," Alice said, jumping in front of Chloe to stop them all from leaving. "Fine. You can choose not to do the first dare, but you will have to do a different dare no exceptions. The rest of the rules will still apply."

Chloe looked at the girls. They all shrugged and nodded, accepting Alice's rules.

"Okay, we'll play," Chloe said.

The girls returned to their original seats and sat.

"Emily, you're up first," Alice said.

The game started and things were fairly tame. The girls were laughing and enjoying themselves.

It was Jessica's turn and she chose Aubrey.

"Aubrey, Truth or Dare?"

"Um, I'll take truth," Aubrey said.

"Okay," Jessica said. "Do you have a crush on someone at school? And, if so, name names."

Aubrey chuckled. "That's easy. I have a crush on Jesse Swanson and Stacie."

"You can't name two," Ashley said.

"Yes, I can," Aubrey said. "She said to name names, plural. And, since I'm bi, I have a crush on a guy and a girl."

Stacie smiled and kissed Aubrey on the cheek.

"We'll accept that," Alice said. "It's your turn, Aubrey."

Aubrey looked at Chloe and then Stacie. "Alice, you chose dare last time so you have to tell the truth this time?"

"I'm fine with that," Alice said. "Go for it."

"Tell us why you hate Beca Mitchell so much," Aubrey said.

Alice's look of surprise wasn't totally unexpected. Alice pulled herself together and said, "I'm not answering that."

"You have to," Ashley said.

Alice glared at Ashley for a moment. "Fine. She hurt someone I care about. Plus she's a loser, so that's why I hate her."

"No, it isn't," Jessica said with a laugh. "I was there, remember?"

"Tell us, Jessica," Aubrey said.

"I'm going to get more chips," Alice said and stomped up the stairs.

"Jessica?" Stacie said.

"Okay," Jessica said. "Me, Alice, Beca, and a few others grew up in this neighborhood. We became friends in Kindergarten and stayed friends through Middle School. In eighth grade, Beca came back to school after Winter Break and told us she came out to her parents and she was gay."

"And Alice didn't accept that?" Chloe asked.

"No, Alice didn't have a problem with it," Jessica said. "One day, Alice went to Beca's house and tried to get Beca to kiss her because Alice had never kissed a girl and wanted to know what it was like. Beca refused and said she didn't think of her that way. Alice was hurt but seemed to accept it. Fast forward to after Spring Break; Alice had a sleepover and we were all there. Beca was excited and told us she had her first girlfriend. The rest of us were happy for her; Alice became livid. She started ranting and yelling at Beca. Saying things like, what did that girl have that Alice didn't? Called her a loser dyke, among other things."

"What did Beca do?" Stacie asked.

"Nothing," Jessica said, shrugging. "She let Alice rant at her. Alice ended her rant by telling Beca that she was no longer her friend and that she needed to leave. Beca said she was sorry Alice felt that way and left."

"Wow," Emily said.

"What did you do once Beca left?" Chloe asked.

"We didn't know what to do," Jessica said. "We stayed but we all got together the next day and made sure Beca was okay. After that, we had to divide our time between Alice and Beca, but never the two together."

They all got quiet when they heard Alice coming back downstairs.

"I believe it's my turn," Alice said as she rejoined the group.

The girls looked at each other, confused by Alice's behavior. They soon found out it was the calm before the storm.

"Chloe?" Alice called out, causing the redhead to look at her. "You chose truth last time, so you get a dare."

Chloe took in a breath and heard Aubrey mumble, "We got your back."

"Go ahead," Chloe said.

"I dare you to slap Aubrey across the face," Alice said and smiled.

"What?" Chloe screeched. "No way. I'm not going to slap Aubrey, not even on a dare."

"Do it, Chloe," Aubrey said. "I guarantee she's got something worse planned for your second dare."

"I can't," Chloe said, a pained expression on her face. "You're my best friend."

"Are you declining to do the first dare?" Alice asked.

"Stop it, Alice," Jessica said. "This is cruel even for you."

"You all knew the rules and opted to play," Alice said. "So, what's it going to be, Chloe? Slap Aubrey or do I give you dare number two?"

"You don't have to do anything you don't want to, Chloe," Stacie said.

"Yes, she does," Alice yelled. "Make a decision. Slap Aubrey or second dare?"

Chloe looked around the room and took a breath, slowly letting it out.

"I'll take the second dare," Chloe said.

The smile that came to Alice's face sent shivers down everyone's spine.

"I dare you to ask Beca Mitchell to be your date for the Valentine's Day dance," Alice said, causing gasps from everyone in the room. "And then stand her up."

"That's not right, Alice," Ashley said. "Just because you're a bitch to Beca doesn't mean you can make someone else hurt her for your pleasure."

Alice sat with a smug smile on her face. She looked at Chloe. "I understand you have an offer to attend Barden University on a cheerleading scholarship. Do you think you'll keep it if you are no longer a cheerleader? Because I don't think you will."

Chloe was staring daggers at Alice. She knew Alice would find a way to kick her off the squad and she needed that scholarship in order to help pay for college.

Tears stung Chloe's eyes as she said, "I'll do it."

"Chloe, no," Aubrey said. "This isn't you. You can't hurt someone on purpose and be okay with it."

"I need that scholarship," Chloe said. "What else can I do?"

"Wait," Stacie said and looked over to Alice. "Chloe will do it, but she has conditions."

"I do?" Chloe muttered.

"You do, trust me," Stacie whispered.

"What conditions?" Alice asked.

"Chloe gets to choose when and where to ask Beca," Stacie said. "And, um, you have to leave Beca alone from now on. If you mess with Beca once, the dare becomes null and void and Chloe doesn't have to do it."

"That sounds good," Chloe said. "Those are my conditions."

Alice furrowed her brow and looked at Chloe and Stacie. "Fine. I'll accept those conditions BUT none of you can tell Beca anything about the dare."

"Fine," Chloe said.

"Now that that's settled, who wants to do karaoke?" Alice asked.

"I'm going home," Chloe said and started gathering her stuff.

"I'm going, too," Aubrey said. "Stacie? I can give you a ride if you want to leave."

"Thanks," Stacie said. "I'd like that."

"Hey, Chloe, can I get a ride with you?" Emily asked. "I want to go home, too."

"Sure," Chloe said.

Alice watched as all the girls gathered their belongings and left.

~ 2020 BeChloe Valentine's - Valentine's Day Dare ~

Monday came, and Chloe had been anxious all weekend. She and Beca were in a couple of classes together, but at the end of the day, Chloe still hadn't talked to her.

Chloe was slowly making her way to cheer practice. She was walking past the music wing when she heard piano music coming from the rehearsal room.

Chloe stopped and listened for a moment. The music was mesmerizing and she found herself entering the rehearsal room. She stopped and stared when she saw Beca Mitchell sitting at the piano.

Chloe stood and watched until Beca finished the piece. Chloe started clapping, startling Beca.

"That was amazing, Beca," Chloe said, walking over to the piano.

"Um, thanks, Chloe," Beca said.

"What is it called?" Chloe asked, sitting on the bench with her back to the piano.

"It, uh, doesn't have a name yet," Beca said. "I'm still working on it."

"You wrote that?" Chloe asked, surprised.

"Yeah," Beca said. "I write a lot of music."

"How did I not know this about you?" Chloe asked, smiling at Beca.

"Well, we're not exactly friends," Beca said, looking down at the keys.

"I think we should fix that," Chloe said. "I'd like to learn more about your music. Can you play some more for me?"

"Um, sure," Beca said.

Beca started playing another song and Chloe sat listening. She glanced at Beca's face a few times and found herself smiling.

Beca finished and Chloe gushed about how good it was.

"Do you play any other instruments?"

"A couple."

"A couple? I can't play one and you can play a couple? Maybe I should get you to give me piano lessons. I'd love to learn how to play."

"Sure, if you want," Beca said. "I have a piano at home if you'd like to come over sometime. I can teach you."

"I'd love that, Beca," Chloe said. She jumped up when she saw the clock on the wall. "I have to go. I'm late for cheer practice."

"Oh, okay," Beca said as Chloe started for the door.

"Hey," Chloe called back. "Want to get ice cream tomorrow after school before my first lesson."

Beca smiled. "I'd like that. I'll see you tomorrow."

"See you tomorrow," Chloe said.

Chloe hurried to the field where cheer practice was held. She ran up and stood next to Aubrey.

"Beale, you're late," Alice said, looking down at a clipboard in her hands.

"Sorry," Chloe said. "I was talking to Beca."

Alice's eyes shot up to look at Chloe. "Did you ask her?"

"Not yet," Chloe said. "But, I will."

"Good," Alice said. "Everyone into positions."

~ 2020 BeChloe Valentine's - Valentine's Day Dare ~

Beca and Chloe began hanging out more over the next week. Chloe was learning the basics on the piano and growing fond of the petite brunette as each day passed.

It was Friday and Chloe had to cheer at the basketball game. She invited Beca to come to the game to watch her cheer and to go out for ice cream after.

Beca didn't usually attend any of the games but made an exception for Chloe. Alice walked over to Chloe while they waited for the game to start.

"I see Mitchell is here," Alice said. "Did you ask her yet?"

"No," Chloe said. "I'm planning to do it tonight."

"Make sure you do," Alice said. "It would be so sad to see you lose your cheer scholarship."

With that Alice sauntered away; Chloe frowned. Aubrey and Stacie came up to Chloe

"You okay, Chloe?" Aubrey asked.

"Yeah, I'm fine," Chloe said. "I feel really bad. I've gotten to know Beca this past week and she's a lot of fun and really sweet. I hate what I have to do to her."

"You're falling for her, aren't you?" Stacie asked.

"I kind of am," Chloe said blushing. "But, she's going to hate me when I stand her up for the dance."

Stacie looked into the stands and saw Beca talking and laughing with some other girls around her. An idea came to her and she had to figure out a way to make it a reality.

"Let's go, girls," Alice called out.

"Alice, I need to go change my skirt," Stacie said. "My zipper busted."

"Go change," Alice said. "And hurry up."

Stacie raced off to the locker room and came back ten minutes later.

~ 2020 BeChloe Valentine's - Valentine's Day Dare ~

Barden won and everyone was in a good mood. Chloe and Beca were sitting in Chloe's car at the ice cream shop.

"Are you okay?" Beca asked Chloe.

"I'm fine," Chloe said and set her ice cream on the dashboard. "I want to ask you something but I'm afraid to."

Beca looked at her as she took a bite of her ice cream. "Does this have anything to do with the dare Alice gave you?"

Chloe's head shot up to look at Beca. "You know about that?"

"Yeah," Beca said. "CR told me."

"How does CR know about it?"

"Stacie told her."

"Wait. What? Stacie wasn't supposed to tell you about it. That was part of the conditions Alice gave."

"I know." Beca smiled. "Stacie told CR all about the Truth or Dare game and what Alice is making you do. It's okay, Chloe. Just do it. I don't want you to lose your scholarship because of me."

"I don't want to do something that will hurt you," Chloe said, tears stinging her eyes.

Beca saw a tear slide down Chloe's cheek and reached over to wipe it away.

"I like you, Chloe," Beca said. "This past week has been one of the best weeks of my life. We're friends and I know you would never hurt anyone intentionally."

"What if I said, I don't want to be just friends?" Chloe asked.

"Then I would say, would you be my date to the Valentine's Day dance?" Beca replied.

"I'd love to, but Alice can still kick me off the squad," Chloe said.

"Can she?" Beca asked with a smile. "CR also said that you had to ask me to the dance and then stand me up. Correct?"

"Yeah," Chloe said hesitantly.

"Did she say anything about standing me up if I asked you?"

"What?" Chloe asked and then a smile broke out on her face. "No, she didn't. Ask me again."

"Chloe Beale, would you like to be my date to the Valentine's Day dance?"

"Yes!"

Chloe squealed and pulled Beca into a hug. Beca pulled back smiling and almost immediately leaned back in to kiss Chloe. Chloe pulled Beca closer and deepened the kiss.

~ 2020 BeChloe Valentine's - Valentine's Day Dare ~

The next week, Beca and Chloe kept their new relationship to themselves and didn't tell anyone; even their best friends.

Friday night came and Chloe walked into the Valentine's Day dance alone.

"Well, well, well," Alice said, walking up to Chloe. "I didn't think you had it in you. I really wish I could see the heartbroken look on Beca's face when she realizes you stood her up."

"Sorry to disappoint, Alice," Beca said from behind the cheer Captain. "Chloe didn't ask me to the dance so she couldn't stand me up."

"That was the dare," Alice said, looking at Chloe. "You were supposed to ask her out and then not show up."

"I was going to, but Beca beat me to it and asked me to the dance," Chloe said. "So, your dare became null and void."

"You're off the squad," Alice said, her face red with anger. "Good luck with keeping your scholarship."

"Is that right?" Miss Miller, the cheer Coach said, joining the small group.

Alice gasped. Several of the other cheerleaders gathered around when they saw Miss Miller joining Alice and Chloe.

"Miss Miller," Alice said. "I didn't see you standing there."

"Obviously," Miss Miller said. "Chloe, don't worry, your scholarship is safe and so is your spot on the cheer squad. As for you, Alice, you are no longer on the squad. I heard about your dare and your bullying Beca Mitchell. These actions are unacceptable. I'll be talking with the Principal on Monday about what disciplinarian actions can be taken against you."

"You can't do that!" Alice screamed.

"I believe I just did," Miss Miller said. "As for you girls on the squad, Chloe will be your new Captain. If anyone takes issue with that, we can discuss it at Monday's practice. Enjoy the dance."

Miss Miller took Alice by the arm and led her away from the group. The girls congratulated and hugged Chloe. Chloe pulled back and saw Beca standing a few feet away; she walked over to her.

Chloe pulled Beca into a kiss and then pulled back as they both started laughing.

"What?" Aubrey said excitedly. "When did this happen?"

Chloe turned to the girls. "Last week. She found out about the dare and said that Alice couldn't say anything if she asked me. So, she did and I accepted. And, we're girlfriends now."

"I'm so happy for you," Aubrey said, hugging Chloe.

"Thank you, Stacie," Beca said. "We wouldn't be here if it weren't for you."

"What did you do, Stacie?" Aubrey asked.

"I told Beca's friend CR about the dare, and she told Beca," Stacie said.

"But, Alice said we couldn't tell Beca," Ashley said.

"That's true," Emily said. "Alice said we couldn't tell Beca, but she didn't say we couldn't tell anyone else about it. Right?"

"Exactly," Stacie said.

"We should be thanking, Alice," Beca said.

All the girls looked at Beca.

"Explain yourself," Jessica said.

Beca laughed. "If Alice hadn't made the dare, chances are Chloe would never have talked to me, and we wouldn't be together here at the dance."

"Or," Chloe said. "I would have talked to you because you're so darned cute, and once you saw how awesome I am, you couldn't help but want me to be your girlfriend."

"That theory works, too," Beca said and leaned in to kiss Chloe. "Happy Valentine's Day, Chlo."

"Happy Valentine's Day, Becs."

Full prompt from Tumblr User Anonymous: Highschool AU. Chloe is the popular girl and gets dared to ask the loner music nerd Beca to the Valentine's Day dance but realizes there's more than meets the eye.

[subasekabang]

Past Nova - Chapter 01

Title: Past Nova - Chapter 01

Rating: T

Word Count: 12,665 [Ch 01: 3976]

Pairings/Characters: Neku Sakuraba. Beat. Shiki Misaki. Rhyme. Sota Honjo. Nao. Joshua Kiryu. Sota/Nao. 

Warnings: Past Character Death mentions. 

Summary: Neku and his new friends find that they’ve been brought back to life, time wound back as if the three weeks had never happened. It’s something that they don’t have time to adjust to though, as Neku realises that Sota and Nao are still alive, with no guarantee that the two won’t end up back in the UG. Even without a timer on his hand, time is ticking down - but Neku isn’t going to let Sota and Nao disappear without a fight. Not again.

Partner: @licobleps & HB Kit

Author’s Note: Tadaa! I was having trouble coming up with what I wanted to write for the Bang but just before we had to submit the idea I remembered this old plot bunny and said ‘yes, this is it!’. I struggled to get this moving at first because I kept overthinking details but it was fun once I got going. A super huge thank you to Lico and Kit for choosing my fic to work with - look out for their artwork, I’m sure you’ll be just as impressed as I am!

“The stars are out tonight!”

Despite this proclamation, if one were to look up at the sky, they would not spot a single shining star. The lights that kept the city alight past sunset maintained disappointment for anyone with enough optimism to have a glimpse. Even if stars were visible in the city, they were a touch far from nighttime; the sun was barely past the horizon.

Nao, however, showed no signs of her spirit being dampened. On the contrary, she seemed invigorated, arms spread wide as if she was about to welcome falling stars into them.

He couldn’t see anything in the sky himself but if Nao saw something more up there, Sota sure as hell believed that they were really there.

Even as she stumbled slightly, stretched too far on her tiptoes, with Sota moving in to catch her by her shoulders, he was sure of this.

“You manage to catch one?”

“Like, I tried. But no.”

“I’m gonna get you one.”

She giggled - wondering aloud if they could really catch one.

“We will, promise.”

After all, they had all the time in the world to chase stars.

Didn’t they?

Chapter 01  - Urban Nebula

Ramen.

Just a while ago, Neku would have carried on eating this dish without a second thought. It was something that he could find anywhere, something he would consume unceremoniously. Yet here he was, finding himself genuinely appreciating how good this bowl of ramen was.

Nothing can beat a warm bowl of Shoyu.

“Yo, you’re trippin’. Tonkotsu’s where it’s at.” Beat said this in between messy slurps of his own.

Neku didn’t realise he said that out loud.

“I’m more of a Miso person myself,” said Shiki.

He also didn’t expect this to be where their conversation went.

“I actually prefer Miso too,” Rhyme piped up.

The volume in the small ramen shop increased twofold as Beat noisily argued why exactly Tonkotsu was the best of the best when it came to ramen. Shiki countered with reasonings of her very own, while Rhyme added her thoughts every few pauses.

It all seemed so trivial. So normal.

As if it hadn’t been a week since he had last seen them.

Though, he supposed Beat did tear up when Neku met him and Rhyme by Hachiko a few hours ago. So it wasn’t like he was the only one still reeling from the Game. Still, Beat bounced back pretty quick and once Shiki arrived, they were all just happy to be reunited.

Honestly, he welcomed this normalcy but at the same time, it was a new kind of normal for him.

Before this, he hadn’t had any friends to actually just sit down and eat together with. Not for a long time. During the Game, once he figured out that eating actually affected his performance in fighting against the Noise, he became pretty careful with what he picked and he was still a lot more…prickly than he was now. He was sure that during his first few days with Shiki, they spent the majority of their time while eating in silence. Well, she did make an attempt to make conversation though he admittedly brushed her off. With Joshua, as Shiki’s life was on the line, Neku didn’t want to waste his time with too much small talk. Beat inhaled his food, just as he was doing now, so they didn’t really stop to chat during meals either.

Now, however, they didn’t have to rush off anywhere. No timer burnt upon their skin to urge them onto their feet. They were just four friends eating ramen Shibuya. Who would’ve thought?

“Neku, I know your fave is Shoyu but give it to us straight - Miso or Tonkotsu?” Shiki nudged his arm to get his attention. She must have realised that he was spacing out.

“I think that - ” Uh oh, this looks serious. Both Shiki and Beat’s expressions said that victory hinged on his answer. Rhyme was looking between the two with concern, hand against her mouth as if to prevent herself from intervening. “I think that they’re both ‘okay’. Shoyu’s the best.”

Beat groaned while Shiki let out a cheer. “Rhyme agrees with me, so that makes the score for Miso, Tonkatsu and Shoyu to 2-1-1. I win!”

“What exactly do you win?” asked Neku.

“Hmm.” Shiki tapped her finger against her lips as she pondered the question. “Aha, I know! You guys can pay for my lunch.”

“‘That ain’t gonna work Shiki, I’m broke.”

Shiki peered at his sister instead, who begun to smile sheepishly.

“Neku?” Shiki looked at him expectantly.

“What? Hey, don’t look at me! Why should I get dragged into this?”

At that moment, the owner of the shop leaned over the counter and slid across his receipt. It had both his and Shiki’s orders on them. Wha - he can’t do that! Can he do that?

He opened his mouth to object when he spotted that Beat and Rhyme had their receipt, cash already on top of it and passing it back to the owner. When did that happen? Neku suspected the ramen owner had been listening to their conversation and had picked a side.

“Okay, okay, I get it Mr. Doi, I’ll pay.” He sighed, forking over his cash.

“Oho? So you’ve heard of me, young man?” He crossed his arms and nodded triumphantly. “As I thought, I’ve still got it in me to reach young folks like you too. Always appreciate getting new customers who follow the news of good ramen. You kids enjoy the rest of those bowls! Don’t take too long, though!” He gave a hearty laugh before rushing off to serve another customer.

Just like that the steam that wafted throughout the restaurant suddenly seemed to contain more heat, the smell becoming sharper to Neku’s senses. He pulled at his collar, feeling the stuffiness start to overwhelm him.

“He doesn’t remember us, huh?” Shiki said quietly, voicing what all of them were probably thinking.

Guess we’re going to talk about it, after all. It would be stranger not to.

“During my second week, we helped him out,” Neku murmured. “He should remember us.”

“Yo, I just wanna ask so that I know I’m not goin’ crazy. The Game did happen, didn’t it?” Beat whipped out his phone. “So how come Day 1 is supposed to be…tomorrow.”

Beat was right - which was a weird thing in of itself - the date shown on his phone was the date that they had their first day in the Game.

Neku had woken up in the middle of Scramble Crossing last week and he knew that wasn’t where he died. When he had rushed home then, though, there was no sign of him having been gone for more than the few hours from when he went out that day. He was left even more confused as to when he checked his phone and saw the date, it was a little over a week before he was to start his first Game. Not only was Shibuya not Erased but he had been brought back to life as if nothing had ever happened. Unlike the first time he woke up on the streets, all his memories, even of the Game, seemed to be intact. Some of which, he thought he could do without.

“It was the same for me,” Shiki said after Neku described what happened for him. “I remember everything but…my parents don’t remember me…dying.”

“Our folks don’t remember that either.” Beat grit his teeth, “but they do remember me an’ Rhyme runnin’ outta the house.” A familiar look flashed across Beat’s face. It was the one that he had every time he talked about Rhyme during their third week.

Before Neku could find any words of comfort, Rhyme said, “I think it makes sense that they don’t remember. Otherwise, I don’t think the Reapers having double lives would work.”

“Really?” asked Shiki.

“I think so. I heard about Def Märch before the Game because they were getting more famous. But wouldn’t there be a problem if someone who knew 777 when he was alive saw him? Since he should be dead?”

Neku was sure he didn’t find out about Reapers being able to appear and disappear whenever they wanted until Joshua told him, but Rhyme was observant so he wasn’t surprised that she caught onto that. She did have a point about that; if you become a Reaper, something probably needed to be done to the memories of people around you. “The Reapers, or at least the Conductor and the Composer, definitely have the power to change memories. I learned that the hard way.”

“Right, so if they do if they change up memories of people for Reapers it would make sense that they do it for Players that go back to the RG too,” Rhyme reasoned.

It did make sense…but was something about it bothered Neku. “How come we’ve got back a few weeks, though?” If they could just change memories, why were they also back before the start?

“Mr. H told me and Neku that the Shibuya we saw wasn’t real, so maybe it’s kind of a reset for us?” Shiki suggested though she didn’t sound so sure.

“He did say that. But Joshua, was saying the opposite,” Neku recalled.

“I dunno man, how’re we sure he wasn’ lyin’?”

He couldn’t answer Beat. He wasn’t sure exactly how many of the things Joshua had said to him during their week together were lies but he definitely knew that there was a lot.

Seeming to notice Neku’s change of disposition, Shiki carried on, “So let’s say we were reset. Does that mean everything was reset? You guys went on for another two weeks after we won our game, right? Does that mean that everyone who played those games have come back to life?”

“I’m back and I got Erased in the first week.” Neku wondered how Rhyme could say that in such a matter-of-fact way. “Maybe that means the other Players that got Erased were also brought back. There weren’t any other Players in the third week but Beat and I saw some in the second.”

Other Players in the second week…- wait!

“There were…there were two Players that I made met - that I made friends with - during the second week.” It was the couple, the ones who reached out when he felt himself slipping back to his old self. They were kind and wanted to help other Players, even if it might have put their own reincarnation at risk.  “They were Erased when I was Partners with Joshua and I couldn’t do anything to help them.”

The memory of it, of the Taboo noise attacking the two, of Neku arriving too little too late, flooded through him. What made it worse, though, was that he hadn’t thought of them again until now.

A tentative hand rested on his shoulder. He looked at Shiki, to find her eyes searching his. Although it was the first time he had seen this on her real self, her worry was something he recognised.

While Shiki seemed to try and be a calming presence, Beat was anything but.

“Phones, I don’t wanna freak you out but,” Beat hesitated and Neku had the feeling he would end up freaking out, “when I was a Reapers I was talkin’ to Shades.”

“The Conductor?”

“Yeah, that dude. I asked him a bunch of questions about tryin’ to get Rhyme back and how comin’ back to life works an’ he gave me half-assed answers for most of ‘em but I swear he said that if a Player came back it wouldn’t bring back anyone who’s supposed to die with ‘em.”

“Right…which is why you wanted to become Composer to change the rules,” Neku recalled.

“And Rhyme’s only back ‘cause - ” He exchanged a look with Shiki, who seemed to understand what Beat was going to get at.

“‘Cause we were all there…at the end with The Composer.”

‘At the end’. It was a moment that had been playing in Neku’s mind more times than he could count in the last week.

“We couldn’t move Neku, we couldn’t stop him from…from shooting you.” Shiki’s voice started to tremble. “I was scared for you Neku. But he didn’t Erase you but you were out cold and he said he would bring us all back. And the next thing I knew I was in the middle of a road. It was a few moments before I died. Except I knew that it was so I didn’t get hit by the car in the end.”

“Us neither. Beat stopped running away so we didn’t get to the middle of the road,” said Rhyme. “So it wasn’t that our parents didn’t remember, it’s that we never did die.”

So, Joshua kept all of their memories intact then…For Beat, Rhyme and Shiki, he made it as though their deaths never occurred as they had the memories they needed to stop it from happening themselves. In Neku’s case, it seemed Joshua had to undo things completely since he was the one who killed him. If it was only the four of them that had their memories from the game, though…

“That could mean that…they - those two -  would still die and enter the Game.” Neku’s blood ran cold at the thought.

I don’t know for sure. It was entirely possible that he was simply taking leaps in logic. It wasn’t like any of them were certain that they were the only ones that were ‘brought back’.  Still, if there was even a small chance of it…They didn’t win the Game that Neku played that week - there was no way of knowing whether they would win if they were the play again. If he was remembering correctly though, he was sure he saw them earlier than the Tin Pin tournament.

“Shiki - remember when we were helping that Makoto guy give out the red pins? And he managed to give them out a couple? Both of them had blond hair.”

“Their outfits matched, yes I remember! That was them? That was our second last day…so then - “ Shiki realised it the same time as Neku.

“If time reset then they’re still alive now,” said Neku. ”And not because they were brought back but because they hadn’t died yet in the first place. “So we could - “

“We could stop them from playin’ the Game in the first place!” Beat punctuated those words with his hands slamming down on the counter and jumping off his seat.

“Hey, keep it down. Are you kids not done eating?” Ken Doi’s voice snapped Neku back to attention. He had completely forgotten that they were in such a public place.

It was a good thing Beat had shouted ‘stop them from dying’ because that would cause eyebrows to rise from the other customers, no matter how few of them there were. Neku had to admit that it sounded crazy. But it also sounded crazy enough to work, considering everything else he had gone through in his time in the Game.

“We done. C’mon les’ go.”

“Beat, hold up,” Neku said, trying to get his friend to slow down. “I don’t even know where to begin with this. We’re not sure if they’re actually still going to die. And if they are we don’t know if there’s any chance that we could stop it.”

“Yeah, so les’ just go ask.”

“Ask who?”

Beat grinned.

“The coffee man, who else?”

xxxxx

Neku had thought about it.

There was a small window of consciousness that Neku had, between getting shot and waking up at the crossing. He was sure that during those few seconds, he saw Mr. Hanekoma and Joshua standing side by side. They were both smiling down at him.

The Conductor didn’t seem to know who Mr. H was. Joshua had told Neku himself that he was the Composer, otherwise, he wouldn’t be here right now. So then, who was Mr. Hanekoma? He told Neku to think of him as a ‘guardian’ of the Game. Did he mean that he was there to oversee the Game that Neku was playing or the one that Joshua was playing with the Conductor? Was it his job to do both? Was that why he was there at the end?

Questions like these had plagued Neku’s mind since the day he got back. The reason that Neku started to let his guard down around Joshua was because Mr. H was helping him out. If Joshua’s goal was to cause Shibuya’s destruction then Neku could only conclude that Mr. H was helping Joshua do that. But that can’t be it. If Mr. H was really CAT, he couldn’t believe that. His art, his words, they didn’t call for the end of the city but the constant renewal and growth of it.

With his doubts on Mr. H it wasn’t as if taking a trip to WildKat hadn’t crossed his mind. If Mr. H was actually there…he didn’t know what he would do. He didn’t know if he was ready to hear the truth of it, if Mr. H was going to share it at all.

At least, he wasn’t ready to face it alone.

The Shibuya streets weren’t exactly appropriate to be running through, not when they couldn’t pass through people anymore. Nevertheless, Beat bulldozed his way through the urban crowds, parting them as people jumped aside to get out of his way. His sister tried to keep up with him, always several paces behind, offering a quick ‘sorry’ to anyone who might want to hear it. Shiki lagged behind slightly, stopping every now and then to catch her breath (“did I mention that I’m also not as athletic in the RG?”). Watching them run, for his sake, for the sake of putting his mind at ease - it made him feel ready.

Their arrival at the cafe’s storefront highlighted their reset, as Shiki called it. It stood, as unassumingly simple as it did when Neku first saw it. That was to say, there was none of the damage that Minamimoto had inflicted on it during their last week.

“Mr. H owns this? Funny…I’ve never noticed this shop before,” Shiki said, squinting at it.

Maybe it was by design; if not a lot of people visited because it was a ‘simple’ shop in Shibuya’s plethora of unique offerings, then it gave Mr. H a lot of time to be doing…whatever that he was supposed to be doing in the Game.

Beat had stopped right in front of the door. He looked back at Neku. “Yo, you aight?”

Neku blinked at Beat, taken aback by the sudden question. “Yeah, I’m - ”

“We don’t have to go in yet,” Shiki said, “if you don’t want to.”

They noticed, huh?

“Thanks guys.” He really was touched. “But I’m okay, let’s go in.”

Even as Beat pushed the door open, however, Neku took in a deep breath. He could do this. He followed behind Shiki, feeling the weight of every step forward.

The shop was empty.

Not completely, there were still pastries in the display, ones that looked fairly fresh. There was no sign of anyone being around though. Neku couldn’t help but start to feel disappointed. For all his apprehension of coming here, Hanekoma wasn’t actually around. Being here when they wanted to see him would be too easy, wouldn’t it?

“Seems cosy,” said Shiki, if for nothing else but to fill the silence that had set between the four.

Neku pulled out a chair, sinking down into it. Might as well sit down, while he thought of what they could do next. If they were going to help Sota and Nao, they should probably go look for them. It might be possible if he could still scan people, but how was he supposed to find them in a sea of people that he couldn’t read? If they did need help, in the first place.

Lost in his thoughts, once again, he only registered that Beat was snooping around when he heard a tearing sound. He sat straight up, recalling that this was where Hanekoma had hidden the note for them, leading their way to the Shibuya River.

“Huh? The hell is this?” Turning to show the others, Beat had his fists clenched around two feathers, grip a tad rough for such delicate-looking items. They gave off a glow as if hinting that they would not be harmed no matter how Beat handled them. “Why’d Coffee Man leave these here?”

“Maybe he’s a bird keeper on top of a cafe owner and working as CAT,” Neku said, drily. “You sure you didn’t find anything else in there?”

“Nah, nothing else in there ‘cept dust,” Beat confirmed. He came back around the front of the counter, looking to hand the feathers to Neku.

Sighing, Neku got up and took them from Beat, making sure to be gentler with them than he was. While they looked like feathers, they weren’t exactly ‘normal’ looking feathers.

“Did those come from a Noise?” Shiki adjusted her glasses, taking a step close to inspect them properly. They did look like they could have come from one. “Maybe you actually got it Neku, maybe he’s some kind of birdkeeper…for those bird-looking Noise. Or just in charge of the Noise in general.”

“He did know how to make Noise,” said Rhyme, also taking a closer look. “That’s how he kept Beat and I in the game, after all.”

“Maybe.” That was one possibility. It was just a gut feeling but Neku didn’t think that was it. Though he didn’t think that Hanekoma was a Reaper either. Whoever he was, he must have been pretty important if he knew the Composer so well. Knew him a lot better than I did.

Bzzt.

The buzzing came from one of his pockets. It was his phone. He fished it out of his pocket and stared at it.

“What’s wrong, Phones?”

The only people who would message him were in this room. Except for the two people that he couldn’t seem to find.

Flipping open his phone he clicked on the message, sent from an unknown number.

–

I’m devastated that I couldn’t make it today. I have a few things to attend to.

You’re probably all at WildKat Cafe right now, aren’t you? Predictable.

I’d rather not come back and find you running around Shibuya aimlessly again so I’ll give you a little hint -

Sota Honjo and Nao Akahoshi.

Entered Shibuya’s UG on the 2nd of August.

6.48pm

I can’t provide you a timer in the RG but it’s safe to say your time limit is within seven days.

Have fun saving the tin pin champions.

–

Neku considered reading it out loud but he wasn’t confident in how his tone would come out right now. He passed his phone along, allowing the others to read through it. The message gave Neku so many more questions. Ones that he wouldn’t know how to voice properly, even if Joshua had been standing right here with them.

Yet that was as good as a confirmation that he was going to get that he had to do this. No, he didn’t have to - he wanted to.

“Look at the time,” Shiki said as she passed Neku back his phone.

6.48pm

“Seven days, exactly.”

And to think, only this morning Neku had been looking forward to spending time with his friends without having a time limit hanging above them.

This time, though, they were alive. Alive along with the rest of Shibuya, brimming with life day in and day out.

“You guys sure you’re alright with trying to do this?”

It was a question that didn’t need to be asked.

They were with him.

[mor-beck-more-problems]

The Trouble With Wanting || Morgan and Deirdre

Set the night of Deirdre’s alcohol and pie bender. 

Morgan and Deirdre try to figure out what to do.

Morgan didn’t give herself time to change out of her pajama sweats or add a touch of ‘kiss me like this week never happened’ lipstick. She shoved her feet into her boots, filled her purse with hangover curing supplies, and got in the car. Al’s. How many times had she been there herself, drowning her hurt in fries and milkshakes and burgers that were so close but not quite like the ones she missed from home? And somehow she had missed Deirdre, getting trashed on alcohol and pie, all over the heartache they had apparently caused together without meaning to. Morgan grimaced as she pulled into the parking lot. She still felt a little responsible, despite the balm Deirdre’s words had run over that wound. Whenever she went back to rewrite that afternoon in her head, it always began with her choices, or that last smile Deirdre had given her right before--

Oh, Deirdre. 

Far from the victorious maven who had taught her to throw a knife, Deirdre was curled up in a corner booth, head down, her face half buried in the corpse of a cherry pie. There was something disarming in its flagrant display of vulnerability even as it made Morgan’s heart ache. She slid into the booth beside her and brushed back Deirdre’s hair. “Hey,” she said gently. “You really weren’t kidding about the pie, huh?”

At some point between sneaking sips out of one of several flasks she was carrying and crushing bits of pie under her fork, pretending it was pieces of her, Deirdre fell asleep. Her dreams were swirls of colors and sensations, side-effects of whatever concoction of fae drug she’d thought to take. When she woke to find Morgan staring down and sliding next to her, warm hand in her hair, Deirdre was sure that was a dream too. Too good to be true, and too haunting to be anything else. She watched Morgan for a long moment, waiting for colors to devour her face or a second and third eye ball to pop out and blink horrors at her--nothing. She turned her attention back to the crushed cherry pie slice in front of her, a coldness that tickled on her nose as she slowly forced herself into a state of half-alertness. She reached up and swiped at it, drawing back pie-filling on her finger as she sighed. Memories had their way of blurring in a drunken haze, which was good because she didn’t want to remember.

Illusion-Morgan was warm though. “It’s too sweet though, they make it too sweet here.” She wiped her finger against one of the napkins, turning then to pull a flash from her jacket. “Can visions drink, or does that fall right through?” She offered it out, her words falling over each other as she hadn’t shaken either inebriation or sleep from her body. “But--” she flicked it open effortlessly, “I don’t like sharing so it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters; that’s the point.”

None of this should be touching or sweet. Deirdre was clearly in...some kind of place. Heartbroken, underneath whatever substances she’d been kicking back between bites of pastry. And yet Morgan couldn’t help but smile as she reached over for some napkins and began dabbing away at the mess. Maybe it was just that good to see her again. “You always say the sweetest things about my looks when I’m at my messiest,” she smirked. “But if I was a vision, Deirdre, I can guarantee I would’ve at least put on something cute. Or done my hair.” Nevertheless, she plucked the flask from Deirdre’s hands. She needed her sober, or something close to it, if she wanted to be able to get her home. “I’m here for real. You let me choose, and choose I did. Also: you matter.” She reached up to brush a drop of filling from the corner of her lip and held Deirdre’s face, hoping the alcohol haze would settle and she would see her, believe in her. 

“You look perfectly fine just like that.” Deirdre’s response was instant, her head turned to look at dream-Morgan as she spoke plainly. She didn’t fight the flask being taken from her, unable to notice it as her attention stayed steady on the simple sight of Morgan. “Why would I want you to be anything else but here? With me?” Of course, she’d seen Morgan in something cute, with her hair done and lipstick delicately picked out. But even as a drug-induced vision, she couldn’t say she’d want Morgan to look any particular way. Just here, that was it. However she was. But illusion-dream-hallucination Morgan was warm, and pressing a tissue to her face and then pressing her hand to her face and her dreams never did that--they never were so kind. It struck her first that dreams had a habit of ending and she leaned in, pressing her lips to vision-Morgan’s desperately. When she pulled back and the woman was still there, she was struck then by the realization this was actually Morgan--and that would always be a thousand times better than a dream. Even in her state. Especially in her state. “Oh,” she squeaked, twisting in her seat and gripping the cushioning of the booth a little harder. “You’re not---I’m not dreaming then. I’m not--Oh no.” She glanced at her table, in disarray with empty plates strewn about and various slices of half-eaten pie desecrated on them. She turned back to Morgan, “I didn’t--I didn’t get any pie for you.”

There wasn’t enough talk in the world about how someone could zip you up in warmth with just a few words. Undone, unravelings, revealings, sheddings, those were common enough, but Morgan didn’t feel like she’d lost her skin to hear Deirdre talk. Why would I want you to be anything else but here? It was better than the press of a warm quilt, all the more strange for coming from her cold-skinned fae. She parted her lips and let Deirdre kiss her, sliding her arms around her neck, pressing in gently. “Oh, is right,” she said, smirking. She covered Deirdre’s hand with her own under the table, pressing in with all her strength and warmth, knuckles to knuckles. She didn’t want to feel her clam up again, or for those awful walls her mother had taught her to build to lock into place. What she wanted was already before her, too good to do anything but grab it with all she had. “It’s okay,” she whispered, resting her chin on the woman’s shoulder. “It’s okay, Deirdre. And uh, I’m not so sure you didn’t give me any.” She could still taste the sweet residue of cherry on her tongue, for one, and she dipped her free hand into the gutted pie tin to swirl up a glob more, for another. 

There was a conversation they needed to have, it dug itself into Deirdre’s shoulders, settled only as Morgan cut through them. There was what was right; what she knew to be right and what she was raised to know was right. Then there was what she wanted, sitting clumsily on the outskirts. It was easy to see what she wanted as wrong, she’d tried to drown it down to no avail. Want sat beside her. Want held her hand and asked for nothing. So distant from what was right, that cold and uncaring creature. But Deirdre knew, just as well as she did the first night she’d invited Morgan over, that there was a very good reason the world worked the way it did. With alcohol coursing through her, her normal resilience melted. “I’d be mad that you’re eating my pie but my sight is so blurry all I can see is your mouth. It is, however, a very cute mouth,” she smiled despite the growing ache---emotional or pie-related, she didn’t know. Was this it? Would they dance around conversation until the next expanded argument wrenched them apart for more and more days until there was no drunken consolation at the end?

Spurred by the quickly diminishing haze of booze, Deirdre thought she’d start speaking while she had the courage to. “You asked me before, if you helped me too, if you gave me anything,” she swallowed thickly, “the truth is I don’t have the language to tell you just how much. I don’t know if there are words at all. ‘Yes’ is too short and ‘more than you’ll know’ is too demanding and--and--There are no words to talk about a place that is warmer than warm, lighter than light.” She paused, her tongue worked around the stumbled explanation of more but her mind churned too slow to keep up with her frantic heart. She half wished she was more drunk, half wished she’d never had anything at all. “Do you sometimes forget how bright the sun is until you feel it on a summer day that’s hot but where the wind is cool? When you can’t look up, only forward?” Deirdre’s words slurred on top of eachother, spilling into the next before the previous was done. She was rushing; half-drunk, half-panicked. Sure if she stopped then she’d never be able to speak again and sure enough, she stopped. All she could see was Morgan’s lips, parted once for pie and then the flask she’d stolen. “I think I--I think--Can I have that back? Or can you move a little so I can take out another flask?” 

Bolstered as Morgan felt, her chest trembled to hear Deirdre talk about her in a way she had felt and believed in through the press of her touch and the look in her eyes, but never heard aloud. And wasn’t that part of the problem? That they couldn’t be like this except in moments of desperation when it was all about to come apart. Deirdre could only let Morgan see her want when she thought it was a dream, something already beyond her. And Morgan didn’t know how to slide in close enough to her heart to stay there when the walls came back up with the day again. She couldn’t help but believe that she might learn the secret one day, but she couldn’t fool herself into believing that it had already come. 

“There aren’t words for that, not that I know of,” she said softly, shifting her hand to press over Deirdre’s heart. “But I know what you mean. Because that’s the place you make for me too. I feel better, knowing you’re in it with me. Because it feels so good-- you should get to have something that feels that good.” She pressed a firm kiss to Deirdre’s cheek. “Not here,” she said. “I want to get you home where you can rest. And I know--I know I can’t fix everything wrong just by turning up, but for tonight, can you let me be here? All I want is to be here with you, Deirdre.” She pressed harder against her chest. “We can go back to figuring out the grown-up thing to do later. Can that be okay?”

Warmth was fine, comfort was welcome, but it wasn’t what the pliable Deirdre needed to sustain her susceptibility to want. She needed more of that good flask juice, that wondrous intoxication that pulled her from the body that was made and into the heart that couldn’t be changed. Morgan’s sweet words were no match against the mind Deirdre’s mother crafted. And like clockwork, without the influence of something else to peel back her coldness, she stiffened. What she wanted to be a gentle agreement came out as a guttural “no”. And then she repeated it, “no.” Because she knew, just as well as she did that first time, that the world worked in its cycle for a reason. There was an agreement not torn at their feet; void. If her mother waltzed into Al’s--improbable given the ‘too human’ nature of the establishment--would Deirdre run her knife against Morgan like she did those animals? Would this be another lesson in sealing the weak parts of her away? You don’t like the humans, there were words for fae that did. She groaned, trying to shift to pull out from her jacket what she needed but finding it impossible without pushing Morgan away, something she didn’t want to do again. She wanted to be here, and here was fine in the diner that always felt removed from time.

But Deirdre didn’t have the heart to doom them into the same cycle. Maybe this was the kinder thing to do, in the end; figure out the grown-up thing to do now. Closure was important, or so she’d heard. “No,” she tried again, “no, we should talk. Avoiding it isn’t right. Isn’t...fair. To either of us.” But mostly to Morgan, she imagined. Deirdre’s mind had already been made up, she knew which part she was supposed to serve. Want was wrong, in the face of what was obviously right. But Morgan made it feel simple, as though pushing it all away was as simple as saying it could be okay. But it couldn’t. She knew it couldn’t. Would they be stuck like this? Vying for spaces removed from harsh reality? “I don’t think there’s anything to fix, Morgan. Even if either of us could. I don’t--” she swallowed again, thicker. “I don’t think I get to have this.”

Morgan stiffened at the first no, as if it had struck her body. It was almost instantaneous, she didn’t have time to realize she was being pushed out, she was simply already on the other side of those walls. She picked up the flask and set it on the table between them, where they could both reach. This couldn’t be the only way she got to see Deirdre, in flashes, in anguish, in the smallest sparks of relief. It just couldn’t be. They had to be able to learn together, they had to be able to keep something, even a piece, even a small one-- Morgan steadied her breathing and took a bitter sip from the flask before setting it back again, nudging it over with a fingertip. “C-can you please not…” Her voice was small and wavering, that of an anguished little girl, watching her world fall away and wondering what she’d done wrong now. But this wasn’t that. She hadn’t misstepped this time. She had come. She had tried, again, to ease the hurt away. And she deserved better; they both did.

She spoke again. “I can feel you, you know, shutting me out. And I’d rather you didn’t, for this talk.” She breathed carefully. “What I don’t understand is--why don’t you get to have this? I would never ask you to prioritize me over your duty, or your people. What you have with them is sacred, and even if I don’t know everything that you must do, I understand that you must do it. I don’t need you to change your life inside out.” But didn’t Deirdre already know this? Or guessed? Morgan slipped an arm around her, holding her as best she could in the small booth, tight, in case she never got the chance again. “I want you,” she whispered, steady and firm. “So much, and we have failed so badly at being completely apart. Can we at least have something else instead? If it’s really that impossible, and you’re not just shutting me away because you think you should, can we have something?” 

Freed finally from the consuming warmth of Morgan, Deirdre pulled another flask from her jacket and downed its contents at once. She clanked the flask down, savoring the sound of Morgan's voice as she waited for the alcohol to work its magic through her system. In the meantime, she listened. "You don't understand...?" She nearly scoffed, but shook the rudeness away. "A life lived second to something as cold as fate is...not a life you want, Morgan. How can I not put you first? You don't need to ask, it's what you deserve and it's not—" Deirdre closed her eyes. It would have been easy to say she was fine with pretending like Morgan didn't matter—to shove the woman away and insist she was just a meager pet to any that questioned. Humans had their place, it wasn't a place Deirdre wanted to put Morgan. Even if somehow, in some miraculous way, Morgan could accept the death that sat at Deirdre's fingers. "They rip the wings out of Fae that like humans. They cast you out; they mutilate, kill, anything to prove a point. And I—I'm not even a good person. I don't get to have something. I shouldn't. I'll do whatever I'm asked of. And if my mother asks me to—" she opened her eyes, steadied on the sight of Morgan. She swallowed, knowing her promise was as easy as a spell and a few ingredients to break. What good was it then? What good was anything she did? She turned her gaze back to the table, the flask between them and the crushed pie in its simple tin. "I don't want to hide you away like some—some—" anger flared, and she balled her hands into a fist. The flask shone bright in its spot on the table. The sentence hung unfinished.

Deirdre leaned into Morgan, sighing against her. She pulled her close, best as she could, and held her too, in case she never got the privilege to again. 'I want you' brought a heady crawl up her, caught in her throat. She fixated on the fact Morgan could simply mean physically, or in the way that comforted—nothing more. If it was anything more, Deirdre wouldn't have the courage to finish the conversation she asked for. "What something else is there?" No satisfying end; wasn't that a fact she'd come to learn already? She turned to look at Morgan again. Her expression, fraught with pain that sat diligently over longing, flicked with the ghost of a smile. "I want you too." She felt it necessary to have that said, while she the courage lasted and she knew exactly how she'd meant the words. Deirdre repeated herself with more meaning now, "what something else is there then?"

Morgan’s heart fluttered with panic as Deirdre explained what happened to fae who touched people like her. Liked people like her. It had occurred to her in the woods that there was some fuckery like that in Deirdre’s life, but she hadn’t imagined they would be violent to their own. Didn’t fae have more pride in themselves than that? But fucking stars, it never ended. No laws, no years, no magic in the cosmos would ever be enough to make her into something that wouldn’t be reviled in someone’s gaze. It never stopped, and it wasn’t fair. Just one more thing. “I didn’t know,” she whispered. “You never said—“ She turned in the seat so she could reach more of Deirdre, tuck her face into her neck. Were there any watching them now? Would they know just by looking or smelling— Morgan remembered how she would monitor the angle of her legs, the length of her stares, her gestures. Not too much, she told herself, and yet somehow, someone would always suspect. The surprise on the girls’ faces when they saw something in her hurt just as much as the disgust, wait, are you a queer? And she would lie, and hide better, but that did nothing to change the truth. The memory made her want to hold Deirdre closer, tighter. As if that alone could keep all the hatred and unfairness away. “I can handle a lot of that, Deirdre. Do you not know what they used to do to people like me where I’m from? What they still do?” She laughed, small and sad, because the only thing funny was that she hadn’t escaped that barrier, even in her first supernatural community. “Secrecy, that’s nothing to me. And you do deserve to have something that feels like this, no matter what you’ve been told, you do. But I didn’t know I was putting your life at risk with this.” She kissed her temple tenderly and breathed through the ache of disappointment building in her.

“I could be your friend,” she said after a while, as gently as she could. “We could be friends who talk to each other online. Maybe call for a good reason and send little things, now and then. Would that be safer for you? Would someone here hurt you for that?” She pressed into Deirdre’s hair and rubbed at the stiffness in her weary body. “Because the way I see it, we already care about each other, and that’s what keeps us coming back here. And being helpless to do anything about it is what hurts most. So what if, instead of hurting ourselves and each other by trying to cut it off entirely...we find a way to care a little differently. I can know if you’re okay, and what happened with the stolen food at work, and you can have my stories, and anything else you want to know. We can know each other, and you can be safe. And it won’t be what we want most, but it won’t hurt so much. And it’ll matter.” She pressed a firm kiss to her head. “I can’t un-know you, and you won’t ever stop mattering to me, Deirdre. So I can’t leave you behind like you’re nothing and I’m not going to let you ask me to again. I would much rather take the honor of being your good but not too often seen friend. There’s no point in failing at this no contact policy a third time, right?”

It was a bad idea to chug down whiskey after eating an excessive amount of pie. Deirdre could feel it inside her, which was bad, because she could feel a lot of things inside her. None of which were the fun sort of thing to be feeling. She relaxed into Morgan, mostly because she was sure if she tried to move away pie would come back out in bits and chunks. “I know,” she mumbled, “I got it too, from the humans. It’s the most absurd thing.” But it was further used to reinforce their inferiority. Of course the silly, lowly humans would think in such limiting ways. Deirdre pulled her head up, feeling the effects of the liquor and thankfully little of the pie. “You said you liked telling people you were a witch because it was nice to be...open,” she blinked, confused. Maybe Morgan just meant generally, and not in the sense that she’d be okay if that was their situation. It couldn’t have been anyway, there was the hurdle of ‘I’m a murderer’ that she also needed to get over and the idea of hiding anything at all always made her stomach churn (although, more likely in this case, that was the pie). “You deserve to have something that…something. I deserve more pie...and a nap,” she hiccuped, “I just said--I just said that I’m not a good person.”

She swallowed the feeling of bubbling pie down as the warmth of booze filled her mind with fuzz, but just enough clarity to whimper at Morgan’s use for the word ‘friend’. Eventually, she spoke up. “You think I care about my safety?” Deirdre pulled back, just enough to look at Morgan. Earnestly, eye-to-eye, the way her great-great-grandmother taught her. “I’m worried about you. I don’t care about--they’re far more likely to hurt you, Morgan. I’m young, this can be seen as a lapse in judgement. I don’t like humans, I like you--I’ll get called names for the next fifty years but I’ll be fine. You, on the other hand…” She sighed, lifting her hands to hold Morgan’s face; half because the desire to just kiss her grew more with each moment and half because the room was spinning a little. “You could un-know me. There’s spells and drugs for that.” None of which she liked, but the option rolled in the back of her head. “Not too often is--” her face broke out into a pout and her hands fell away from Morgan’s face, defeated, “no sex?”

“I did, yeah,” Morgan admitted. “But I’m really used to things being the other way. And if it was for you, it would at least be a good reason.” Not that they could take the risk, not if Deirdre could be ground into the pavement or sent away to have the best parts of her tortured away. “Oh, not the good person thing again,” Morgan laughed dryly. “Look, morality is relative. I already said you’re good to the people who matter, and if this is about not caring about a dead doe or the secret ritual sacrifice things you’re raised to do in the name of death I’m not supposed to know anything about, that still doesn’t mean you’re not a person who deserves love. And nice, warm things and being known and cherished.” She added the other words on quickly, as if they might obscure the first, weightiest, and most dizzying. But it was hard not to think of such words with Deirdre’s hands on her face, with her deep brown eyes looking into hers. “Well I don’t want to un-know you. And I’m cursed and if I don’t figure anything out I have maybe twelve years before I get hit with a flying anvil or something. And I can try to measure what I give and what I burden other people with, and I do, all the time, but--” But it was just worth it when she was with Deirdre. Claiming even a few hours, a few days, out of the cold, cursed fist of the universe felt worth it every time. “I just want to know you more than I’m afraid of everything else.” Which meant the measurements would always fail, that she might overlook something, and leave Deirdre vulnerable in the next twist of her stupid, stupid curse.

“Yeah,” she said quietly. “No sex. Not too much coming over. But we’d still have something of each other. We wouldn’t have to go crazy wanting to write, we could just do it. You could call to hear my voice, and you’d let me do it too. Isn’t that worth something? Isn’t that better than what we’ve been trying?”

Now the room was really fuzzy, all except Morgan and her beautiful, perfectly crafted lips that Deirdre could just lean into and---”Huh?” She shook her head, “secret ritual sacri--no! No! I’m seriously evil!” Not that the words were any convincing coming out with a drunken mumble and a childish pout. “It means exactly those things, Morgan!” And her exasperation was enough to keep her from falling on top of Morgan in a sloppy attempt to close distance in the way she’d ached to since Morgan first entered Al’s as a divine vision. “I wanna know you more than I know a...mhm, pie.” What once seemed like brilliance, to down her liquor and power through a much-needed conversation while she had the heart to, now seemed completely terrible. Deirdre tried to steady herself, and a pout turned into her drunken idea of seriousness. And then her drunken idea of seriousness turned back into a pout, this time wider and accompanied by eyes that glistened and betrayed her dismay. “N-no sex. Yeah, that’s--I’m okay with--I don’t even know what sex is.” She swallowed, “I--that’s--friends is fine.” It sounded like the logical thing in the moment, the best of both worlds. As Morgan explained it, at least. Deirdre wasn’t sober enough for her own risk-analysis, even if that was the job she got paid for. “Is that...what you want? To be friends? Just friends? Nothing-more-no-sex friends? Occasionally-meeting-nothing-more-no-sex friends?” Because she didn’t. “That,” her lip quivered, “that’s fine.”

Even a drunken Deirdre’s disappointment was hard to take. Morgan couldn’t help but touch her fingers to the corner of her quivering mouth and bring their foreheads gently together. Remind her that they were attempting  to play a whole other ballgame besides want alone. Make it hurt less. “You know what I really want,” she said. “What I really want to give you. What I wish I could really keep of you. You know how I feel, Deirdre,” she said. “But if you won’t let me, or if it costs too much to have what we want, I will take being your friend any day over nothing. It’s still worth it.”

Now the alcohol really was a terrible idea. Deirdre couldn’t think of a thing to say that wasn’t some dramatic variation of ‘take me’ or ‘I don’t care’ or more notably ‘I don’t care, take me’. She’d sober up to regret this, she knew that. Regret having this conversation, regret falling so easily into Morgan’s sweet clutches--where the words were gentle and the ideas alluring. But would she regret it more if she agreed to the mocked idea of friendship? “I don’t know what you want,” she whispered, closing her eyes. Her heart thrummed, and panic bubbled up--or was that pie? Or both? She suppressed the panic-pie and tried to go on, “I don’t---how do you feel?” Was it a bad idea to ask? Her stomach fluttered at the possibility, from hope---or was that the pie again? “No, don’t tell me. It’s better if you--no, tell me. No, don’t. No---I don’t know,” she breathed after a moment, “do I want to hear this?”

For the first time since coming here, Morgan felt her own little walls rise up, felt them beg her, no, no, please… What was the point? They hadn’t seemed to agree on whether the risks were worth taking, or why the smallest pleasure of exchanging words at a distance might not feel enough. Deirdre’s sobriety had bypassed questionable. For all Morgan knew, she might not remember in the morning and this will all have been a very strange dream. Why tell her, confuse her, maybe even frighten her with the truth? Because it might not. Because she was owed the truth if Morgan’s being here wasn’t enough to grant her certainty.

Morgan put her hand gently over Deirdre’s heart, which had begun to flutter in spite of her natural stillness. “Remember to breathe slowly,” she urged, voice tight. Was Deirdre already afraid of how deep, how predictably in over her head and cliche she was? Or was Deirdre afraid that she somehow wasn’t? She gave herself so easily to Morgan when she was asked, but took so little. Could she take this from her? Catch it with her gentleness? Keep it? Morgan swallowed thickly. “And I guess that depends...on how you feel too. Would it change anything for the better, if you knew I want to be the person who cherishes you at the end of the day?” She swallowed again, thicker. “Would you do anything different if I said I want all of you, or as much of you as I’m allowed? Or that I feel safe with you, in a way I haven’t before, when we’re together? Would you...would you be scared, if I told you I...I think I love you? Because I don’t have to tell you that, if it makes you scared.” She dropped her hand tentatively, braced herself. “I don’t want you to be a-afraid of me or disappear because it seems kinda soon for that or to make this harder, so, I don’t have to…” she trailed off. 

Deirdre’s world slowed into a singular sound, the scenery of Al’s fell away in messy clumps. She watched Morgan’s lips and waited until they stilled. Once she was sure no more words could escape them, she leaned in, pressing her lips to Morgan’s in a kiss she’d wanted for for the better part of an hour now--as fervent as the insistent thumping of a heart that was supposed to be slow. The small booth was a curse suddenly, with not enough room to hold Morgan against her and no way to push the table bolted to the floor someplace else. Working with what little she did have, she reached out to press herself into Morgan, or Morgan into her, not caring that her knee jabbed awkwardly into the booth seat’s back. With her arms tangled around the human, and her body twisted to face her completely, she only remembered the need to breathe when her lungs demanded she pull back, but not away. Breathless, Deirdre smiled, a confession of her own sat at the edge of the tongue that darted out over her lips.

“Morgan, I…” she sighed, pressing her forehead to the woman’s. If only the world would let her stay like that. She leaned back, reaching out to hold Morgan’s hand. “I have to be honest with you, as my heart demands it, but I didn’t hear a single word of what you said. I’m so extremely sick right now that the only thing keeping me from throwing up is that you’re in front of me, and that I want to kiss you again, and that I refuse to get sick in public. It’s all I can think about. Everything tastes like cherry and whiskey and blueberry and vodka.” She leaned her head on Morgan’s shoulder, or fell over on her. “I can’t hear anything but my stomach and it’s not happy. I can’t even hear myself.” And she was so close to the edge of expelling all of the pie she’d consumed that she imagined the lie to be as believable as it could be. 

She didn’t know anything about love. She knew what she’d been told of it, that it was the kind of thing her family had for her, and she for them, and that fae held for each other no matter what. That humans couldn’t even fathom the word, that they never meant it. She didn’t know what it felt like, if it lied or changed or went away if she didn’t reach for it. She’d regret a lot once she sobered, she’d regret playing the part of the sick drunk too. She’d regret not saying what she wanted, and what she felt honestly. But this was a kindness. The chance to let Morgan take it back, think it over and come to the right conclusion. To say she couldn’t hear her, when the only thing she could hear in this empty diner was the song of Morgan’s voice; this was a kindness. To kiss her then, as she would for the last time. To commit feeling to memory, but in such a inconsequential way that Morgan could forget just as Deirdre would never. All she’d been told of love was sacrifice; this then, was exactly that. “Mhm, we can go with the friends thing--I can’t think right now.”

Morgan didn’t know what to think at first. The initial silence after her words seemed to roar in her ears, then she was being kissed, not just kissed but swept away into Deirdre’s arms entirely. Caught. Held. Morgan was so bewildered she accepted her without question, clung to her and kissed her back with the same relief and abandon, beaming against Deirdre’s lips with hope all the way until she spoke. 

Oh. 

She did her best not to let her face waver. It wasn’t Deirdre’s fault. She wasn’t trying to leave her hanging alone in her feelings, she said as much. She’d had too much, she was ill, and Morgan probably should have known better anyway. She didn’t get to be someone who kept things, kept people. Stolen bits of light from the universe were just that, and they would slip away again each time.

She hid the tremble in her fingers by stroking the back of Deirdre’s head. It was just as well, she told herself. Friendship would keep the banshee safe from the other fae and safer still from Morgan’s curse. If she really did love Deirdre, isn’t that what she should want for her anyway, even over having her? Wouldn’t it make her something horrible, to long too hard for something different? Too selfish?

“Why um, why don’t we get you home, okay?” She said softly, still petting Deidre’s hair with shaky fingers. “I’ll get you set up. You need to be somewhere more comfortable, alright?” At least she had braced herself first, Morgan thought. At least in Deirdre’s drunken innocence, she had given her only a short way to fall. “Come on, I’ve got you…”

Deirdre considered for a moment that it was wrong to assume the trajectory of Morgan's emotions and their eventual fall away from her. Wrong, maybe, but right. Risk-analysis was her job, prediction was her birthright. She lived looking ten steps ahead, detached from the present. And love, true love, wasn't that sacrifice? Wasn't that suffering, bending and breaking and denying want and desire for the sake of someone else? She knew the kind of person she was, the kind of things she did and the kind of things she could be made to do if only her duty asked it of her. Such a person, cruel and unkind, wouldn't suit Morgan. Not in the fantastical way that Jane Austen painted love to be, by two souls that were ultimately pure and deserving of such affection—or it was as she remembered it. How long had it been since she'd actually read one? Frightened of the truth that might sit in those pages, she hadn't dared. All she knew for now was that she wanted nothing but kindness for Morgan, how to go about giving that to her was its own problem. 

But she was sick, and pie did want to leave her churning stomach. If only she could have asked Morgan was was right, what was kinder; giving her what she wanted for now or making it easier when she realized it wasn't what she wanted later. And all of that ignoring the fact Morgan very well could be flayed if Deirdre wasn't careful with the hiding. It was hard still, not to take it all back when she could feel Morgan's fingers in her hair. To say that she wanted this, for as long as she could have it. "You do 'got' me," she mumbled, drunkenly collecting her things and stumbling up to stand. She pulled three crisp hundred dollar bills and slapped them down, turning to look at Morgan instead of the pie-stained table. "I'm all yours." And she'd meant it in more of the emotional sense than the fact she nearly fell on top of her as she needed to be carried along, but if hiding it under an act was the only way she could say it, she'd take it for now. "Can I—" she paused, raising her fingers to her lips to half pretend to stop a spew of digested pie. "Can I just say something? I think—I think you are unquestionably the best human but also so—" she brought her fingers to her lips again, this time to keep out an inopportune burp. "So, so deserving of several things. One of which will be something good, that lasts forever. Forever! That doesn't even exist! Nothing is forever but you're going to have it." She nudged the human, "and you know what else? I don't—I can't use words good now." She hiccuped, sure that it wasn't much of an act anymore. Deirdre steadied herself and forced clarity with as much power as a drunk Irish woman could: "I promise you that if you want me, if you need me or if you're just lonely or sad or scared or if you just want someone with you, or if you need help or you're in trouble...I promise that if you ask, I'll come to you." 

Morgan hadn’t known her heart could drop a second time, but Deirdre’s proclamation of I’m all yours did just that. “That would be really something,” she whispered with longing, confident enough that Deirdre wouldn’t hear, or at least remember. And it was hard not to laugh in an awful way at the money she left on the table. Yeah, real evil one, that Deirdre, even with all the pie debris, it had to have been an outrageous tip. But she made it mostly out of the diner with the banshee in tow, letting her words slide off her little walls, listening to their whispers of I told you so, instead, until Deirdre stopped them and promised. 

Morgan leaned away from her far enough to search her face. How alert was she? How fast did drink wear off for fae? It was as though she had emerged out of the whiskey pool just for this, just for her. Morgan nodded, too astonished to speak. The falling had stopped and she was held again. Amazing, how she could be held without being touched. But what else could she make of that promise, twinned with her own from the lake, but their own way of keeping arms around each other, even when they were apart? Slowly, taking advantage of Deirdre’s stillness, Morgan took the scrunchie she’d left on her wrist and swept back the woman’s hair, pressing close into her as she did. “Okay,” she said at last.”Okay.” Once wasn’t enough to make it real. And she would have to check in with Deirdre on it by the light of day, just in case. But she wasn’t selfless enough to turn it away now. She wanted to believe that Deirdre would stay a little bit hers, that if she said the words for how she felt again, they would be answered back as a matter of course, and if those ideas faded into dust like some backfired alchemy the next day, at least she held them now. They felt real enough. She squeezed Deirdre’s arms tight, resisting the urge to kiss her just one more time (if she started again now, she’d never stop) and resumed their walk to her car again. “Let’s get you taken care of,” she said, guiding her through the passenger door. “Cozy and hydrated and safe. And I’ll stay with you, until you fall asleep.”

What was it that Deirdre’s mother had told her when she took her books from her hands? Something about how life could was never that sweet or simple, how stories were often just that--stories. Or was it something about how humans were never smart, never kind, the lambs to the laughter? Deirdre closed her eyes, humming under Morgan’s touch, bending down for her--yielding--to make it easier to pull her hair back. Was it something instead about how the lines between fae and human were clear, and she had her place above them and they had theirs? Something about rabbits, surely. Her mother loved to compare the humans to animals. Her mother never spoke of the desire to want to hold a rabbit close, to shelter it with her body from the cruel world that never was sweet or simple. She spoke of affection once, only to call it useless. Deirdre opened her eyes as soon as the contact left, cold in its wake. Her fingers twitched at her side, shocked by the impulse to reach for Morgan again. She could, half-drunk under pale moonlight and bright stars, illuminated faintly by neon signs, it would feel almost right. And wasn’t it a crime not to make sure Morgan knew how well starlight suited her? Shouldn’t she do something? It would be almost right of her.

Instead she let their walk resume, uninterrupted by the affection she wanted to share. She waved a hand dismissively as she plopped into the passenger’s seat, “I don’t need to be taken care of.” And she hated the feeling every time but this once, just this once. When Morgan took her seat at the wheel, Deirdre turned to her, arm tucked under her head as she tried to fashion it into a pillow for herself. Want was wrong, selfish. Want was the thing that humans did, the thing that made them weak. She’d heard it from her mother in a dozen different ways, sometimes with animals--sheep, rabbits, pigs, cattle. “You said if you were a vision, you’d be wearing something cute and I said I the only thing I want from you is to be with me,” she smiled softly as her eyes betrayed her mourning, “I’m sorry I want you. But I can promise you that I’ve never met a more beautiful woman. If this is a dream, I’m not so sure my mind would have changed anything at all, not even that unruly fluff you call hair.” 

Deirdre turned back, facing forward and crossing her arms over her chest. “Until I fall asleep…” she mumbled to herself. Well, that was as easy as never falling asleep then, wasn’t it? If it was selfish to want, to hold, then stealing moments would just have to do. “You could stay with me longer than that,” she mumbled again, “but I guess this would really be a dream then.”

Morgan coaxed her car to life with a few wriggles of the key and put a hand on Deirdre’s as they pulled out into the night. “I’d rather be real than nothing,” she said, making an effort to convince herself as well. And sure enough, when the morning began to stretch into the sky and Deirdre’s eyes settled into something like sleep, Morgan left her hangover supplies in the kitchen with her initial on a post-it. It was as tender as it was sad, a ghost of the breakfast and care Deirdre had made for her after Valentine’s Day. But it was real. And maybe one day it might even feel like enough to be content. 

[ren-c-leyn]

To Duel a God...

 It’s been a while since I’ve done a short story for this blog, thought I might give it a try since I’m still under the weather but want to try to stick to the habit of writing. This is a fusion story that I’ve been squirreling away prompts for for a while. I’m excited to finally have enough pieces in place to write it.

 The prompts in question are these 1,2,3,4,5,6 by the always amazing @thependragonwritersguild, this one by @thewholekitandkabobble, these 1,2,3,4 by the lovely @givethispromptatry, and these 1,2 by @humdrummoloch. Thank you all for your hard work to make so many amazing prompts ^-^

Story warnings: This is a fight story, so there is fictional violence. It also mentions death in passing, but nothing in any great detail. There is a little swearing, as well.

~

 It started with an old memory; a tiny cry from the void of hollow emptiness that had been eating me alive since that living nightmare.

 Don’t be ridiculous, you don’t have to be any of those things to become a great hero. After all, heroes of legend are not the strongest or the wisest of us. They are those who had the selflessness and courage to do what was right.

 But I know I am not one of those people. I had never been one of those people. If I had been, I would have been able to save him. If I am now, I would be able to avenge them now.

 Perhaps my first warning that I still wasn’t one of those people should have been the way her face blanched at my statement and argued with me for an hour over it. Or, perhaps it should have been in my statement itself.

 I’m going to challenge a god to a duel at sunrise on the anniversary.

 Maybe they’d even add a line to the adventurer’s hand guide dedicated solely to warn against my insanity at the end of this: ‘Protip: Don’t challenge gods to duels.’

 “You must understand! It was a hard fought victory; a truce that you are threatening to tear apart!”

 “I don’t care. I promised nothing and was privy to no truce. I walk my own path and care little for the gods and their business.”

 My best friend, my former comrade, the woman I had shed sweat and blood and tears with just searched my face with a lost sort of expression, similar to the one we had both worn that day, the anniversary, as we stared at the piles of corpses stacked up to impossible heights.

 Eventually she sighed, shoulders sagging as her eyes closed.

 “Why do you always do this?” she asked, voice tired and raspy.

 “Why do you always ask me that when you know the answer you’ll get?”

 And those dull, rust-colored eyes opened partly again.

 “What’s going to happen to everything after you are gone?”

 “I dunno. I’ll be dead, my friend. Figure it out for yourself.”

 She snorted.

 “So you admit this will be what finally kills you?”

 “It’s more that I admit that I cannot guarantee it won’t, even with my so called talents. Still... can we really just sit back and say we’re fine with how things turned out in the end?”

 “Obviously you cannot, and I cannot stop you. Go then, Payback. Do what it is you do best. I won’t join in your foolishness, but I will stand witness to your duel. I trust it will take place in the usual ring?”

 A grim smile crept onto my face as I turned away from her desk and began to stride to the door.

 “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

 With my friend and queen’s permission, or at least reluctant surrender, on the matter, I set about issuing my challenge. This proved to be the hard part. No priest or priestess in their right minds were willing to send my message to the war god, not even those of questionable sanity wanted to get involved, and several temples threw me out on my ear, quite literally. The last of which was the war god’s high temple itself. 

 Well, fine then. If I couldn’t get my challenge to the bastard through a third party, I’d just have to do it myself.

 I climbed up the pillars, ignoring the indignant shouts of priests and temple guardians as I scaled up the front of the so called holy site, clawed my way through the ornate carvings depicting great battles and heroes, and then finally drug my armored arse over the lip of the roofing to get on top of the building itself.

 Standing as straight as I could, I cupped my hands to my mouth and inhaled. Then, all at once, I roared up to the sky.

 “WAR GOD!!! I CHALLENGE YOU IN SINGLE COMBAT FOR THE HONOR OF MY FALLEN FRIENDS! COME TO THE HILL OF ROSES ON THE SUNRISE OF THE ANNIVERSARY OF THE DAY YOU BUTCHERED THEM LIKE THE COWARD YOU ARE AND I SHALL HONOR THEIR MEMORIES WITH YOUR HEAD!”

 Then, there was silence. A dead silence that was quite out of place for any part of the capital city. I wasn’t even sure if the people who heard me issue my challenge were breathing, but I couldn’t care less. They could hide in fear all they wanted, but I had faced god beasts and their other minions in the fields of battle during our war against the gods. I had looked servants of death in the eye, and even played cards with one during my queen’s negotiations for peace. There was nothing for me to fear from the other side.

 Still, I found the silence a bit uneasy. Was I being ignored? Usually, my opponents responded to my challenged rather quickly. For example, you know the wizard accepts your challenge when a crimson bolt strikes. You know a thieves’ guild leader accepts your challenge when you have a knife and a dead snake pinned to the inside of your inn door the next morning.But how does one know when a god decides to accept a challenge?

 Blood red lightening shot down from a cloudless sky and shattered an ancient oak that had been on the grounds for centuries.

 I guessed that answered my question. The bastard had heard me alright, and it looked like he accepted my challenge. A broad grin split my face. Good, this would be fun.

 Two weeks passed with nonstop training and uneasy anticipation. The nightmares of the past came and went in tides, mixing in with the present. Instead of falling victim to them, I used them to motivate myself, remind myself why I had to do this.

 Then, the fateful morning came, or rather, the pre-dawn darkness before a fateful morning came. The queen and I stood on my usual dueling grounds, a flat-topped hill crowned with blood-red roses. It was a fitting place to die... for my enemies. Neither of us said a word to each other as we watched the eastern sky, waiting for our old enemy to appear. 

 Just as the deep blues of night began to turn yellow, and rays of sunlight began to caress the rosebuds, we felt it. That familiar stomach-twisting sickness from raw power. Both of us tensed.

 Red lightening struck again, dancing in the center of the ring before us. It balled up, glowing brighter, and then went out entirely, revealing a tall man in strange armor made of heavenly metals and fangs and claws and hides of god beasts. A giant sword rested in his left hand, and a battle ax as broad as the queen’s shoulders rested in his right. Behind him was a cloaked figure I recognized as the commander of the war god’s army. She gave a nod to the queen and I, and we gave a nod back.

 “Well, mortal, I believe we have a score to settle. Yes?” the war god’s deep voice growled out slowly, mockingly. “It shouldn’t take us more than a minute.”

 I grinned up at him.

 “I would think not. I should have your ugly head ready for my wall in thirty seconds.”

 He howled out a laugh.

 “You think you can kill me?”

 “I think I can try and if I can’t then at least I can be an obstacle. I might even be able to make you bleed, or worse. Whose to know if we don’t fight?”

 He chuckled darkly with a smirk to match.

 “You will be lost in the land of the dead long before you make me bleed, mortal.”

 A dark smile of my own surfaced.

 “ I’m already as dead as my mercy. Come to think of it, you’re the one that killed me, on the inside anyways. You see, after you lose everything good in your life, all you can do is laugh. Laugh because you somehow managed to die along the way, but can’t remember where. But don’t worry, I have just enough mercy left in me to just make my vengeance killing you, instead of killing everyone you care about and turning you into a living ghost too.”

 He sneered at me.

 “Bold words for the empty shell of a pitiful creature. Don’t worry, I’ll put you out of your misery today. Witnesses! Begin the proceedings.”

 “Yes,” the queen and the general answered instantly.

 They both stepped back into the roses on opposite ends of the massive ring. Part of me wondered if they’d be okay, but it was a little late to take that into account now. They ran us through the dueling formalities, asking us to bow to each other, step back the appropriate number of steps, get into our stances, and then they began the count.

 “Three, two, one, you may begin.”

 They hadn’t even finished saying begin when the war god was bearing down on me, bringing both of his massive weapons down on each of my shoulders. I heard the queen scream, but I could only grin.

 Invincibility is a real good time. Whenever someone tries to maim you, they always end up taking the damage. I just wish I had clothes to support that fighting style. Well, the cost of this armor was nothing in comparison to the priceless look of shock on the dumbass’s face when his own divine weapons bounced off my bones and sunk into his shoulders.

 “H-how? What sorcerery is this?!” he hissed as he stumbled back.

 “Oh, I guess no one told you. What a pity, for you. I’m the last person you want to fight. Every time you hurt me, it just reverberates back to you. My friends call me Payback.”

 He laughed.

 “I see, I guess I’ll have to stop fighting you like a mortal, and fight you as an equal!”

 Lightening struck me and I felt it burn down to my bones. His weapons glowed red and he swung at me. Instinct kicked in and my body jerked out of the way, but the sword still caught my hand, leaving the first wound I had received on a battlefield in years.I retaliated with my own blade, going after joints and thinner spots of the armor. He blocked, dodged, countered, I ducked, rolled, and stabbed.

 The longer the deadly dance of steel and lightening strikes went, the more of my blood dripped onto the trampled grass and hardened earth.

 Ah. The one person I can’t defeat. Lovely.

 And despite myself, I started laughing at the thought. Laughing as I rolled under his ax’s head and came up right in front of him, only to be kicked in the gut by the boot. I went down, and red lightening made sure I stayed down. As I laid there, jerking uncontrollably, I heard the heavily armored boots advancing on me.

 Then, there was a bright white light.

 “Enough,” a woman’s voice echoed.

 “Out of my way, Life, the punk challenged me, not you.”

 “The battle has been decided, War, lay down your arms.”

 “It has not ended, it was a duel to the death.”

 I heard her laugh, laugh right in his face. Had to hand it to her, she had nerve. I respected that. As much as a person spasming in the dirt can respect anything, of course.

 “What’s so funny?” War demanded.

 “In accordance to the treaty we made with the humans, duels to the death are prohibited.”

 “Then why did you allow him to issue the challenge?!”

 “I assumed to accepted knowing that you weren’t allowed to kill.”

 “And if that mortal were to have defeated me, would you be hovering here in my defense as well?” he demanded.

 “Of course, of course, it is my duty to uphold the treaty. Now take your bow, do your boasting, and let us return.”

 I blacked out about half way through his big victory speech. Whether it was from boredom or the lightening still working its way through my body, I couldn’t say.

 When I woke up, I was laying on the floor in the queen’s office while she scribbled something down with her quill.

 “Still breathing?” she asked after a moment.

 “Yeah....”

 “Good.”

 There was a long stretch of silence between the tense good and the end of whatever it was she was writing. When she put the quill down, though, I knew I was in trouble. She slowly turned in her chair, rust eyes narrowing at me.

 “You know what? I’m gonna say it: you deserved that. You deserved all of that, including the awful speech he gave at the end of your duel. What kind of idiot challenges the war god to single combat? He’s the god of combat you twit!”

 And it was half way through her speech that I realized Life had even less mercy than I did.

[2ofswords]

yulia/eva pls

Writing about P1 Yulia without having played the Changeling-route almost guarantees some differences with canon, I assume. Still, I tried and hope this is to your liking, dear anon! Tw: Talk about suicide and some… really unhealthy thoughts regarding the topic. I made it sad, I’m sorry.

________________________________________

The air outside is soaring with sickness and death. And with it arrives a sudden loss of existence. Things once believed to be immortal are torn out of peoples tight grasps. A clever trick of nature’s unseen forces. Clever but predictable. Inevitability always shows its face and Yulia finds herself at her window staring directly at it. The town withers while she is counting the seconds and with each one the life that comes to its end. Plague only amplifies the process after all. An exponential spiral that has gone out of control a long time ago. The rate keeps rising. As do the corpses… what were the numbers again? How many dreams is one single body?

“You look busy.”

She doesn’t but Eva has always been a considerate guest, especially when she appears uninvited. Though Yulia cannot remember a single time she minded her sudden appearance.

“The outside is infected”, she states like it matters to any of them. 

Eva nods and steps next to her following Yulia's gaze out of the window. A tiny smile graces her lips. After everything she still keeps that shimmer in her eyes. A bright blinking of hope or maybe a half-formed teardrop. It’s unclear. A variable messing up the entire equation. No matter, the consequence will always be her hand grasping Eva’s delicate fingers. She always feels hot to the touch. She always gently presses Yulia's hand to her cheek. Nuzzling it against her face before pressing a tiny kiss to the back of it. Her smile always widens, when she let’s go and there are cute little wrinkles deepening next to her mouth. It’s Yulia's part to complete the ritual and kiss them in return. Creating a perfect loop of events, a small everlasting moment. Unbreakable. When Eva looks at her, eternity seems as easy as breathing. A gentle radiance that no darkness may ever touch even if only out of respect and admiration. Soft like the embrace a lover will grant you on your deathbed. A singular piece of existence that soars through fate itself. And even if Yulia knows, it is an illusion, she cannot shake the impression. She doesn’t want to either.

“Why did you come?”, she still asks, moving a bit to prepare some water. 

Even in a crisis like this, she can spare some tea for Eva. If it’s for her, she can spare the water. Yulia prefers the rougher taste of coffee anyway. Eva’s gaze follows her movement. She frowns and the sight is as cute as it is unfitting. Yulia knows, she shouldn’t complain. Her question in itself is a small betrayal. An insult, really.

“Do you think, I shouldn’t?”

The words are spoken lightly yet the question is an answer in itself. Yulia merely shrugs and adds sugar in each of her cups. Two for Eva, one for herself. A little bit of sweetness for a bitter herb. It is fitting. Eva turns to the window. Stares into the bleak darkness, before sitting on the bench. Her eyes still do not meet Yulia’s.

“Did you hear? The isolation ward has failed. They all died. Every single soul.”

She knows the words are spoken with sorrow, yet they ring in her ears in an ever-soothing harmony. It’s her voice and it is a bit sweet while the words are very bitter.

“I was informed.”

If you can be informed about something that can barely be called news. Inevitability does not require words; it simply wills itself into existence. 

“Now there it stands, yet again empty. Don’t we deserve a miracle at a time like this?”

They do. Every single soul in the town does, yet they all stand there, empty handed. The matrix has been constructed and death draws its lines through the heavy air. Traces the streets she created. Organically. The way they were supposed to be walked through. Yet Eva still holds the same spark in her eyes. The same smile. She came here even when death knocks at Yulia's door. Whispers it’s greeting through the cracks. She went unprotected. No more clothes than ever before. She doesn’t need anything to protect her.

“So you made your decision already?”

“Yes. I did.”

Yet she smiles. Intoxicating. Yulia can’t help but smile back, even if she will only manage a shadow of Eva’s radiance. What other choice does she have? If Eva made her decision, she doesn’t want to argue with her. To calculate the odds and arrive at the conclusion, that nothing of this matters. It does matter! If anything ever mattered, it is her! The little laugh lines around her mouth. The way her eyes light up. It might not be eternity but in this very moment, it defies the laws of fate itself.

“I want to make things work. To truly help and make a difference. I know how to. There is no need to worry.”

No need to worry. Her words are spoken with absolute confidence and Yulia wouldn’t dare to challenge it. Shadows may never touch her warm glow. So she stays silent. Pours some tea and hands it over. Eva’s small hand stirs the cup with care, absorbed in a task that seems so simple to others. Yulia can do nothing but stare. 

“Sit beside me. Do you have a book you want to read? I will have to go tomorrow, but I may stay with you until then.”

The offer is irresistible. So she sits. Her hands drift around Eva’s shoulders before she even notices. The other woman rests her head on Yulia’s shoulders in return. Maybe she should say something about it. Convince her that her path will not lead her to victory. It is impossible after all. The chances aren’t even slim, they are non-existent. But what are the odds against her? Death after all is inevitable. She will archive nothing but victory. Even if it’s shortlived. Even if it is only for a single moment. Even if it only means not to appear on the daily statistics of poor souls the plague already collected. Shadows of people roaming the streets. A broken corpse on a pile of other corpses. Eva will not end up like this. Yulia couldn’t bear it. Even if it is selfish, she wants her to be missed.

The tea tastes bitter yet there is sweetness in it.

And tomorrow Eva will walk out of her house and into the heavy air. Into a town that is soaring with death. But now her hair curls around Yulia's shoulders. Her breath caresses her neck and her warmth transforms the room into an everlasting memory.