#actually its just my insomnia taking on a new and strange form

[lovely-necromancy]

A Cure for Insomnia Ch 20

You find yourself in a forest

Odd when did you get here? Had you walked here? Driven? You...you can't seem to remember. How on Earth did you get here?

(The contents of this chapter are sexual in nature please don’t interact if you are below the age of 18)

Oh Gods you hoped you didn't have an episode while driving again. Even under normal circumstances just the thought upsets you but after finding out Toby's life changing accident the thought now left an acidic taste in your mouth. Similar to when you're sick and have the residual vomit in your mouth no matter how many times you brush your teeth. A very unpleasant experience.

A tall figure looms in the distance taking you out of your musings. You've seen him before, haven't you? Long spindly tendrils stretch out from behind the figure, much like the whisps that led you through the shop the other day. Had it not been for their serpent like movements you'd have thought the being was just another tree in this dense dark forest.

This sure didn't look like the Monongahela. You close your eyes for a moment, just resting your eyes. Your head feels so foggy right now.

You're so tired too, have you been sleeping? When was the last time you slept? Why can't you remember?

It's fine calm down, you just need to think. The fog is so thick, it's hard to focus. Why can't you just focus?

Come on YN, you need to focus, focus, focus!

In an instant that figure is right in front of you. They are so much taller, craning your head back doesn't do much to get a good look at them. You can't make any features out on the shockingly pale face. And here you thought Toby was deathly pale, you may as well have been staring death in the face.  Given the black suit and red tie you might actually be.

Being dead would explain the fogginess of your memories and why things aren't exactly connecting. Had Toby killed you? No, he wouldn't. Maybe the two of you got into an accident on the drive home.

But where's Toby then? Had he survived the crash? Is it bad to hope he's dead too? That boy wouldn't be able to handle another traumatic event. Hell he seemed one major inconvenience away from peacing out when you'd met him, he still has those moments.

Where are you going to go? This wasn't anything like you were expecting, but the again Hollywood's never given you any sort of accuracy before why would they be the ones reporting on life's biggest mystery?

A tendril slips its way around your throat tilting your head up to stare into the pale face of the figure before you. Squeezing as it does, gently not so much to actually suffocate you.

'You are not dead child, you could not be further from it.' a masculine voice echos in the empty space of you mind. The voice rang so clearly it rattled the walls of your brain.

A literal 'brain goes brrrr' moment.

If you aren't dead then...this has to be a dream. The only other explanation for why everything feels so fuzzy and you have so much brain fog.

'Correct, you are in a dream...of sorts. I've summoned you here to review your progress thus far. I must say you've far exceeded my expectations, no thanks to my failing puppet.' the tendril tightens around your neck, again not enough to choke you out. Just a very firm squeeze.

Firm enough that it has you pressing your thighs together. Haven't you taken care of this yet? This situation is so embarrassing because even though you can't see the expression of the being before you they have an omnipotent air around them.

They sense your hunger building, maybe that's why the appendage around your throat tightens once again. You're left a bit breathless.

'I'm very pleased with both of your results. A reward is in order,'

The figure's head moves slightly as their attention shifts to something behind you.

'I believe he'll benefit from this as well.'

He?

Without a moment to think anything else, not like you could in your current state, you were turned around. Where you came face to face with....another faceless entity? No the man in front of you clearly had a face – had the tall pale being not? The man's face was there but you couldn't really make out what you were looking at like it was pixelated in some way to protect his identity on the evening news.

You could see that he had a mop of brunette waves, unlike the tall one who was to your knowledge completely bald. More tendrils wrap themselves around you, on your legs and around your mid section. Legs are spread apart as you're lifted off the ground.

Open and inviting to the form before you. Just what kind of reward is this?

Before you can protest you quickly become aware of the fact that you are naked.. Bare chest on display as nipples harden in the chill of the air. You squirm to try and get away but the hold the tendrils have is too strong for you to break out of. Your legs are lifted until they are face level with the person in front of you.

Yup totally a dream, just a monster fucker having a wet dream. Normal everyday thing.

'To be quite honest it's less of a reward and more a test. But it should prove enjoyable for both of you.'

Hearing the sound of a zipper you freeze, out of shock rather than fear. You were joking when you'd called this a sex dream. You've never had one before and it's surprising to say the least. Do all sex dreams start this strangely?

A pair of fingers find their way to your mouth. Without thinking you opened up and took them in. Letting them go as far back as they could. They played with your tongue, dancing up and down it. Pressing hard here giving a rub there, shoving it between the two of them making sure your saliva coated every single spare centimeter of them.

You found it a bit difficult to breathe around them let alone swallow. They had a salty with a hint of something metallic, like he had an open paper cut. The texture was rough and very different from your own fingers, you could feel divots near the nail bed and loose hardened skin scrapping the inside of your mouth. Sometimes when you swallowed around the fingers you'd get a sharp thrust in return, like he was trying to hit the back of your throat with only his fingers. You nearly took in his pinkie like this. A harsh groan would follow and you'd moan along.

All the tendrils on your body gave a light squeeze at the show. You heard a whisper of 'Good pets.', this time it was echoed through the forest surrounding you.

“Fuck off.” the man who currently had his fingers nearly reaching down your throat growled out.

Before he he gently grabbed on of your legs, moving your body closer to him. Flutters of lips trailed their way up from your knee to your inner thigh. A playful nip stings a few inches from your core. Involuntarily your thighs press together, squishing the head in between the,. It wasn't long before you felt warm breath blow onto your core. You could hardly keep back the trill when a pair of lips wrapped around your clit and a tongue started to dance circles around it. It was a simple set of motions but ones that seemed to hit just right. You didn't know whether to be thankful or hate the tendrils for preventing you from bucking right into the pleasure.

Taking deep breaths to collect yourself didn't work if anything it made for a pseudo pant which left you even more feverish than the lapping at you clit. He flattens his tongue against you and you shudder as he slowly drags it along your slit giving a flick to the hood of you clit. He angled his tongue so he could carefully dance that line between your clit and it's hood. Toes curling you aren't able to contain yourself anymore. A panting and flushed mess as you moan around his fingers, a trail of saliva runs out from the corner of your mouth and down the expanse of your neck. You can't stop your hips as they weakly buck towards him, still stifled by the tendrils stilling them.

The man between your legs stiffens.

Even with him looking right up at you, you can't see past whatever fog is playing at your mind, but you do know that he's just as much of a mess as you are in the moment. Just from going down on you, the poor boy, now you really want to shove his face deep between your legs and not let up until he can't breathe.

Maybe you can.

Your hands haven't been bound like your legs, so you should have no problem grabbing his hair and pulling him in.

'Oh, he'd like that very much. Give it a go pet.' the disembodied voice says, once again in your head.

Wasn't there a body to go with that voice earlier? Yeah, there was, where'd he go?

Your legs are still bound by the tendrils but the tall man is no where in sight anymore. What a strange dream.

A wet dream you remember as your focus returns to the man between your legs. Might as well make the most of it.

The man seems distracted as he glares at something behind you, but you know nothing it there – you've just checked. This gives you the perfect opportunity to grab a fist full of his hair and drag him back down to your puffy lips to finish what he started. He was more than willing as he needed no further instructions and went straight to giving light kitten licks to your aching clit. Frustrated pants and whimpers leave you as he just works you up and pulls back. He's teasing at this point and seems very pleased with himself.

“Pl-please.” you keen  when he pulls away for a second time. Instead of answering your plea he massages the meat of your thighs as he stares up at you from between your leg. You can see one hand in between his own legs most likely toying with his cock like he toys with you.

Just the thought of his cock has you bucking into him, but it seems to do the trick. He begins to suck on your bud again. This time you have a bit more mobility and can grind your hips down in time to his sucking. It's getting wetter and sloppier down there by the second, like he's trying to collect all the liquid in his mouth but can't really hold it there.

For a third time the pleasure stops, and you feel like crying. It's so unfair your first wet dream and you're saddled with an edger.

You let out a whimper and raise your hips again in a pathetic attempt to demand his attention back to where it's needed. While his face is still featureless to you there's a sense of smugness around him. Oh joy a sadist. A harsh spit rings through your dream bubble. But you don't feel anything land on you.

A wet squelching sound can be heard. The blood just doesn't know where to go anymore, to your face or to your core? Clearly none of it's going to your brain when you only thought it , 'Oh shit he's jerking off.' on repeat.

You're very thankful that the tendrils are just holding you up instead of keeping you spread now as you're able to squeeze and rub your thighs together. Trying to get any friction to alleviate your ache. All while you cry and choke around thick fingers.

“Pretty mouse.” his voice is a rumbled timber.

Fingers press harshly into your tongue before slowly pulling out and spreading you legs back open for him. His thumb trails your inner thigh, the nail scratching the unmarked skin as it went. Making your breath hitch in the back of your throat as he let out a breathy chuckle.

He began toying around with your folds with his two spit soaked fingers, “Yea, li-ike that? Make some more pretty noises for me.” His fingers twirled around the entrance of your pussy. Lighting the nerves on fire with each passing circle they made.

Gods, he hasn't even been in you and you're already about to cum. But he was ignoring your clit now. Snaking a hand down you settle it above his and before you can even touch it he's smacking your hand away.

“Nuh-uh mouse.” he gives a sharp smack to your bud, making you jolt as you let out a little 'eep'.

He laughs at your reaction, “Don't worry I'm going to-to-to make you feel so good.” he smirks, “in time.”

That'd be a no for you. You can take three edgings but four is just asking too much, especially for a dream. You aren't one to be bratty often but you're already pent up in the waking world like hell you'll let yourself be edged in the dream one too.

“Fuck you're cute, even when you pout.” suddenly a hand grasps your jaw and pulls you down, it's a bit uncomfortable with your bindings still in place. Your faces are just inches apart right now and you still have no clue who he's supposed to be but sometimes faces are hard for brains to make up. He could just be someone you saw in town once and don't remember.

He leans in and kisses you. It doesn't take anything for you to open your mouth and let him in, there's a hint of tang on his tongue. No discernible taste just a bit of tang. He makes sure to glide his tongue across every inch of your mouth, making sure you taste yourself. You can feel his smirk in the kiss as you moan. Can feel the pumping of his hand on his cock now that you're so close together.

The thought of his cock makes your core pulse with need. And as if he can read your thoughts he pulls away, leaving you panting and horny. “Now that's a cute look too.” The tip of his middle and ring fingers are in you spreading the ring of your entrance far apart. “But then this on-one's my favorite.”

As you writhe and moan you can't help but think of how much you hate that boyish lilt in his tone right now. He scissors his fingers and twists them this way and that, occasionally plunging them as deep into you as they can go. And while your panting and whimpers are lovely he quickly figures out that you're much more receptive to the teasing of your entrance. The way just the tips of his fingers work in lighting up hundreds of nerve endings.

How he can leave you right on the edge of orgasm only to take that away by pulling out slightly or diving in further. It's a good game, but he eventually grows bored of just your facial expressions and wants to chase his own release. So, he leans in towards your core to watch the way your walls clamp down on his finger tips as they spread you apart. Trying to squeeze around the foreign objects to eject them out but if he surges his hand forward the walls constrict in a way the feels like they are trying to suck him deeper into your depth. All the while you moan and whine, just for him.

So enraptured with your being he isn't really paying attention to you anymore. You want to end his teasing, you just want to cum. It's not surprising at all that he hardly noticed you grabbed a fist full of his hair. But he certainly notices when you pull him to your core and hold him in place. The pressure on his scalp letting him know just how tightly you have him.

There's a moment when he does nothing, just stares up at you from between you legs. Through hooded eyes he continues to make eye contact as he brings his mouth to your clit, even as you buck into him.

“Good boy.” the words just tumbled from your mouth in a moan.

One that gets echoed by the man kneeling before you. It's a needy little moan, one that changes things.

“Good boy,” he goes faster, not just on your clit but he also starts stroking himself faster.

“Ah – aaah, good  boys wai-it oh – wait to cum.” his hand slows and you hear a mumbled 'Good boys wait.' causing your grip to tighten as you pull him up by his hair to look into your face – even if you can't see his.

“Did I tell you to stop?”

“N-no!” you can feel the shiver that runs through him.

Big guy isn't so tough now that you found his kink, damn this dream sure is exploring a lot of your owns though.

“That's right, now you've been awfully naughty. Edging me like that. Doesn't seem like you want to be a 'good boy'.”

“I want to – want to be a good boy, very good boy.” his hand is still going, you'd honestly be surprised he hadn't cum if this weren't a dream.

“Hmm, finish what you started. Then...maybe you'll be my good boy.” a series of moans followed as he bucked into his hand. Apparently you'd said a trigger for him and he came just from that alone.

You want to find it in you to play up being upset with him maybe even play up how he wasn't a good boy after all – cumming like that. But you could tell from the way his shoulders sank in that he felt ashamed that he didn't last until you were done with him.

Sometimes a gentle hand is needed. “Oh my poor baby. I didn't know how excited that'd make you.” you cup his face gently. He's trying to make himself smaller. “Now now of that, you can make it up to me.” He perks up.

“You want to make it up to me right?” you slide back away letting you hands fall off his chin, and he follows your movement leaning to feel your touch again.

You give him a smile and stroke his cheek, “Then make me cum.” it was a breathy whisper as you took the opening to initiate a kiss with him. No tongue was involved this time just an urgent need and movement of lips.

You pull away from him and get a small whimper in return. Pay back would sure be sweet right now had he not riled you up this much then got off himself.

He's sliding back down between your legs, barely giving himself a chance to settle in before twirling his fingers just outside your entrance. Face diving to lick several long stripes along your slit.

'Seems everything is in order here. I trust you both will behave in my absence.'

“What?”

Waking up horny and unsatisfied with the fainest memory of your wet dream fading further and further from memory was definitely one way to start your Saturday. But it wasn't the preferable way or a fun one. Especially when it involved a pair of soaking panties and an hour to even satiate your needy pussy.

[radiant-flutterbun]

Mason’s Brightside Part 2

   Part 1

“No Mason, weird dreams are not a symptom of the herb I gave you last night,” Alaria sighed “If you had listened to me you would know the opposite is true.”

    “No dreams is a symptom?”

    “Yes and so are dehydration headaches so make sure you drink lots of water.”

Alaria shooed Mason outside of the healing den and he nearly crashed into Corkscrew, a spiral.

    “Watch where you’re going!” Corkscrew snarled.

    Mason ignored him and went to get something to drink, his mind however was still thinking about that dream. He’d never been a vivid dreamer. Something about it was so unnatural.

    Evan came up to him later in the day and he described the dream to him.

    “Weird right?”

    “Yeah but sometimes a dream is just a dream. Don’t read too much into it.”

    “But it felt so real!”

    “You sure it’s not… Ya know your mind playing tricks on you?”

    Mason glared at Evan “It wasn’t that.”

    “Sorry, sorry I didn’t mean to imply…” Evan coughed “Maybe you’re just not used to a good night’s sleep is all.”

    Mason thought about that for a moment “That… Ok yeah that I can believe.”

    The next night he was given the same herb from Alaria and he found himself right back at the Emperor’s Wake.

    “Good to see you again Mason,” It was the tundra. They were sitting beside him, so close that Mason could feel their fur on him “Are you on your way?”

    “I-” Mason began and then he snarled “What are you doing in my head?”

    The tundra looked back at him calmly, “You can thank our local dreamwalker for that.”

    “Dreamwalker…?”

    “You’ll be waking soon. I don’t have time to explain. Please come here to the Emperor’s Wake. I’ll explain everything. It’ll be much easier in person, I promise.”

    Mason was about to speak when he found himself awake, sunlight danced across his room. 

    He began to pack his things. It didn’t take long. Being formerly dead, he didn’t have any personal belongings from his world. All he had were just a few art supplies Flare had been kind enough to give him, a simple dagger, a water canister, a few snacks and a blanket. Everything fit neatly in a bag he wrapped over his shoulder.

    He trotted down the stairs from his room and into the clan lobby. He made his way to the main exit when Evan found him.

    “Where are you going?” He asked, seeing the bag.

    Mason sighed “The Emperor’s Wake.”

    “What? Isn’t that where that monster is?”

    “Yep.”

    “And you want to go there?!”

    “Correct.”

    “Why?”

    “Because that’s where the dragons in my dreams told me to go.”

    “So you’re just going to listen to random dream dragons now?”

    “See this is why I was trying to avoid you.”

    Evan looked hurt “You were planning on leaving without telling me?”

    “Because I knew this would happen! I knew you wouldn’t understand! Listen, I've been here before. I know that whoever these dragons are, they're not going to get out of my head until I do what they want me to do.”

    “Hey no offense Mason but the last time you listened to some... thing in your mind you ended up hurting a kid.”

    Mason snarled “He wasn’t just a kid. Don’t oversimplify what Muerto is.”

    “I’m just saying, if you knew that was Match speaking to you, would you still have done the things you did?”

    “Yes. Match is just another self centered god, but at least me listening to him, capturing Muerto, weakening him. Getting him to spill his dirty little secrets. At least that did something! You would have rotted away to nothing and we would have all been trapped in that horrible place until we died. I got the gods’ attention. I changed things!”

    Evan took a deep breath “Ok. Yeah you’re right. But I also don’t have to like what we had to do to get where we are now. Maybe this time we can take some time to think about what we’re getting into before we have to hurt anyone?”

    “We? You want to come with me?”

    “I don’t like the idea of being near that monster, but I hate the idea of letting you go alone even more.”

***

    Mason waited for Evan to pack his things. Like him, it wasn’t much so they were off on their journey soon enough. Evan felt bad leaving without a word so he took the time to leave a note for Nike.

    The two took off and soared over the Sunbeam Ruins in the direction of the area now known as the Emperor’s Wake. Mason had a map with him to help him keep track of their journey. As he flapped his wings he noted how natural flight felt to him. It was strange to him how quickly he picked up the skill. His original body was not one designed for flight and never in a million years would he have guessed he’d eventually become a dragon. Sepulchral had taught him to fly after he had entered the Dragon Planet. Sepulchral was a good teacher, and unlike all of the other Selcouth creatures that were brought to Sornieth, Sepulchral actually had wings back in their world, making him uniquely experienced with flight. But even with such an excellent teacher, Mason felt like he shouldn’t have picked up the skill quite so quickly. It only made it more frustrating that relearning to draw was not as natural to him.

    “Sorry about planning to take off without you,” Mason said after a few miles of silence.

    “Hey, it's cool. No big deal,” Evan responded.

    “What were you going to tell me the other day, by the way? I didn’t mean to brush you off like that. Sorry again.”

    “Oh that?” Evan laughed nervously “That was nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

    Mason glanced at his friend “Alright…” He thought about pushing the subject, but decided to let it go.

    The two flew in silence until it got dark. They camped out in a secluded pine forest for the night and took off again when it was morning. 

    Their flight was uneventful until they flew over a patch of land that was scarred in an unusual way. Most of the Sunbeam Ruins were filled with rolling fields of grass and green pine trees dotted with ruins from a forgotten era. But this patch of land was blackened and dead. It was not burned like a fire found it, rather it looked like a perfect circle of the land just shriveled up and died. Below structures that were not ancient ruins were crushed and destroyed like a tornado ran through the community.

    “What do you suppose happened down there?” Evan asked.

    Mason shook his head “Nothing good probably. Let's keep moving.”

    It wasn’t long before the land began to look more like what Mason saw in his dreams. There were tell-tale signs of destruction, but not quite like the shriveled dead land they had just passed. Mason searched the ground below him and nearly stopped mid flight. There on top of a hill covered in ruins was the same rugged tundra that had spoken to him.

    Mason landed beside them with a thud and Evan landed more gracefully beside him.

    “You!” Mason snarled.

    The tundra smiled and waved “Mason! So good to see you in person. And oh look! You brought a friend.”

    “Why were you in my head? How do you know who I am? What do you want with me?”

    “Holy shit,” Evan was ignoring the tundra and instead his eyes were fixed on the horizon “It’s real.”

    Mason heard a roar and looked up. There in the distance was the rampaging beast, the Emperor Luminax. It was even more horrible than it was in his dreams.

    “Terrifying isn’t it?” The tundra asked, following Mason’s gaze.

    “It’s just… Hard to believe it’s real.”

    “I know. Seeing your first Emperor… It makes you wonder what’s real and what’s fake. But that thing is real alright. It’s destroying lives and the gods are doing nothing about it.”

    Mason snorted “Yeah that sounds about right.”

    “Ah, don’t like gods do you?” The tiny bug dragon from Mason’s dream landed on top of the tundra’s head “I knew this one would fit in well!”

    Mason peeled his eyes away from the undead creature in the distance “Ok, no more talking until you two explain why you were in my head.”

    “Ah that would be Karyu’s doing,” The tundra addressed the bug sitting on their head.

    “How dare you!” Mason lunged forward to swat the bug, but they quickly flew away. Mason ended up hitting the large tundra’s antlers instead. Mason’s hand stung and the tundra glared at him.

    “Maybe instead of threatening my friend, you could sit down and listen.” The tundra shoved Mason to the ground. Mason tried to get back up, but stopped when the tundra gave him another glare.

    Karyu flew back onto the tundra’s head and pointed at Mason “That one tortured a kid god, so I guess I shouldn’t really be too surprised. Still, he has use here.”

    Mason’s eyes widened “How did you-”

    “My name is Perryn,” The tundra cut Mason off and smiled “I’m an Emperor hunter, and my friend Karyu here is a dream walker.”

    “And demigod!” Once again Karyu took off from their perch on Perryn’s head. They circled in the air and as they landed they began to transform. Before Mason’s eyes the little bug dragon grew in size. They spun so fast it forced Mason to blink and with that one blink a new creature was standing where the bug disappeared. Its body was unmistakably human to Mason, but it still had some of the bug features of its dragon form. Antennae sprung up from Karyu’s head and insectoid wings from their back. They wore a long robe and their long purple hair touched the ground. They were still small, Perryn towered over them and so would have Mason if he had been standing, but they were no longer squishable. 

    “My mother is the goddess of dreams for this world, and lucky me, I’ve inherited some of her powers,” Karyu walked up to Mason and poked his snout. He snapped at their fingers “You have the most fascinating dreams out of everyones’ I’ve walked through. So many memories are mixed with yours. Some juicy ones too!”

    “No. You didn’t.”

    “It’s just a shame that lately you haven't been dreaming much. I’m guessing insomnia? Well that’s no good for me or my pals here at The Guild of Osiris! I was afraid if your sleeping patterns continued I would have lost contact with you! And that would have been a real bummer.”

    “Which is why Karyu had to bring me into the picture,” Perryn said “We needed you to come here before they lost contact with you and they thought you would listen to me and not them.”

    “And I was fucking right!” Karyu grinned and then leaned close to Mason and whispered “I just thought Perryn would be more your type. I’m gorgeous, I know, but I’m taken.”

    Mason just stared at Karyu. He opened his mouth and then closed it like a fish out of water.

    “Yes. Karyu was right!” Peryn shouted and then coughed “And now you’re here like we were hoping. Karyu has seen a lot of things about you from their dream walking ,which I know may be awkward and invasive-”

    “You don’t think?” Mason found his voice for a moment.

    “But Karyu has a knack for finding those who are perfect for helping our cause. Mason, is life uncertain to you? Maybe you’ll make a good Emperor Hunter.”

[seb-owns-these-tatas]

Witcher of the Night (Chapter 12)

THIS IS MODERN ERA READER WHO WOKE UP IN THE DIMENSION OF THE WITCHER. 

CHAPTER 11

WITCHER OF THE NIGHT MASTERLIST

Characters: Geralt of Rivia x small!Naive!Reader

Summary: Protectiveness for his child of surprise may be the only thing that could get a witcher confessing to a midget with all of his pent up aggression and kept up feelings that he has been dealing since day one because he knew he wasn’t just protecting Cirilla. Deep inside, he was also protecting you from the wicked that lurks throughout the continent; trying hard to wipe you out of their dimension by hook or by crook. One kiss is all it takes for all the frustration to stop...or maybe not?

Warnings: Slight angst? MEAN Geralt. Sweet Geralt too. Soft Geralt too. (It’s kind of a tough contrast don’t you think? HAHAHA!) Jaskier feeling...things that shouldn’t be felt. Uh-oh. Reader being frustrated and infuriated. Cirilla being a sweetheart! Modern references included! 

Words: 7,1k

A/N: Smut will come in Chapter 14 and 15. Yes, two chapters for the filth! Because...Why not?! (*frustrated potato*) I THINK TUMBLR IS ACTING UP. I SEE FICS WHERE I’M TAGGED BUT I AM NOT INFORMED. ALSO, I CAN’T INCLUDE PICS OR GIFS FROM MY LAPTOP! *angry growls* I’m lucky because i’ve had my banners and other gifs in my drafts last night and Tumblr is acting up today! 

TAGLIST IS STILL OPEN FOR THIS ONE! Heehee! Don’t forget to REBLOG, COMMENT OR GIVE FEEDBACK IF YOU DID LOVE THIS CHAPTER! IT’LL MAKE ME SMILE!

Disclaimer: PNG’s used in edits are not mine even the GIF’s too. However, the edits and oneshots are definitely from moi. Characters, places and said monsters aren’t from moi as well. GIF’s INCLUDED ARE CREDITED TO THOSE WHO MADE THEM! I DO NOT OWN THEM!

MY WORKS ARE NOT NOT NOT NOT NOOOOOOT TO BE POSTED ON ANY OTHER WEBSITES. My official username in Wattpad is “TATATHEPOTATO” and that’s the only other site I have for writing aside from Tumblr. Thank you, Tater tots!

Your days have been quite a torture. A mix of embarrassment and full blown flusters when Geralt was around. It was simply a slip of the moment as you were too enamored by the witcher and his succulent lips that you oh-so-idiotically swerved when you could've went straight for the target instead.

Yet, here you were. Torturing yourself by taunting the witcher the day after the time you've began your self-assuring tease by telling Geralt what you've been feeling since the day you've arrived.

Now, you were being punished? Or probably suffering from a serious case of insomnia and the idea of missing his presence because the witcher wasn't around and it has already been days.

What if he gets hurt? You mindlessly talked to your alter ego, receiving a response that he's a tough one and a pretty skillful swordsman, so worrying about it like a wife does to her husband who was a soldier can be toned down to the slightest.

God, those lips. You were an idiotic potato for even doing the first move and eventually failing as you do so; like a five year old giving her crush a kiss. Well, pretty much five year old were more confident than you in this condition.

Warm palms spread through your shoulder, giving you a fright as you sat back and your tushie fell to the ground with a soft thud; with Kolby giving you those scary smile of his that made you want to pat his head but today, it seems like you weren't in the mood and that there was something bothering you with your thoughts wandering about Geralt. The witcher himself and only him.

You were acting like a clingy girlfriend when you both weren't lovers at all. Maybe, being delusional and creating fan-fics about your celebrity crushes back at your apartment wasn't enough that you even had to think that Geralt would want to be with you forever like how such happy endings in stories must have been.

What if he was just one horny man who wanted to hulk-smash because you were different than his flock of felines?

Well, it wasn't like you weren't acting the same way like a toey teenager when he hauled you closer to his chest; giving him the heart eyes.

Why must he be a white-haired hunk of a man who knew how to fight and knew magic? Even skillful with his sword?

"Oh---Geralt!" you shrieked out of the blue, the body heat of Jaskier's presence radiating beside you as he sat crouched with a crooked smile, "I must say, you're quite obsessed with the witcher since that awfully intimate moment you've had in the bathing room,"

You ignored the teasing tone he omitted and went on to shooting a question you've been bothering him since the day Geralt was out and about, "Where's Geralt?" hence, the bard could already hear the tiny whines for the presence of the witcher and he couldn't help but scoff.

"You're hurting my poor heart for asking Geralt when it's actually a pretty handsome bard in front of you,"

Your lips instantaneously jutted out in a sad pout, exhaling a long sigh as you shifted your legs into a criss-cross position; staring into space, "I need Geralt," pause and another sigh, "---I miss Geralt,"

The sudden strong yearning was becoming worse each day without Geralt around. It felt incomplete, unsatisfying and utterly frustrating that he wasn't with you, nor can you even sleep without feeling those fingers of his raking your hair even though it was only done one time.

Heck, you were worried that maybe Geralt used magic within you when you've taken your slumber because the feelings you have for him was turning insufferable, irksome when you want something but has never been given and utmost round the bend.

All you wanted and ever asked for was Geralt. Geralt. Geralt. Geralt. In which, confused the bard because you've become too attached after the Djinn incident.

"This is certainly a huge relationship development if you're finding him that miserably all the time," Jaskier stated the obvious, his laugh sounding disturbed because of your new personality that he'd noticed; or maybe you were one of those types of women?

Though, what baffles him the most is that there are days where you actually don't try to find him; like you were being just you and not one needy lady whom asks for only the witcher when he'll be coming home. Just the timid, naive small rat he knew.

There were also strange instances whenever you sleep back in Geralt's chambers; as he was writing another new epic he'd ought to create, the bard heard you whimpering and sobbing like you were in pain when it was already two in the morning.

He'd wanted to check up on you. Though, he was quite doubtful because a woman deserves whatever space and respect; thinking that maybe you were spending some wonderful time with yourself and had the pleasant time to take it while Geralt wasn't around.  But, your whimpers were something else. It was a mixture of pain and distress.

Therefore, Jaskier tried to ignore your hushed outcries, although he could technically hear it from the other side of the room. The draft of his epic now forgotten as he fidgeted; he went on with dipping the tip of his feather on the ink and write nothing on his piece of parchment.

After hearing those nightly weeps of yours, the bard never left your side. Especially when you were alone in the morning, thinking that you were having a mental breakdown and actually just missing the witcher.

He could do just that. Distract you with his talkative self and so he did.

"A witcher needs to do what he always does," the bard reassured, waving off Kolby who tried sniffing his ear.

You've snapped out of your stupor, giving the bard a stink eye as he was wailing his arms around to wave Kolby away from assaulting his face, "I thought you were his travel companion? Why are you here? Shouldn't you be protecting him as well?"

Jaskier continued his bellyaching, "You naughty Hirikka!" he scolded the doe-eyed Hirikka; the creature abruptly planting his tushie on the ground as he growled at the bard as the toubadour mockingly growled back as well, a sharp bark coming from the Hirikka, "---What? With a lute? Kill beasts with my singing?"

"Then, what are you even here for?" you deadpanned. Voice all nonplussed as you apathetically gave the bard your gaze.

Jaskier made a fuss, shifting on his crouched position and turned to completely give you his full attention, giving you back a stinky lour, "How rude of you! I wonder why the djinn has never sent you home!"

You had your cheeks hollowed looking like a chipmunk as you ignored his whingeing, "What if he dies?"

Jaskier was fighting off the feeling of  rolling his eyes for your worry. Geralt has dealt with lots of beasts already and his current hunt wouldn't earn him a sweat as he'd already killed a lot of its kind, "He never does. Cease the worry. He can kill beasts even when he sleeps," the bard gave an abrupt pause, gesturing with his finger as he pointed it to you to add more effect as you tried to understand his point, "---Unless, if its you he's sleeping with then we all die from the beast! Cirilla and I know how his senses are disappointing because you're like the silver to his...his...monster?"

"He isn't a monster, Jaskier." you blankly pressed.

"Who even said he was?" he gave you a guileless shrug of his shoulders. Jaskier clicked his tongue, pretty blue eyes fixated on you as it twinkled along the sunny day while you sat in the middle of their living room, "---Besides, he's hunting down a bruxa for the whole week. My dagger won't be useful for the darn beast,"

A Bruxa. You hummed to yourself in understanding; remembering that Geralt has told stories about the monster. It was a type of vampire that takes on the appearance of a dark-haired, young woman whose natural form is that of a large black bat, with sharp fangs and claws. Technically, their form of vampires weren't all glitz and glimmer that they glitter against the sunlight nor are they rich dudes that were bloody pale, attractive and screams like a banshee.

"You have a dagger?" you grilled the bard. He gave you a nod and a laid-back answer, "Well, Geralt has given me one; taught me how to use it too,"

Jaskier hasn't left your side from the moment you woke up. He had been keeping you company like an injured person. It kept you cynical because it even got to the point of following you where ever you may go; which made you skeptical about his whole tailing the midget while Geralt wasn't around.

But, you were thankful. It got you distracted by not noticing that heavy, rattling feeling inside your chest.

"Smile!" you aimed the camera of your cellphone at the appalled trouvère who had his eyeballs popping out of his eye sockets as he was struck dumb, arms crossed in front of him, shielding himself from your digital phone.

Stifling titters wanted to come out of your lips when you've received a scared bard by aiming your camera at him. Jaskier tried peeking to see your guffawing self treating him as a laughing stock. He cocked his head to the side in suspicion as he heard a loud 'click', dropping his arms to the side as he gave a frown because you were giggling back at him.

"What's that?" you've both sat on the dining table; close to each other. He'd scooted closer, trying to see what were you doing as you continued to tap on your phone that still had no time nor date listed. "A phone," you simply said; focused on the phone at hand as Jaskier's curiosity got the best of him, grasping nothing but the idea that your so called phone was out of this world and utterly magnificent when you've showed him the picture you've taken. The kaleidoscope of colors complimenting each picture which fascinated him.

"Is it a weapon?" he asked out of the blue, too absorbed by the phone on your hand as you've felt Jaskier lean in close, his hair touching yours as you were too concentrated with the thing you had in your hand.

Jaskier coincidentally raised his line of vision to look at your face. It was thoroughly unintentional especially when he'd seem to never break his eyes away from you; like he'd seen something worth to be stared at.

He didn't mean to outstare all of a sudden.

"I can throw it at your head, though my phone might be the one breaking rather than your head," you sent a harmless bon mot, being all smiles as you've sent a teasing jest.

Tranquil silence. Totally impossible for the bard to achieve with his chatty mouth. You've given him a look which was entirely a flicker of pure impeccability when you've lately realized that he was staring at you with a twinkle of his pretty ocean blue eyes.

The bard awkwardly cleared his throat, his face suddenly feeling warm when you've taken the time to look into his eyes. "Jaskier," he clicked his tongue and swallowed the ticklish feeling down his throat and avoided those eyes of yours while he'd pulled back from how the proximity was enough to remember Geralt who would tell him to 'fuck off.' for at least a thousand times, "Would you mind if I record your songs?"

He blinked back in curiosity. Record. Jaskier didn't know what it meant, "What? I cannot fathom whatever it is you're saying, rat---"

You've given him a wide grin, beaming before him with a twinkle of your eyes. "Just play your lute for me, will ya'?"

Thus, Jaskier did in a fraction of a second; like a demand from the queen. He did, surprisingly.  

A distraction was best at the weird pain that spreads through your chest; along the valley of your breasts because of the realization that Geralt wasn't around. Your nightly weeps needed to have explanations because feeling the scorching pain that radiates off the symbol wasn't normal.

Including the thirst you had for the witcher himself; craving for his touches and existence. Alarming you that what you wanted from him wasn't just profound affection but also his virility as well and even a part of his soul.

The princess of Cintra was bored to  tears. She'd pleaded and gave you the puppy eyes; thoroughly begging to wander through the woods and catching fireflies. Hearing something familiar that actually existed just like the same ones in earth amazed you because it was something that you've never get to see ever because of pollution and its habitat being endangered with the year you were in.

Apparently, you've followed her orders. Cirilla didn't want Jaskier to come because it's a bonding that only you and Cirilla should experience. Despite of how pushy he was, worried that Geralt would get mad at him for even letting you wander in the woods all by yourselves. He eventually agreed with a sigh and a bothered expression; telling you both that when the frog croaks in chorus, it was time to go home.

You've wondered, imagining how their frogs actually croak in chorus. Yet, having to experience it was rather much different than imagining as you've seen the whole scene unfold before you. A captivating sigh that had you cooing in the middle of the woods as there were balls of light that blinked within the thone ground like Christmas lights twinkling in the 25th of December.

It was beautiful.

Cirilla seemed to be rather used to it as she explained how it was already the croak of the night, her feet never leaving the ground as she was joyously catching a firefly that glowed with the frogs, swinging her jar till one was captured, "Is everything okay, Y/N? Oh! A firefly!" she excitedly mussed, giving you a glance and noticed that your expressions were twisted in a way that says you weren't comfortable.

You've given your symbol a caress; trying to relieve the utter worry and fury that was spreading through your chest with no reason. Why were you mad? At whom? on what? Also, the uncomfortable feeling came with knowing that Geralt already came home. He was finally home.

Howbeit, you didn't know why your intuitions tell you that he was finally home.

"Yes. It's just that...Geralt's home," you hesitatingly spoke, shaking your head to wash away the sensations as you honestly told the beaming Ashen child, "---and I feel worried even though I should be excited that he's already home,"

Cirilla was unaware of your worried face as she went on with the jests, "Told you he likes you---!" the princess teased, laughing when she'd caught a glimpse of your flustered face; remembering the awful kiss you've done back in the bath room when you were with Geralt, "---Midget."

"Not you too, Cirilla." your face was burning in a trail of blush. You've quietly shrieked as she'd gave a teasing poke on your side; making you jump, "I was just playing with you!"

All was done and everyone was left satisfied. For the princess, that was what she felt. Great elation by having what she wanted all the time. Except for you, who appeared to be in a discordance when you took your trek back home.

The witcher was back earlier than he expected to. Unexpectedly running into some of the royal guards of Kaedwen and creating a skirmish with the knights who disturbed his peace after killing the bruxa he'd been hunting.

They had reasons for their disturbance. Conniving reasons just for him to agree for the favors that he has been asked to do; or wishes from a royal command that Geralt never accedes.

Bargains of giving enough coins that would last him for half a year, the cost of token higher than the previous deal which included women, coins and ale.

He was done with that lifestyle. Well, before you came around; that is.

The witcher was as stubborn as how the townspeople have been saying. They've came to the point of calling him a monster for butchering their fellow men in which Geralt never gave a damn about it because they were destined to die anyway by what evil they've chose to have.

He didn't need people giving him another moniker. He wouldn't let it live down if he'll have one but with just another city he'd tried to save. Some of the children and women they've abducted were homeless, taken in force or had slave contracts; saying they were owned by noblemen paying for their life despite of how they didn't want to agree in the first place.

The Butcher of Kaedwen? Blaviken? What else did he needed to do and have all those infamous monikers created for him?

Until, the men mentioned and threatened to kidnap a small woman who Tybalt had stabbed on the hip that made Geralt jump on his horse because he'd also heard them draw their swords; ought to bring bloodshed when the witcher never complies.

Hence, which is why he was now in the base of their home. All exhausted, droopy, worried and furious because you and Cirilla weren't home when he'd arrived. His temper rising off the roof.

Jaskier has received a sharp cuss from him and an intense rebuke from the witcher who came fully in Bruxa blood and a little bit splashes of human blood which answered the bard's question that a Bruxa hasn't been the only thing he'd encountered on the way home.

You promised Jaskier that you'll be back as soon as possible. However, it took you both an hour after the frogs have croaked in the night and a scary witcher who wore his all black armor and had a peevish expression on his face which explains the heavy feeling dropped on your chest; doubling more when you'd seen the impetuosity radiating off the brawny man.

Geralt heavily marched to meet you midway along the meadow; with Jaskier motioning something behind the witcher with his hands like a cat clawing and slicing his throat with his thumb when you couldn't understand what he wanted to say.

"Geralt---" the princess started, reading his rigid posture and instantly knowing what his current thoughts were. But, she was cut-off by a seething, curt query start of his interrogation.

This wasn't what you expected from him. Your imagination was that you'll try and get a hug out from the witcher himself, thankful that he'd arrived safely and with complete limbs; not this. Not an angered, bloody Geralt who had his nose flaring.

You were rooted on the ground; your mouth closing once he'd started to act volatile after a week of not seeing him.

"Where have you wandered in the forest in this wild hour of the night, Ciri? Y/N?"

Ah. Y/N. Not midget, but Y/N. You were now Y/N to him. Well, that kind of hurt. You didn't know that hearing him say your name in such fiery stung your heart; such sudden frustration riling your patience. The concern and melancholic desire to see him changing into ire.

You've shut your mouth, a forced small tremble of your lips turning into a guileless smile. Tilting your chin and realizing he was pretty much taller and utterly intimidating when mad. Those amber eyes of his that swirl in unfamiliar ferocity for wandering around the woods.

The witcher couldn't help it. After meeting some of the royal guards, his protectiveness took over as he traveled all the way home in haste to check his family if they were safe.

Especially you as he'd heard one of the cavaliers threaten to abduct you soon.

The naive pretense you've wanted to use through his anger wavered when you've heard your voice faintly quiver, "She's--She's with me, she's safe, Geralt. We were just catching fireflies or whatever this is called in your world---"

Albeit, it seemed like the witcher had a closed mind and didn't want to hear your explanations as he cut you off with a seething truth; his amber eyes blazing as his jaw was clenched so tight, "You think you can protect her?"

You swallowed the hurt for the truth that was sent out in the open, catching you off-guard by the harsh statement that was bound to be told because you were saved twice; like a princess who needed rescuing all the darn time.

Thus, it added more stones to the weight dragging your heart to the ground.

"I--I--" a pathetic stutter has been uttered before the angered witcher seemed to have lost his temper and lashed out on you. He was chirlish and brusque as he does so; like how everyone pointed him out to be and this was the first time you've seen the witcher acting the way he is now, "You can't because you also need saving," pause. "---Your rash behavior can get the both of you dying!"

The latter shook his head in thwart, his gaze burning you in a way that made you want to turn into dust.

"It was fucking dangerous out there!"

The more he gnarled felt like he was blaming you on whatever caused his life to turn the way it is; even the desire for Cirilla to wander in the woods to catch fireflies was all on you to be brought on your shoulders. You huffed out a shaky breath, disbelieving the way he was throwing his surly attitude towards you made you puff your cheeks in utter vexation; wanting nothing but to scream back at the witcher.

Jaskier has managed to saunter towards where Cirilla is, her eyes completely panic-stricken by Geralt's rage; watching between the both of you and seeming to want to step in between but it seems like there were also other issues as well that made you both angry at each other. Matters that should be truly said and not be kept on the inside.

"Ciri, come with me." the bard hushed, catching the princess by the arm and dragging her away till he brought her to the door way, around a hundred meters away from the pair as the both of you tried to withstand each other's glares.

She struggled against his hold, "But, Jaskier! It was my fault! It's not Y/N's fault. Why is she being scolded when I should be the one who must be? Geralt shouldn't be mad at her! What if he---"

"He won't hurt her physically, Princess. He never does. When did he ever hurt us no matter how irking we are? You know Geralt more than anyone in this world,"

Kolby was howling inside their home, his instincts knowing that there was something happening which added more noise to the argument you had with the butcher of Blaviken; shaking the night with your kept frustrations against each other.

"---He just knows how to ruin everything with his teetering, strong feelings. He isn't the best at expressing it but you know the lout knows how to care," he went on, trying to dispel her fears for the both of you, thinking that you would eventually hurt each other with heart-breaking words, "---He'll deal with it. Come on now,"

Jaskier ushered the princess to come inside. She was hesitant at first, giving you both glances before he pulled her in; giving you both the space that is needed. The bard knew that Geralt won't start talking in a sensible manner when they're around. He wouldn't try and open his heart with people hearing what he wanted to truly say.

Your eyes started to cloud, the sensitivity of yourself beginning to take over. One fact about you was that you didn't like people yelling like you were an idiot; as well as people who were mad at you for something you've done which adds more regret to the grief, "I know I'm useless. You didn't need to yell it out loud." you deadpanned, biting the insides of your lips; trying hard not to start sobbing because you've already felt the familiar tremble.

"---You know I would spare my life just for hers because she's a princess, Geralt." your voice got the best of you, quaking in a way that got the witcher knowing that you were in the midst of crying; but somehow reluctant to break down because of his doing, "---Is this how badly you want to kick me out of your house?"

You've blinked and try to ignore the warmth pooling around your eyes, never giving him the opportunity to see right through you before you've snapped your eyes back up to the witcher who had a grimace as he stared you down. The twinkle of your eyes that was an epitome of stars in the night was now loosing its gleam and it was because of him. He'd done something wrong again; like how he was used to. Mistakes that seem to go along with his name.

Geralt had his nose scrunched; having another set of his internal battles within himself as he watched you pour out your anger at him like he'd done to you. Sharing each other's frustration since the days prior that you weren't there for each other.

Your weeping at night. He'd knew. The witcher felt what you were feeling every damn night even though he wasn't with you and he didn't know why.

"I've had Ciri close to me! You know I wouldn't let her get hurt by anyone especially from the people of Nilfgaard!" Your raving was ceaseless; impulsively bringing out pasts you heard from Cirilla and Jaskier as they've tried to tell you important things that should be avoided or was evident of danger. They were the only ones who were openly alarming you about them and never the witcher.

"How did you know about that?" Geralt's scowl grew tighter, his question sounding like a vibrating snarl that warned you he was utterly vexed.

"Because your surprise child and Jaskier had the respect to tell me what's happening in this world you're in!"

You've felt yourself choking from the hysteria raging in your veins, angrily snapping at the witcher who also appeared to be in total dismay as his scowl turned into a frown; his gaze solely on you alone, never leaving your sight. Fists were tightened on either side of you, wanting to throw things out of madness for how rude he was when you remembered how he'd wanted to kiss you back at that certain day.

He was confusing you by how he was acting tonight which also left you enraged for his complicated hot and cold demeanor.

"I don't even know where I am! What this dimension is called! Nor do I know people! Who's bad or who's good! I don't know your map or any of your kingdom!"

"You don't need to know any of that!" because the more you knew about the continent, the more it can bring darkness to you. He'd thought that keeping some things within the family was better because he didn't want you to get involved by whatever problems they may bring.

The witcher wanted you to himself. He wants to protect you from any cruelty that the continent may offer because you were his little secret.

You were his midget. His.

You've roughly bit your lips, fighting the urge for the first tear to fall; howbeit, it was a traitor as you rolled your eyes and avoided his amber peepers searching through the emotions that you oh-so wanted to convey. But, all that was evident was disappointment, anger, sadness and grief because of expecting something that wasn't supposed to be expected from a monster-slayer.

Perhaps, hoping to see through what his good heart could offer was too delusional for you.

"---Don't worry, witcher. The princess comes first before I do. I know that and it should be as well. Thanks for making me come to my senses that I'm useless and a burden for you! I'll leave tomorrow morning so your baggage of having someone needed protecting would lessen on your shoulders," you kept a straight face, blankly looking away as inscrutable as possible; not giving him the benefit of seeing you mourning for the stab of your heart.

Mayhaps, wishing for the fondness to be reciprocated by a witcher was too much of a dream for you. Definitely too high to achieve nor hoped for.

Geralt deeply growled, his forehead creased like he was hurting. You've never seen the pain that spread through his face, letting the emotion he's been keeping to himself burst like he was showing vulnerability.

He didn't like it when you've deadpanned and called him a witcher. It sounded too cold and distant, like he was made to only be seen as a witcher to you, a stranger, a mutated human who slaughters beasts and nothing else.

"Don't call me that!" he snarled, invading the space you've had and your forehead was now in line with his massive chest. You peered up at him with the same ire pooling through your peepers, your gaze hostile as you spoke with thick sarcasm.

"Aren't you a witcher? What do you want me to call you, then? Your job description changed now?"

Geralt roughly breathed out of his nose, his broad shoulders going up and down as he was controlling those emotions that he had which always seemed to be stronger and uncontrollable. He narrowed his blazing amber eyes, genuinely staring into you as he kept his hands to himself; on either side of him. Wanting nothing but to grab onto your face and make you believe that he was earnest about not wanting to be called that when it came to you.

"Don't...Don't make it sound like I'm just a trifling matter to you,"

You scoffed out of the blue for his wishes that he suddenly seem to want, "But, aren't I also just a trifling matter to you, witcher? Or do you want to be called in full name? Geralt of Rivia? Is that your full name? Oh! Maybe, the butcher of Blaviken, then?"

The sound of you calling him witcher felt so distant because he knew that, for you; he was Geralt and not a witcher who people see him as a mutant who kills beasts. To you, he was more than human and less than a witcher. In your mind, he was Geralt. Only Geralt and nothing else because he was a man whom you see that had a good heart and hearing you call him with his monikers was shattering his stronghold.

"No!" he suddenly groaned out of the blue. You gave him the death stare, stepping a foot away from the man himself as his presence was too bewitching in the rage of fire that you both cast upon each other tonight, "What do you mean no?!"

"No," the witcher hoarsely repeated, snapping his head to the side as he gravelly spat out profanities out of those mouth that you've been dying to kiss.

"---Fuck! Don't."

You shook your head in utter disappointment. Your face in a baffling twist, "Are you a broken record or something? no? don't, what?"

He had his share of breaths; seeming to be straightening his thoughts before lowly muttering out his next words, his jaw still clenched as he turned his head to see those eyes waving the white flag like he was submitting and wanted all the anger to just vanish.

"Don't spare your life for anyone, midget." it was straight to the point, giving you what he wanted you to hear.

Yet, because of his unstable attitude; you've chose to weigh down the options as to what his words meant. Choosing the platonic sense of a thought before you even smash your heart into pieces by praying that he meant something more.

"But, she's a princess---"

"---Because you are also important,"

You could see the anger dissipating from his glowing eyes; shifting into such ire that also had a hint of dithering and abrupt acquiescence. Your heart skipped a beat when his words echoed inside your heated head.

'Because you are also important,' Howbeit, your assertion for the truth had you turning his words into the chaste part of options.

"Cirilla is more important than me, Geralt. She's your child of surprise. You know I would risk my life for her. No one would really care for my death anyway. I'm probably already dead for my family back in earth," you scorned, huffing out a breath that hitched when he started giving you the doubts again.

The witcher appeared to be more frustrated as time goes by, your denial making it all too difficult for him to explain, "I.....care!" he prolonged the simplicity in his words, his teeth showing as he gritted and deeply snarled, "I do care, midget. I care about you!"

"Ah." you impassively muttered, eyes vacant as there was a void hidden behind those peepers of yours, "---you mean that because I'm your responsibility. Noted." and a simple shrug of your shoulders was enough to draw a stressed-out growl from the man who kept your heart on the line, always.

"Fuck--no! Not that!"

A simple shake of your head and a chance to leave his presence was all it could take for Geralt to grab onto your wrists, surprising you to say the least. His hold on you was tight, never letting go as you tried and uselessly battled with his strength.

You skeptically sent him a sharp look as he appeared to be groaning out deep within those sturdy chest of his that was still clothed in armor, "Let go, Geralt. I swear to God, if you don't let go and use magic or your Harry Potter slash witcher styled---Wingardium Levi-O-sa on me---!"

"You know I will never do that!" he fumed, his expressions telling you that he was offended by even thinking he would hurt you in any way, disregarding your modern references that he simply couldn't understand. Therefore, Geralt carried on with his kept feelings and raved.

"You...You are important to me! I care because you're you..."

You've exhaled a huff of frustration, never believing his words that was always been said whenever he was caught up in a moment.

"You're speaking in riddles that I couldn't comprehend, my lord." a mock of his accent made you done for. The deathless struggle you've tried to escape in his hold; both hands prying him away but he was utterly stronger than you imagined him to be.

You were utmost naive that it was making him want to just kiss you hard for you to understand his feelings.

The witcher breathed fire. Features thoroughly livid for your naivity and denial, "You're too fucking blind and too naive!" he barked, completely infuriated for your nonsense.

You loudly whined as you tried wrenching his hand away. It was better to escape his presence because you could sense that the more you stayed, the more you would forgive this man in a heartbeat with his words that seem to confuse you.

It took one more struggle and a stumble of your own foot for how forcibly you were trying to get away his hold that Geralt swiftly hung that arm he holds; slipping it around his broad shoulders, catching you completely off-guard as he leaned down entirely to your height; your eyes bulging out of your eye sockets for his surprising gesture.

"Witcher---!!!"

However, those flamed words were forgotten as you've felt those pillowy, succulent lips of his fall onto yours in a feathery touch that got your insides growing wild.

Your eyes were all open, soul flying out of its chambers when you've felt his warm lips falling in between yours. A fluttering connection of both bodies that got your body turning rigid before he'd tried to snap you out of your shock and softly kissed tips of your lower lip, his fingers gently grabbing onto the side of your face; thumb falling into the tip of your chin to chide you into kissing him back.

He hoped he wasn't just imagining things; thoroughly thinking that what he felt about you can somehow also be reciprocated and that it wasn't just him.

You've eventually given a satisfied sigh and fluttered your eyes closed, entirely giving into what your heart desires; molding your vermillion to his with a soft pucker of your lips and your other hand falling onto the side of his chiseled face that got a low grumble of his chest out of him from the tender touch of your fingers he'd anticipated to feel.

You were finally kissing Geralt and your heart seemed to be flying out of its cage.

The kiss was how you imagined it to be. Soft and candied like a precised choreography dance that was satisfying for both of your beings; yet aching for more. Your breath hitched when you've felt the tip of his luscious tongue caress your lips in a way that got the warmth pooling in your stomach turn wild.

You've snapped your eyes open and broke the kiss before it escalated further; hardly pulling away with a faint smooch that got you wanting another.

It was definitely difficult to believe. Before the witcher could even flutter his eyes open, you've timidly puckered; your face boiling in such a high temperature as you reach for his lips, planting another chaste kiss that got Geralt in a small beam that you were blinded with; finding your actions adorable as if you were timid of kissing him.

So, it was real. You've kissed him again and he let you. The feelings were actually true.

He was met with those ingenuous flicker inside your eyes as you stared back at him, a sheepish smile and a coy twinkle of your eyes got him sighing; breathing in your delectable scent and never believing you actually felt the same way, "I am...done leaving people," Geralt breathed through his nose, whispering sweet and soft nothings that got your heart twerking inside your chest.

The latter tenderly leaned his forehead against yours; eyelids shut closed as he deeply murmured. The anger simmering out of the way once he'd gotten to kiss those lips that he wanted to have a taste since the day he'd felt something for you, "---Nor am I done being left by people who are important to me,"

You felt his gentle fingers graze your chin, the dimples of his nose tickling yours; urging for just another harmless kiss that tells you it all isn't a dream you've forged to create.

"Forgive me," he gravelly whispered, hearing your thoughts as to how you wanted to be kissed; though, it was just Geralt and his self that couldn't get enough of you.

The witcher planted another uncluttered kiss to the tips of your vermillion, catching your breath away as you blinked repeatedly to get a hold of yourself when he'd pulled away with a mischievous grin, "I...didn't mean to yell,"

You've bit your lips; trying to fight yourself from squealing hard at what just happened, feeling your toes tickling your bashful heart. You took a glimpse of those amber eyes that held a roguish gaze to it, "You're...You're mean!" was all you managed to say, eyes downcast and your nose scrunched from being utterly cringe; feeling his soft lips still lingering.

Oh dear, you weren't going to sleep without squealing for the next couple of hours.

"I know," his dashing face was filled of remorse. You've given him a blink of surprise, astounded by his sheer admission towards being a big meanie for yelling at you.

A soft narrow of your eyes was the only thing he'd receive and he did the same way, his amber eyes bright and free from pique as he cocked his head to the side, a dubious impression from how you were still giving him that hostile but shy gaze of yours.

"You're still mad," the ivory-haired witcher straightened his back as he stated as a matter of fact with that rough baritone timbre of his voice. You ungracefully cleared your throat for the second time; his gaze heavy on you and it was making your heart turn wild.

"And the night is dark, Geralt." was enough for Geralt of Rivia to trail behind you like a guilty puppy as you hurriedly jogged back to their house; your nose scrunched to the extent as you delicately held onto your lips in which the witcher has kissed; your face burning from the blush that wanted you squealing out loud.

"---Utterly mad." he scoffed to himself as he groaned in regret, rolling his eyes from how you were brushing him aside.

Geralt tailed behind with a frown on his face, "Forgive me, midget." he repeated in a stern but clearer tone, utterly bothered by how you were disregarding him after all he confessed.

The door to their house were sprightly shut closed when Jaskier and Cirilla left the hatch ajar. It was Jaskier's idea to eavesdrop over the both of you and much to say, he'd already awaited for this moment to happen because of the tension that seemed palpable by everyone who surrounded you both.

"That's character development right out there, Cirilla." the bard peeked out of the small opening, watching how Geralt has leaned down to give you the kiss that was bound to happen.

Cirilla moved away from the doorway, an incredulous haze of her eyes as she had her hands on her hips, "I thought Geralt didn't know romance, Bard?"

Jaskier didn't back down from her sassy gestures and also did the same as he began to reason out, standing away from the door way when he'd heard Geralt asking you for forgiveness. The princess of Cintra has a smug look on her face, teasing the bard, "Some people improve when it's been a long time since his heartbreak---Stop judging me like that!"

He'd seen you walk back to the house, a fathomless cringe carving your features which looked like you were constipated as the witcher jogged up from behind, calling you out in the middle of the night. Jaskier was quick to shut the door closed for the second time, hauling an arm around Cirilla as he pulled her wrists till she was crouching with the bard and Kolby, acting like they were playing Knucklebones and not snooping over you and Geralt, "---Also, act like you didn't see them kiss!"

Y’ALL ARE PROLLY WAITING FOR CHAPTER 14 AND 15 NOW. 😂😂 (Strikethrough means I couldn’t tag you, bb. Please do check your settings. 🥰 Thank you!)

Taglist: @alyxkbrl​​ @himarisolace​​ @barkingbullfrog​​ @ayamenimthiriel​​ @hellodevilslittlesister​​ @vania-marie​​ @spookypeachx​​ @grungelovebug @fangirl-inthe-us​​ @nympeth​​ @amirahiddleston​​ @gabethelobster​​ @dreaming-about-starfleet​​ @uncoolcloudyhead​​ @melaninstylezz​​ @psychosupernatural​​ @missjenniferb @dance-dreamer​​ @marvelousell​​ @kingniazx​​ @angelias134​​ @tapismyforte​​ @chook007​​ @covid-donotenter​​ @winter-moons​ @cheesecakeisapie​ @silverkitten547​​ @angelofthorr  @carrieannewaywardson

[thenexusofsouls]

Muse: Ethan Cavender

[Bio and other information below the cut!]

Type of Character & Fandom/Source Material: An OC/canon mashup (an OC that is very heavily inspired by a canon character and therefore not wholly original) inspired by the character Ben in the movie The Apparition (2012)

FC: Sebastian Stan (but not from The Apparition, haha... Ethan is about a decade older than Ben)

Race: Human

Age: 32

Sexual/Romantic Orientation: Heteroromantic/heterosexual, but hard to ship as his last two girlfriends were killed, so he’s not looking to endanger anyone else by starting a relationship

Occupation: Survivalist; online electrical/computer/robotics engineering consultant

Family: Parents he hasn’t seen in a decade; girlfriend, Lydia (deceased); girlfriend, Kelly (deceased)

Potentially Triggering Material in Threads: body horror (partially severed limbs, stretched faces, body parts stuck onto bodies in the wrong places or orientations, and/or bodies stuck in walls or other solid objects); demons; ghosts; insomnia; paranoia; PTSD; depression

Negative Personality Traits: He can be reckless, defensive, and standoffish. He sometimes gets nasty with people to purposely push them away so he doesn’t endanger them.

Positive Personality Traits: He’s a genuinely good person who just doesn’t want to be the reason why anyone else gets hurt at this point. He’s a lot braver than he realizes.

Background: Ethan was a typical midwestern kid growing up, and he always loved building things. despite his string of mind-numbingly boring jobs at places like Home Depot, Ethan was on his way to becoming a electrical and robotics engineer. He made it all the way to his senior year of college at age 22, but then dropped out without completing his senior research project or graduating. This was because of an incident that resulted in the death of a friend and his girlfriend at the time. Ethan and two friends, Patrick and Greg, and his girlfriend, Lydia, all of whom were students at the same university, decided to all work on one research project together, using space in the basement of one of the university buildings to set up their laboratory. Their disciplines spanned engineering, psychology, religious studies, and history.

Their hypothesis was simple: all paranormal events that cannot be explained by science are manifestations of the human mind. In other words, things like ghosts and demons exist because people believe they’re real. Once you believe, you can be affected by them. By using a trigger object (an object used in paranormal investigations to invite the energy of a spirit or entity, usually something from their life or visually representative of something the energy would be attracted to) and an electrical field designed to help focus all their brain waves on the trigger object, the four of them focused on a statue used in a similar experiment previously years ago and attempted to create an entity with their minds. At the time, they believed they were successful, because something did show up. It killed Greg and pulled Lydia into a nearby wall, never to be seen again. Ethan freaked out, quit school, and moved back home.

Two years later found Ethan moving into a new house with his then girlfriend Kelly. Everything was fine at first, but then strange things began to happen. The neighbor’s dog walked into their house and died. Things were moved around in the house. And odd occurrences like clothing being tied up in knots and objects being fused together began to happen. Around this time, Patrick reached out to Ethan, telling him that for the past two years, he’s been living in a Faraday Cage of sorts, a metal electrified cage that emits certain frequencies. This was apparently the only way he could stave off and survive the entity they “created” with their experience two years prior. The entity was captured during the experiment, and Patrick tried to get rid of it, to send it back where it came. Unfortunately, the opposite was done and the creature was set free. Not only were they completely misunderstood as to what the entity was, but it was far more intelligent than was previously thought. It also is angry that it was held captive and is systematically going after everyone involved with the experiment as well as their loved ones. Patrick contacted Ethan to warn him but also to ask for help in trying to destroy the creature again.

Long story short, it was a disaster. Patrick and Ethan set up another lab with Kelly’s help, and thy successfully purged the house of the creature... except for the garage. It hid in the largely metal-encased garage and was unaffected by the frequency-emitters employed during the purge attempt. Not realizing the entity still lived, the three let their guard down, and soon Patrick was killed, dragged into a dark room and never seen again, and Kelly was also killed, pulled partially into a wall and left there by the entity to die. Ethan assumed the entity would come after him next, however, with him being the last one left alive that had any part in the experiment that pulled it out of its own dimension and imprisoned it, the entity has decided instead to slowly torture Ethan. It hounds his sleep and doesn’t allow him much REM sleep, it manifests in frightening ways that give him nightmares, and it attacks and kills anyone who tries to help him or get close to him. Ethan travels with a cage similar to that which Patrick survived in for two years that he can put together in a short amount of time to protect him while he sleeps. Otherwise, he just stays on the road, working online because he’s not able to hold a normal job.

About the Entity or “Apparition”: This creature is not something that was produced by the minds of the college students in that original experiment. It is actually an inter-dimensional creature, basically an as-of-yet undescribed species/lifeform that exists in a dimension parallel to ours. The combination of mental energy and EMF (electro-magnetic frequencies) utilized during the experiment created a rift that let the creature come through. The attempt to send it back, left this rift open, and now the creature can enter our world and pull others into its world. It’s highly intelligent and methodical in its study of humans and the human world. It is curious about tangible life, for it is mostly an incorporeal being. I say mostly because it can manifest as a solid being for a time, and it does so partially to try and understand our anatomy but partially also to scare us and test our willpower, fears, and emotional endurance.

Because it does not fully understand humans and our world, its manifestations are often frighteningly grotesque (if you’ve seen any of the movies of The Thing, it’s kindof like that). It will try to look like a human, but the limbs are bent in weird ways, the head is on backward, the eyes are missing, things like that. So it’s trying to mimic and doing a poor job. Also, it likes to “play” with the human world, so an indication of its presence is the manipulation of solid objects such that they are changed on a molecular level. So... finding your flat screen TV suddenly embedded halfway into the wall as if it had always been a part of that wall. Having the wooden spokes of a staircase be curled in all different directions as if the wood had always been curved. Seeing chairs all melded together as if they’d always been that way. Those are all exampled of the entity playing with our environment in an attempt to better understand it.

In addition to not being able to cross certain EMF fields, the creature is also averse to bright light. It will avoid stepping into it directly and will become agitated if light is shined on it, such as with a flashlight or spotlight. It also does not like being filmed and will attack anyone with a camera or a phone pointed at it. It kills in two different ways. Either it grabs you and pulls you into its dimension, which either kills you once you get there or you get stuck halfway along the way and are killed by whatever solid object your body merges with, or it kills you simply with its residue. The creature leaves behind a black, bubbling, nodular substance or stain that is poisonous to living beings of our plane.

Here are some concept artworks of the creature in its natural form, which is incorporeal (trigger warning for demons/ghosts/skeletal creatures X,X,X), and when it tries to manifest solidly and mimic humans (trigger warning for body horror! X)

Potential Starter Ideas:

Your muse could meet Ethan and think he’s completely batshit crazy, heh. The entity has a habit of backing off for long enough periods of time to make it seem like he’s crazy. It seems to take some pleasure in this.

Your muse could offer to help him try and get rid of the entity, whether your muse is skilled with parapsychology or engineering, or even has magical abilities. Maybe your muse has connections to high-ranking/high-powered/cutting edge technology agencies that might be able to help sever the attachment between him and the entity or maybe even capture, kill, or send it back to its own dimension.

Since I write in the Marvel fandom, I welcome any and all magic user muses or SHIELD agents or anyone else who thinks they can help my rather hopeless and sleepy boi, heh.

Fun facts: 

Despite the very much not-funny reasons why Ethan is incredibly sleep deprived, the fact that he is often makes him turn to humor to lighten situations. He makes the worst jokes when he meets someone, trying to make the best of a crappy situation.

Ethan finished his degrees online, and now has a duel Masters in Electrical Engineering and Materials Science.

He’s gotten to the point where he can have short conversations with the entity in which it appears to understand him or at least be paying attention to what he’s saying. However, such encounters usually end in the entity becoming enraged and frightening him in some way with an upsetting manifestation, sometimes involving faces that look like either Lydia and Kelly.

[redassassin]

i thought you were dead

word count: 1822 this is an old ask from a while ago, but i lost all the actual asks when i deleted my account! the prompt was “i thought you were dead.”

Everything changed after the Supernova. Relationships, politics, leadership, society. The Renegades were still in action and had expanded greatly with the sudden increase in powers. The city was built up from the ruins of the battle, and life changed with it. People switched jobs, their powers granting them advantages in certain fields. Some joined the Renegades, excited to put their new powers to use. Others left the Renegades, eager to pursue a more normal life after years in their workforce. 

Crime rose alongside the Renegades. Prodigy criminals were more dangerous and more powerful. Many people who had scorned the Renegades and prodigies, feared them, were found bitter and angry to suddenly become the thing they hated. 

Sketch’s team remained in the Renegades, determined to help the organization as it changed with time. They all became figureheads for the Renegades organization, working closely with what remained of the Council to improve the lives of every citizen of Gatlon and assist in their transition to the life of a prodigy. 

While Nova could admit that she liked Adrian, her life was too chaotic to remain anything but good friends with him. She often caught herself stealing small glances at him, glaring at other girls that would flirt with him when their team went out, or reliving every single one of their kisses when she lay on rooftops in the early hours of the morning, watching the stars. But they were friends, and Nova didn’t want to risk that just because she couldn’t get her own feelings under control. They were all too unstable to pursue proper relationships. The Supernova and all the events leading up to it had taken too much a toll on all of them. 

________________________________________________________________________________

Even though patrol was exhausting and dangerous, it was Nova’s favorite part of the day. It gave her a strange sense of normalcy to be back on patrols, just like everything was before the Supernova. Although, now that she wasn’t worried that her identity would be revealed with one tiny slip, she was actually enjoying being a Renegade, especially now that the Council listened to her. Not only did they pay more attention to her ideas, but they took suggestions from the general public on how to help with the transition, on how to make their daily lives safer, and even on the fates of some of the Anarchists and former villains from the Age of Anarchy. Of course, the final decision was still up to the Council, but the people liked to be heard. 

Sketch’s team was chasing Shockwave, a prodigy criminal that was a strange cross between the Detonator and the Sentinel. When he snapped, a ball of energy formed in his hand, either stunning anyone unfortunate enough to come across him, or sending walls toppling upon contact. Shockwave sent a volley of tiny energy spheres back at them as Nova and Adrian chased him down main street, and away from the drugstore he’d just robbed. Nova pulled ahead of Adrian, determined to reach him and send her power through the exposed skin at the back of his neck. But the villain sped up, smirking triumphantly back at her as another energy sphere was sent hurtling towards her. Nova dodged it, before realising that he hadn’t been aiming at her, but at the wall a couple of feet to her right. The ball hit the wall, and it began to crumble, threatening to topple on to Adrian, who had been a few yards behind her. 

“Adrian!” Nova screamed in horror, as he stopped in confusion, before turning his head up towards the sound of cracking stone. She began to run for him, but it was too late. Adrian, frozen in shock and fascination, disappeared beneath the fallen building. 

Nova let out a scream of desperation so shrill that even Danna flinched from her position at the end of the block, having just emerged from her swarm of monarchs.

“Insomnia? What happened? Where’s Adrian?” 

Nova didn’t answer, sprinting to the collapsed wall and picking through the rubble for any sign of Adrian. She can’t lose anyone else. Especially not Adrian. Anybody but Adrian. She flinched at the implications of her thoughts, that Adrian’s life was worth more than someone else’s. 

It was to her. She can’t lose Adrian. A life without Adrian—she can’t imagine it. 

She paused. Waiting for her thoughts to catch up to her, trying to process the fear and hope and utter terror coursing through her veins. 

Nova was in love with Adrian. Completely, utterly, and hopelessly in love with him. And she refused to believe that he was gone. She continued to tear through the wreckage, tossing aside what she could lift, nudging the larger pieces as far as she could. Danna appeared beside her, silently helping her lift away one of the stones. Nova gasped as her hand brushed against something wet and sticky. Blood. Her heart clenched as the image of Adrian lying under the rubble, bleeding, dying. Dead? She pulled one more stone away, and gasped as her eyes found the red and grey material of Adrian’s uniform. Danna was by her side in an instant, helping her pull Adrian out of the ruins. Danna raised her wristband to her mouth, requesting medical assistance and updating the rest of their team on Shockwave and Adrian, ordering Ruby and Oscar to continue the search. Danna rested a hand on her shoulder whispering words of reassurance, ensuring her that Adrian would be okay, but Nova hardly registered them. 

Nova sat beside Adrian, cradling his head in her lap. He was unconscious, but breathing steadily. His face was covered in tiny scratches and bruises, his hair covered in a fine layer of dust. The blood had come from a gash on his leg, still bleeding profusely. Nova cut a strip of fabric from the leg of her uniform, wrapping it shakily around the wound. She didn’t even realise she had been crying until she noticed the spots from her fallen tears. Wiping her eyes, Nova examined Adrian’s face. He looked calm. She would have thought that he was sleeping if not for the current situation. Hesitantly, she rested her hand on his shoulder, tapping him gently. When he didn’t wake, she shook him, harder than she had meant to, but Adrian groaned as his eyes flickered open. 

“Nova?” Adrian croaked, his voice rough from the dust he inhaled. He coughed, and the sound sent such a flood of relief through her that a small sob burst from her mouth. She buried her face in his chest, clutching at the material of his uniform. 

“Nova, are you okay? What’s wrong, are you hurt?” Adrian began to sit up, shifting them so that she was cradled against his chest. 

Something inside Nova broke. “I thought you were dead.” She whispered, her sobs dying out. Adrian’s hand found its way into her hair, running his fingers through it as his other hand rubbed her back. 

“I’m fine, Nova. We’re superheroes. We all get hurt sometimes.”

“If you say it’s in our job description to worry people sometimes I am going to punch you.” 

Adrian laughed quietly, and the sound sent a rush of relief coursing through Nova’s veins. Adrian was okay. 

“I’d probably deserve it.”

Nova hadn’t felt that helpless since Adrian had cared for her after Honey’s bees and wasps had attacked her. In the moments after, when Adrian had carefully bandaged every sting, she had realised that they might be okay. And when he confirmed that he still cared for her, she knew, that if they lived through the rest of the battle, they would. But everything had fallen apart after the Supernova. Nova wasn’t quite sure what had happened, but she regretted it. She wanted him back. A couple of times she thought that she may have caught Adrian watching her with the same wistful expression that she recognized from her own face, but always passed it off as wishful thinking. 

“Nova?” She turned her head, looking up to face him, and the kindness and worry and caring in his eyes melted her heart. She wanted to kiss him. But, she had been the one to break up their relationship all those weeks ago, and she knew that it had been hard on him. 

But before she could weigh the pros and cons of her decision and determine how much Adrian might hate her if she did, he was leaning down, his soft lips brushing against hers. Her eyes fluttered shut and she leaned into him, her arms winding around his neck. 

Nova shifted in his arms a little bit, deepening the kiss, and Adrian hissed as she elbowed one of his bruises. The situation was so familiar that Nova almost laughed, but instead she pulled away from Adrian, asking if he was okay. Before the words could come out of her mouth, Adrian cupped her cheek and pulled her mouth back to his. 

Adrian broke away after a few minutes, his eyes shining. 

“Promise you won’t put me to sleep this time?” Nova gaped at him, landing a light shove on his shoulder. 

“You promised you wouldn’t bring that up. I didn’t want to stop that kiss and you know it, there’s no reason to keep bringing it up.” 

Adrian kissed her cheek, his eyes full of laughter. “I need some way to blackmail you, you’re already better than me at so many things. I need ways to distract you.”

Nova considered what he’d just said. “Well, you can always use the time I tried to assassinate your dad and take down the Renegades.” Her tone was joking, but her eyes betrayed her. 

“The Council also tried to execute you just for the purpose of pleasing Genissa. I think you’re even.” 

Nova opened her mouth to apologize, something she found herself doing whenever someone mentioned her past. 

“Don’t apologize, Nova. We’ve all done things we’re not proud of, and you’re no different.” He laced his fingers through hers and brought her hand up to his mouth, pressing a soft kiss to her knuckles. The touch felt so intimate that Nova felt her face flush down to her neck. 

“I love you.” Adrian started, his eyes snapping to her. It took Nova a second to realise that the words had come out of her own mouth. She shrank away from Adrian, the surprise on his face eating away at her soul. 

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything, it just slipped out,” Nova began to slide out of his grasp, moving to sit beside him. “You don’t have to say anything. The medics should be here soon. I’m going to go watch for them.” She stood up, turning away from him, her face burning. 

“Nova?” She tensed preparing for the rejection that was sure to follow. Just because he kissed me doesn’t mean he loves me again.

“I love you too.”

tag list: (this is my old tag list lmk if you want to be put on or taken off!) tag list:@obssesedwithliterallyeverything @red-eyes88 @onecannotbebrave @renegadesmarissameyer @somanyfandomsonly1username  @everhartartino

[imasimpforstevengrant]

I can see you

Author's note:

First, I never thought I would write a fic after almost two years later. I had this idea after watching a fanmade video about Arthur and Harleen falling for each other. I had fun while writing this, since Arthur is a completely new character (not following the comics). Please note that this is written purely for amusement and I don't profit from it.

Second, sorry for any typos. English is not my first language (Chilean Spanish for the win, everybody!). I hope you like it.

_________________________________________

Warnings: angst, self hatred, a bit of swearing, sexual themes and stalking.

Words: 1.730

Summary: Arthur Fleck doesn't live. He barely manages to exist, devoid of any bond. Until one day, a woman reminds him of how much of a human he is.

_________________________________________

He had seen her several times, but he never had the courage to talk to her. He usually avoided her when she was too close to him.

Arthur knew himself too well to know what would happen: his hated laughing fits. Therefore, he preferred to love her from distance, without her noting his existence. It was better this way.

The first time Arthur saw this young woman was in the hallway. She was going down the stairs to the seventh floor of the building. He cherished every move she did. This stranger danced while listening to music, thinking no one would notice her. She shook her figure as she mouthed passionately the lyrics of whatever song was listening. Arthur hid near the wall that divided the halls, and thus, the apartments.

He glared at her like a predator. His mouth watery caused by the hunger she woke within him. Arthur swore he could feel her in his arms, dancing vehemently to a song. He wondered during long periods of time how it would feel to touch her skin.

His lust was a loud, thundering storm that kept troubling his already cursed mind. But in the outside, the silence suggested indifference.

It kept like this for months. Arthur had also yearned for innocent things, such as a smile or even a kind word from her. He constantly fantasized about her and the guilt and regret fought after the lustful desires roamed through his fractured psyche. This was too much for him to bear. He wrote about the woman in his journal, dedicating pages of misspelled but honest thoughts. Arthur found a new way to cope with insomnia.

It was a rainy day when his feelings took another radical turn. Arthur returned to his flat after another shitty day of work. He headed towards the elevator, pressing the button to open it. He waited patiently. The bell rang and the sliding door opened.

"Fuck!", he hissed lowly when he saw her. She was carrying a bag and had her hair done in buns. Arthur thought she couldn't be more beautiful.

"Hi" she chirped, grinning at him.

"Hi" was all Arthur could reply after his failed attempt to keep his gaze in the ground. Was she actually talking to him? The beloved stranger noticed a trace of blood in his lips and sweetly asked:

"Are you alright?"

He remained silent for a few seconds, studying her expression. It was so kind and sincere.

"Yes".

"Are you sure you're okay?" Her question echoed through his mind. Even her voice turned out to be as smooth as her appearance. Arthur inhaled deeply.

"I am, miss. Thanks for asking" he replied puzzled, trying to figure out why would she even care.

The door opened and she politely waved goodbye to him and wishing him well. Arthur didn't give a verbal answer but he certainly waved back to her.

Arthur smirked. And his gesture did not disappear until he arrived home.

He built a routine in his free time. If he couldn't be with her, he was satisfied enough to watch her. At night, he usually followed her to the now empty playground. The woman was swinging in a rope made out of clothes stretched and extended in what seemed a big, dome-shaped cage like. The blonde had the habit to exercise there, not bothered by some bystanders (mostly men) who whistled at her.

Despite the jealousy that grew within him, Arthur understood it wasn't strange. He surely wasn't the only one after her affections.

He took a liking to this new scene: watching her move as if she was practising a gymnastic routine was fantastic. Her movements were so delicate, yet sensual. She seemed to go along with the air, soaring with it.

But she didn't notice, obviously. The girl would probably had gone running and screaming for help if she had discovered him.

Arthur was wrong. He was so wrong.

One day, he sneaked around wearing his yellow hoodie to preserve his identity. He was outside the building, hiding in the shadows. There she was again: beautiful and unreachable. Her long, platinum blonde hair fell like a waterfall. Arthur was amazed. She moved her arms in a graceful way once again, to flow through it in a twirl that swinged her back and forth. The girl seemed to smile before the risky move, congratulating herself in silence on this apparent progress.

Arthur laughed out loud, amazed. But he soon clasped a hand in his mouth. She turned around immediately to his direction. Arthur felt the panic and tried to run.

She called him. Not berating him but genuinely interested. There was no violence in her voice. Arthur argued with himself over and over about if this was a good idea from the beginning. The man was walking around like a disoriented dog while grasping his curly locks, out of fear and guilt. He stood still for a while, without saying a word.

He then realized the woman kept calling him.

Arthur tightened his eyelids, fighting the urge to run away. He kept still during long seconds until he finally decided to face her. It was now or never. Little did he know that she was just a few feet away from him.

Once Arthur turned around, he almost tripped taking a step away from her. He stared at the young woman: she showed no signs of fear or disgust. In fact, she seemed curious about him. She clawed at the fence that separated the playground from the building and dead end alleys. He imitated the action, staring directly at her eyes, blue like summer sky. She smiled at him, her perfect teeth shining like pearls. And it was in this moment when Arthur could pay more attention to her attributes. The girl in question was the owner of an astounding beauty: expressive blue eyes, pink full lips which formed a sweet smile. And that was only her face. Arthur was infatuated. Her face lit up once her lips curved into such expression. Was she hypnotizing him?

He wouldn’t mind, of course.

Arthur stared at her mouth, and wonders how it would feel against his own cracked, dry lips.

But her body was another wonder. She wore a white, long, sleeveless shirt adjusted to her body shape, leaving nothing to imagination. God, if he only could trace his fingers down her hips he'd die happily.

He continued his private appreciation watching the grey shorts that left her most of her thighs uncovered. He then darted his eyes up to her hair. Her long, slightly wavy strands of hair were dyed in two different colours: the right side was strawberry pink from the half down. Same with the left side, except the colour was a electric blue. It added a dreamy touch to her.

Arthur pictured himself playing with her hair, doing little curls with it. It looked so silky.

"You've been enjoying my show, have you?"

Arthur looked up to her again.

"Yeah" he muttered, ashamed.

"Why the long face, babe? It's not like I'm upset", the woman said.

Arthur stared at her again, but out of confusion.

"Are you not upset?"

"At all" she quickly replied, "I like when people see me, actually".

Arthur felt a cold shudder in his back. It was in this moment he sensed something in his chest. He perceived it as the natural reaction to the first conversation he held with someone else without the other significant being weirded out of him. This common trait was enough to give him hope of a new, happy chapter on his mirthless life.

"Yeah... You know, I like when people see me too".

The woman nodded and leaned her face into the fence. Arthur took a deep breath and it didn't take too long to emulate the pose. She was bold enough to let him come closer to her as if she wanted him to kiss her.

"What's your name?" He hummed against her face.

"Harleen Quinzel", she answered "and you are...?"

"Arthur" he rushed to give his reply, "my name is Arthur Fleck--".

A chuckle escaped his throat.

'Oh, no. Not now, not now please', Arthur silently begged as his loving expression fade away so shame would take its place.

His brain of course showed no mercy.

The laughing fit lasted almost ten minutes. It was the first time in years that he truly believed he was going to die of suffocation. He struggled with choking more than two times every minute. Arthur wasn't completely drawn into his fit. He looked for a fraction of seconds at the girl. Harleen shocked at first. After a few moments, she joined him believing innocently he was laughing out of amusement.

"You know, you can tell me the joke so we can laugh together".

Arthur wasn't able to silence his noisy curse. He only covered his mouth, shaking his head trying to make her see the desperation in his eyes. Harleen's facial expressions morphed from fun to actual worry when Arthur's hand reached his throat in an useless attempt to breathe, still clawing at the fence with the one that left free. Her eyes widened in horror. Arthur felt too powerless to even show her the card explaining his fucking condition. It was alright if she wanted to run away. He already accepted his shameful defeat.

However, to his surprise, she nimbly climbed up the fence to help him. The stalker was too weak to keep standing but when he was crumbling into the ground, Harleen helped him to stand up.

She spoke to him, reassuringly. And she spoke so many things he couldn't process while taking him to a bench to contain him. So far she was a few seconds ago and now she stood with him throughout the painful laughter.

"I'm sorry--" Arthur tried to hide his face in his arm but Harleen seemed to understand... Or at least took pity on him.

The laughing fit finally ended and Arthur got a card from his pocket. He remained silent, disgusted with himself. The blonde took it and read it carefully. Her serene gaze towards the object comforted Arthur slowly. Once she finished reading it, she returned it to his owner. Harleen seemed truly surprised... Or maybe scared. He didn't know and felt too embarrassed to even talk to her. One thing was for sure:

Arthur Fleck never felt uglier in his life.

[wintersweetbou]

Glaiveweek 2020- Day 6. Scabs to Scars

Day 6 of glaiveweek 2020! @glaiveweek

Prompt: The World has Stopped, Yet it keeps Turning- Yesterday, Today, Tomorrow

Summary: Galahd is dead. Its people flee for Lucis, desperate for sanctuary. It is granted, but takes time for the refugees to find a niche for themselves. Nyx and Libertus struggle to find their place where massacre haunts yesterday, hunger threatens today, and tomorrow is uncertain. 

Galahd was no more. Razed by incendiary rounds, crushed by mechs, and anything running in the shadows was shot by MTs, or ripped apart by demons. The people fled their shores, desperate to outpace the robotic tide. No one was spared, not even the children. Not a soul. Those who managed to get out made for the surrounding lands, in waves of refugees. King Regis of Insomnia accepted them graciously, his people did so too at first. 

Slums slowly filled with the survivors, packed and warm and dirty. It was never ideal, but people looked the other way when shoving immigrants into apartments nowhere near up to code. It was a relief, even. To people homeless from war, having a cramped, filthy space to call your own is still a haven. 

Nyx had a plan, at least. It was better than nothing- better than the dull task of surviving the day. To repay services rendered. The king’s retinue had arrived to hold off an assault as a ramshackle fleet of boats, waiting till the last second. Galahadians ran screaming for the shore...the boats couldn't wait...they were almost here...fire, sulfur...crystalline shields, holding them back...Nyx held her hand, dead sprint for the shore. She slipped. Get down, Selena!!!!

Nyx woke with a start, drenched in a cold sweat. Libertus snored obliviously, sprawled over his half of the couch. Nyx struggled to control his breathing, trying not to further disturb the packed apartment. Crowe, a tiny scrap of a female, snarled in her sleep from her armchair nest. Snores and whimpers breathed down the halls from the overcrowded rooms. Nyx calmed slightly at the notion that he wasn’t alone in his pain. Nightmares were beyond common for everyone in the packed halls of the now-christened Galahd District. Days passed slowly, barely numbing the pain of yesterday. Nyx breathed deeply, settling back down. The cheap alarm clock on the side table read three thirty in the morning, just two more hours of sleep if he managed to pass out right this second. Nyx sighed, curling up into a ball. Odd jobs that he and Libs took were not going to cut it much longer. His face smoothed out as he snuggled deeper into the ratty couch, tugging the threadbare blanket about him. Tomorrow they would audition for the Kingsglaive. Rumor had it that the Citadel would accept anyone compatible with the king’s magic. Nyx grinned. Rumor also had it that Galahdians were strangely in tune with the crystal’s power. Today would be a good day. 

And it was. Nyx and Libertus passed the the test, the energy flowing through them rather than burning their veins. The compatible ones were led to an ornate meeting room in the Kingsglaive Headquarters, and told to wait for the examination to conclude. It seemed like every other fit galahdian was trying to get entry- about one in five seemed capable, extremely high percentage compared to the lucian citizenry. 

Crowe walked in, choosing a seat in the far corner, eyes down. Nyx waved, but she didn’t see, or care to respond. 

“She made it, at least.” Libertus shrugged. 

Nyx hummed in assent, glancing about. He recognized a couple of faces in the small crowd, but no names came to mind. He supposed it wouldn't matter. He would learn them if they were going to be working together. Tucking his braids back, he stretched. Libertus yawned, then drew himself up straight. Steps in the hallway, getting closer. Multiple people. The king, his shield, the captain of the glaive, and the newly named Marshal strode in, facing the new recruits.The king leaned forward, addressing his soldiers to be.

“You have shown affinity with the magic of this kingdom. Should you join my service, I will have you named my Glaives. An elite force, to strike back at the empire that burned your homes. I will not stand for this destruction. It is time to push back. Will you join me?” King Regis called, to be met with cheers. The king smiled.

“I’m glad to have you. This might seem rather rushed, as far as career advancements go. Background checks are rather difficult to do with the current circumstances. So I grant you pardon -your slate is clean. A new start- for Galahd and Lucis.” Nyx felt his core warm. This is what he came here for. This is what he wanted. 

“Now, each of you will need to be escorted to be photographed. Paperwork will be your first mission. Then fitting out for uniforms and equipment, and then the real training begins. A one week trial will be given to see if you really have what it takes.Titus Drautos is the Captain, and he will be in charge of training and commanding you. Heed him well. He does not impress easily.”

Drautos bowed at the compliment, and hushed murmuring ran through the hall. 

“Should you gain his endorsement at the end of the week, I will bond you to the magic of my blood. Go with honor.” The king stepped back, met with thunderous applause. He turned and left, leaving their new captain.

“You heard the King. My name is Titus Drautos- captain of the glaive. You are now my new recruits. Today we do paperwork and take measurements. Tomorrow, we see what you can do. Now, first order: Line up in alphabetical order by last name- A’s here by the door. Clerks are on the first door on the left hand side, they will call when they are ready. Return here when you are done. Should take a while. Refreshments and restrooms are on the right. I will be with the clerks if you have any questions. Have a good first day, recruits.” Drautos bowed, then waved for them to begin. 

The recruits rose, wandering to their supposed places. Crowe strode silently over to the front. A slight man with unruly brown hair tapped on her shoulder. 

“Arra?” He asked shyly, not meeting her gaze. 

“Altuis.” She responded, nodding as he shuffled in line behind her. The others slowly filtered in, checking names, chatting quietly. 

“Bellum?” “Behind me- Arra.” 

A young man with brown slicked back hair grumbled quietly, trying to find the L’s. He stepped up and tapped the next guy in line- a tanned stick of a teenager with dark eyes and wild black hair. “Lazarus?” 

“Khara.” The raven replied, stepping forward politely, giving him room to slide in. Lazarus did, and began chatting with Khara. Both stayed very polite, expressing wishes of success to each other in the coming training. Lazarus seemed to have ambitions of making an officer, while Khara was content to see how things went on their own. Neither spoke of their homelands, the burns and scars still freshly healed and very visible.  

Further down the line, Libertus and Nyx parted where the newly formed line wrapped around a corner. From their spots along the wall, they could see the entire room, and could maintain sight to each other without looking too out of place. There were only a few letters between O and U, and fewer people with last names between them. They maintained a quiet conversation of gestures and facial expressions.

 Nyx raised an eyebrow, cocking his head at Crowe, who was being led along with several others down the hall to get IDs. Libertus shrugged. The line shuffled forward, absorbing the space. Time began to crawl.

Nyx scanned the room, switching his weight to the other foot, leaning back against the wall. This was taking forever. Libertus nodded to the clock on the wall scratching his stubble, raising an eyebrow. Nyx shook his head, rolling his eyes exaggeratedly. This would take a bit. Not only ID’s, but papers declaring citizenship, papers allowing them to work for deposit, and not under the table as they all had been since they got here. Probably actual bank accounts too. They should be happy to get these papers so quickly, as the office of immigration was a backlog of chaos- too many people to deal with all at once. It was getting better by the day, but it was still months waiting for work papers. Here they were being given out easy peasy. 

Eventually Libertus was called forward, then Nyx. The office was an open space, where clerks manned computers and printers, quickly making folios for the new recruits. Nyx quickly smoothed his hair, and stepped forward for his mugshot. He stared ahead for the camera, expression attentive but neutral. Then he was shooed to the nearest open clerk and began filling out a stack of paperwork of which the likes he had never seen. 

Libertus yawned and twisted, several pops bursting from his vertebrae. It took almost four hours, but the last of the recruits came back- Nyx among them. Libertus waved down his friend, Nyx ambling over through the chatting glaives to be. 

“Captain stopped by- said the crownsguard mess would be providing lunch- then we get measured.” 

“Sounds like a plan.” Nyx grunted, then followed as the captain called for his recruits to follow. Lunch was filling, but bland. Galahd knew how to appreciate spice- the spaghetti and meatballs barely had any hint of a kick. It did the job, and Nyx guessed that was all it had to do. 

Measurements went far faster than the paperwork, Ramuh be praised. Quiet conversation rumbled through the armory, recruits pointing to various pieces of armor and weaponry, appreciative and wary at the same time. Nyx joined Libertus in mocking the cumbersome polearms. Lighter spears were the best long weapon- pure speed when used correctly, and with extreme utility at any fighting distance. Nyx glanced at the small arms section with interest- looking at the curved blades. His only blade was back in that shitty excuse for an apartment- hidden at the bottom of his meagre possessions. One blade out of a set...the other blade far from here, on a battered shoreline....

Libertus shook his best friend, worried at the clouded look that passed over his eyes. It happened less often than it used to- every day was progress- but it still bothered the shit out of him, and Nyx’s triggers were inconsistent and hard to identify at times. Libertus squeezed Nyx’s shoulder, pointing at a ridiculous collection of greatswords. Nyx shook himself, and chuckled at the sight. Light weapons, spears, and ambush had been the way to be in the jungles of Galahd. Stealth. Speed. Precision. Those were the tools of the hunter. 

Drautos called them back into the meeting room as the last of the clerks packed up. 

“Today you did well. Being able to take orders quickly and quietly is a hallmark of a good soldier.  Tomorrow, after a quick physical, we test your capabilities. Wear something you can move in- sweats and tees are good for now, plus a water bottle. Full range of motion will be noted- and be sure- for the love of the gods- to note any allergies, food and medical. We almost lost someone to a peanut butter sandwich. I refuse to let a sandwich kill any glaive.” 

The group snickered. A sandwich was an inglorious death, but hilarious to note afterward. 

The captain led the group back out, towards the Citadel entrance, giving instructions to return here at 7am sharp. The group murmured its assent, and dispersed into the ever present crowd in the Citadel Square. Nyx and Libertus walked along slowly, talking about what magic felt like. Nyx got takeout, while Libertus got drinks. They reconvened at their tiny shared apartment- kids scampering in the halls, Crowe nowhere to be seen. 

“I worry about her, sometimes.” Libertus muttered through a mouthful of rice. 

“More like always. You have a thing for her, or what?” Nyx slurped on his drink, fluttering his eyes. Libertus shoved him. 

“Nah. I just...she doesn’t have anyone, other than us. Remember when we found her, on the edge of our village?” Nyx nodded, munching slowly. Emaciated, filthy. 

“I just want better for her. She feels like a little sister…” Libertus mumbled into his stir fry. Nyx stilled, trying not to sink into painful thoughts. Crowe did deserve better, and Libertus was a good man for wanting that. But still- uphill battle. She did accompany them, but getting her to talk was a challenge. It was getting better- but still. She had the nasty habit of lashing out at things that moved in ways she didn't like- but it did keep her safe all this way, even here in Lucis. Creeps who tried to grope her on the subway left with bruised ribs and clawed faces, if they were lucky. She had a mean hook and her knee had almost neutered a dude who thought he could cop a feel off a refugee free of charge. 

“Give her time. We are all dealing with the clusterfuck of what happened.” Nyx sighed, sipping. Libertus exhaled impatiently, then shrieked as a hand descended on his shoulder. Nyx jolted, then burst out laughing. Crowe smirked, appearing from nowhere, stealing several fries from Nyx. 

“I can handle myself. Little sister this.’’ She flicked Libertus painfully on the forehead with a nice crack. He recoiled, cringing and grumbling about unfairness and cruelty. Crowe tossed her dark hair, relishing her stolen fries, settling into her armchair- covered with cheap fluffy throws. Nyx chuckled at Libertus sulkily rubbing his head. Warmth settled in his chest, soft and soothing, where it hadn't in a while. Subconsciously he knew what it was, even if he couldn't bear to acknowledge it. That calm you get when people who care for you are around. Family.

The physicals passed uneventfully. Weight taken, height measured, blood pressure noted, sample taken. Nyx was unaware of any allergies he had- medicine or food. He was healthy, reflexes good. Range of motion good for a man his age, needs to stretch more, but who doesn’t? The doctor gave him a form clearing him of restrictions, clean bill of health, and instructions to make a copy to keep, and one to go in his folio. 

Nyx made his copies and dropped them with a clerk, jogging over to the main group of recruits milling about the arena, waiting for the captain to announce the next activity. From the looks of things, running was in his future. A glaive was taping off lines around the arena, clearly labeling a track. Nyx grinned. He could run, and so could Libertus, if not without grumbling about it the entire way. Libertus was more of a weights kind of guy. The captain called the group over, and began the next section of testing.

“Each of you will need to keep a log of your training. After today, notebooks and smart watches will be provided for you to log resting bpm, workout bpm, weight reps, and activities done. The goal here is to hone you into the best version of yourselves, and teach you to maintain that. Today is just an introduction into that. The rest of the week you will be joining the other glaives in their workouts- so they may teach you how we do things, and see if you can keep up.” Drautos read from his clipboard, checking off names. 

“Light jog around the perimeter- warm up.” 

Nyx loped off, finding an easy rhythm. Crowe tapped his shoulder and jogged up, shoulder to shoulder. She moved effortlessly, and Nyx relaxed into the movement further at her calm. This was something he could do for hours, and she seemed to be of the same thought. Quiet and decorum could be accomplished, and even enjoyed in small doses. But movement was a simple joy, action soothed the snarly, spiky bits of thought that could wander in when he was inactive. This was meditation. 

They ran side by side, picking up the pace as the captain called for it in intervals, enjoying the smooth simplicity. The group broke up, different individuals having different strengths. Nyx and Crowe ended up firmly in the middle of the faster individuals, along with that Khara kid and several others. The middle group was the biggest, working at keeping the pace a little harder, but keeping it nonetheless. Most just watched as the Lazarus dude bickered with a redhead named Tredd about what weapon style was best.  ]

The last group composed of the larger recruits, those being more strength based, rather than dexterity. It wasn’t a bad thing, to be slower. Heavy hitters were needed too. The group noted that Drautos didn’t reprimand the slower group, but encouraged them to keep a steady pace. It was a good start on his part in growing loyalty. It was grown, not given. 

Libertus blew Nyx away in the weight room, benching well over three hundred pounds. Nyx could bench his own weight, but not much more. His upper body needed work, along with core and glutes. He was still growing, barely twenty one. The meat hadn’t yet settled on his bones like Libertus, but it was getting there. Provided he started eating better, getting more meat with meals. Nyx couldn’t wait for a proper salary...he could get his own apartment, and have snacks…

“ Time to go, hotshot.” Libertus chuckled, tossing Nyx his jacket. They made their way back, once again getting cheap takeout stir fry, and settling in for an early night. Something told them that joining the real glaives would suck, and that they would need all the energy they could get. They were right. 

By the next afternoon, the newbies were aching all over. Resistance training focused on overloading muscles to build them stronger- and overload they did. The real glaives were nuts- the military branch was new, but Ramuh, they were no slouches. Even without touching magic and combat practice, they blew the recruits out of the water. Back at the apartment Crowe dropped into her chair with a moan, falling asleep almost instantly. Libertus followed quickly, snoring immediately. Nyx chuckled, limping over, tucking each of them in. He would have to visit the elder down the hall- she made medicine in Nyx’s village, the old recipes that made powerful balms and liniments. Flopping into his spot Nyx thought about the coming days and shuddered. It was just the beginning. 

Days faded into each other, the new glaives too tired to really let it sink in. The week passed, and they became official glaive trainees, with official glaive paychecks. The three of them got their first apartment together, thankful to be free of the kids running underfoot, and crocherty elders demanding their attention at all times. It was still small and dirty, with truly awful water pressure, but soon it felt like home. Crowe found colorful paper lanterns, and with some cheap string lights, it made a living room without proper wiring feel festive. Libertus stocked the kitchen, properly cooking meals, with the necessary heat, thank you very much. Nyx was happy to get his own room- he really was- but he missed the comfort of knowing Libertus was right there, should nightmares get the better of him. The thought bothered him, until one night he realized that no matter the thickness of the walls, Libertus’s snoring would prevail. He would never be free of the six-damned snoring. 

They grew, in their own ways. Libertus hardened- his arms, neck, and torso showing what he spent his training on. He was upset that his belly didn’t shrink, but the combat sessions showed that that may have been a good thing- a strong core with padding makes you difficult to push around. He settled in, confidence blooming. Libertus regained his cheer from before the genocide of his people, mostly. There was a sharper edge to his temper, and dark moods that were not there when they were kids. But life continued on. He tried new recipes in the meantime, having Nyx and Crowe test them out. It was pretty good, with one notable flop that had everyone fighting for the bathroom. That recipe was burned by Crowe the second she recovered, after wresting open every window she could find.

Crowe, now being fed properly, blossomed. She was still slight, but was stupid quick and flexible. Her dagger skills were amazing, and her magic affinity was proving to be something terrifying. Crowe bonded with the rest of the glaives, keeping them on their toes. The lesson was learned quickly, don't try to mess with her, you’d end up bleeding. But befriend her, and she would keep you laughing with wit and sarcasm. And the pranks. The unending pranks with the other glaives. It got so bad once, most of the glaive were afraid to open doors and cabinets, for fear of silly string and glitter bombs. The glitter never came out all the way. 

Nyx filled out slowly, gaining strength on top of his speed, endurance from nonstop aerial warp tricks. His shoulders broadened, and his arms gained some definition. He was happy, more than he had been in a while. He had an apartment with friends, a nice job, and steady income. The routine was stabilizing- having a clear expectation of what the days and nights would bring, and what was expected of him. The nightmares still happened, but less and less often. When Galahd burned, he felt the world had stopped turning. But here he was. Still alive, and growing stronger by the day. Nifelheim should fear them. They were coming. For hearth and home.

[valerianka-97]

Twisted, tangled, wicked, sick.

... That is how I felt when I actually finished that article. Heaven help me...

The 12th of July is the beginning of a new era for gothic rock trio from Massachusetts - PVRIS.

Last Friday the band introduced to the world their debut single "Death Of Me" from an upcoming third album. They also released a thrilling music video for the song.

New sound, same energy.

Death Of Me was supposed to be a new rock hit but surprisingly turned out to be the dance hit instead. Many fans were confused, some were in panic that the band switched to another genre, others were slightly shocked. But everyone agreed that the song with the video alongside are something out of this world.

Evolution of sound isn't surprising, the frontwoman Lynn Gunn is known to collaborate with pop and dance artists such as Seven Lions, TBMA and some others, so the electronics that fully replased live instruments is something we could see coming.

Anyways, the band is staying true to themselves, judging by the themes and overall vibe of their new song.

Death Of Me definitely has strong old-PVRIS vibes: the lyrics are still dark and sinister and the video is moody and ominous.

In the song Lynn tells us the story of obsessive love. Obsessive, passionate and dangerous love. Or dedication. It's still a mystery whether she's referring to her love relationship or to something else. Gunn likes to hide things in plane sight, so her love life would've been too easy to refer. The song kinda reminds me of Florence & The machine's Pure Feeling, in which Florence Welch speaks about her dedication to fans and vice versa. The metaphor fits just right to that theory.

Let's speak straightforward here, fans are the best promotion machine of any artist. We can suffocate or let them breath, we can literally be the death of them, because fans are the ones who put an artist on a pedestal and fans can kick them back down. It also reminds me of something else. Something more important and global. But I will leave that thoughts for later in the article.

The music video here is another story but also is an adding to that theory. I'll talk about it more below.

First, let's take a closer look at all the mysteries in the vid.

The biblical theme is the one we notice first of all, it's very simple, and there is a reason of that obviousness. While fans are building logical connections with the first visual metaphor of the seduction of Eve by the devil in a snake's appearance with the song lyrics and then enjoying passionate sequences and the cult initiation, the most interesting metaphors are carefully hidden. The devil is in the details, guys.

The storyline of the video is built on hidden metaphors. Some of them may or may not be intentional, maybe I just built logical connections where there is none but you surely will find my observations interesting.

The seduction and the forbidden fruit are not the only symbols from the Bible. We can see the new members of cult going through initiation. But have you noticed that all of them are of different races? There are black people, asians and white people. It got to me when I wondered about the symbolism of the pyramid formed by the cultists with our trio in the heart of it - which is also may be symbolic and may represent the three ascendants of Noah (or is it too complicated? It may be unintentional). Here we've got the Tower of Babel metaphor.

Next on - the red aquarium. I've already said in a comment section for the video on YouTube that aquarium represents the falling of Adam and Eve from heaven. It's a small piece but key one, keep that in mind.

Now, remember the line in the song "I'm falling, fading, and seeing angels". This line is not just the reference to Demon Limbs. Everyone has noticed that the band made a colorful music video. And the colors in it were not chosen randomly. The band and everyone in the sequence dressed in white instead of classical culty black wearing. Knowing of the falling from heaven metaphor in the video and connecting it to the line from the song we've got our "angels" Lynn talks about. And that's not all of it.

The Tower of Babel in the Bible is known to represent a kind of an act of rebellion against God. The whole cult sequense symbolizes that at some point. The initiation almost completely recreates the holy communion. This, overall, may represent the creation of the alternative religion as a counterweight to the original one and creating their own kind of heaven on Earth, which for some may look more like hell. But that's, my friends, is parallax. Another reference to song lyrics.

And my favorite metaphor, which is also pretty simple but hidden in plain sight. The whole song with its dark, seductive, even erotic, at some poin, vibes is a hint, not to count pretty obvious visualisations in the video.

Lust. The most pleasant one of all deadly sins. Tangled bodies moving rhythmically to the heartbeat and everyone's in rapture. Passionate, isn't it? I mentioned hell lately on purpose. "One man's hell is another's God, it's all about perspective, a parallax". Lynn Gunn surely knows how to play with words and the visuals.

The storyline starts at the actual end of the music video. Why not the snake sequence? You may ask. In fact, it all begun with a snake and an apple, right?

Like I've said, the colors chosen for the video are not accidental. Red color symbolizes not only passion but also hell. And it is known that Eve was in heaven at the moment of seduction. Which led me to conclusion where the story actually begins. And the pyramid sequence is an actual end (which is to be continued).

The ones, who were fallen and forbidden to come back to heaven gardens for they've sinned, united and built their own garden on Earth and they rule it like God rules heavens.

They've sinned at God's perspective, yet they see it as holy communion from theirs.

Now let's come back to my theory of the song's meaning. Why I think it may be about the fans and something more global.

The first time I've watched and listened to the music video, it kinda reminded me of Britney Spears. Let me explain this absurd. Britney's fame became hell for her in mid-2000's. We all remember that.

That's one piece.

In 2011 Spears released a music video for the song Till The World Ends.

The sequences in that video at some point are repeated in Death Of Me: it caught my attention the second I've seen tangled bodies in a rhytmic movement. In Britney's video the storyline's mostly situated underground, where everyone is dying of the hell of a heat, and the colors in both videos are similar, also the dance-y vibe in the darkness of the underground kinda the same. That's the piece no2.

And the dance with a snake was Britney's most iconic performance back in 200(5?). That's the 3rd one.

Not only the music video led me here. Lynn's "You're a cold-blooded killer only after dark but I don't mind" also reminded me of Britney's song Criminal.

Yes, that all may be just coincidence, because "why the fck Britney Spears? Nothin' in common".

And that's when the song lyrics come up and make sense of all of it. Again, the line about hell in perspective, the line about a noose around Lynn's neck or a poison, the line about danger. I've thought about Britney Spears because she is the best example of what the pressure of huge responsibility for fanbase and fame in general can do to people. Break them, suffocate and be the death of them.

We know that coincidences are not accidental, not with PVRIS. Lynn's metaphors have always been much deeper than it has seemed, so I guess that's a good and well argumented theory.

And don't you think that it's finished. There's more.

Death Of Me also wasn't chosen to be the debut single by accident. From all written above, the song is a perfect metaphor itself for the band's prevous album. All We Know Of Heaven, All We Need Of Hell. Which makes it a great bridge between what we already know and what is soon to be released. My guess is we're about to find out more about heaven and get something else from hell.

I've done pretty heavy work in analyzing everything, and trust me, it was hell. But I enjoyed every hour of it. Twisted, huh?

P. S. While writing a draft to the article I couldn't decide whose name to place in a metaphor with the snake, so at first I wrote "devil's seduction of Eve/Lynn" and accidentally found this strange reference. EVELYNN. Two names, Eve and Lynn, in one Evelynn. And Lynn as Eve in the video. And Evelynn short names are both Eve and Lynn.. Damn, I confused it even more.

Update:

My brain almost exploded yesterday while writing all this. The article is so loaded with information, so I desided not to mention some symbols. Today, as I had a good night of sleep (after very brutal insomnia issues) I realized that the analysis can't be completed without those little details.

The names puzzle above is one of them but I mannaged to put it somehow anyway.

There are several more things to say about symbolism though. One of the them is obvious and everyone noticed it from the start but not everyone is aware of the meaning of that metaphor.

Not all of us know how to read tarot cards, me included. The representation of a tarot card "Three of Swords" - the knives Lynn, Brian and Alex pierced an apple with.

The card's meaning is a heartbreak, sorrow, grief, pain caused by someone's words or actions. It also has a meaning of emotional release and a reminder that the dark clouds building above your head will disappear and take the pain away with it.

The scene of stabbing the apple by the trio most likely symbolizes their expression of that pain and releasing it the moment the apple is pierced.

There is also a colorful symbol which is not that easy to acknowledge but is also put right in front of our sight. I had this thought since the first time I watched the video but didn't bring much attention to it. I came back to it after looking in to flowers handbook.

The flowers on the table in the music video are white lenagolds. Why lenagolds? Why not roses or lilies?

The christian legends say that lenagolds turned up on Earth with the walking of messiah. The Mother's tears that fallen when Jesus carried his cross turned into lenagolds.

Basic meaning of lenagolds is love and devotion. The definition of white lenagolds is sincerity and purity of feelings, loyalty, gratitude and luck.

Note that the flowers laying on the cult's joint table, which also may symbolize the band's devotion and love for the fanbase.

There is another hidden symbol I noticed but didn't manage to solve. Maybe some of you have thoughts on that?

When the cultists stand in two rows facing one another, at first I thought they carried flowers, this scene was really glimpse, so I played it in slow motion. They carried busts.

Not sure what that means, because I can't see whose busts there are, what I'm sure of is that this scene is related to a short shot of a woman's head with bloody tear streaking. Maybe that also reffers to that legend with lenagolds?

Anyways, thank you for reading! I hope you made it down here and I didn't waste your time

If you liked it, please reblog. Would be much appreciated!

[spamzineglasgow]

(REVIEW) All The Poems Contained Within Will Mean Everything To Everyone, by Joe Dunthorne

Is it fiction, is it poetry, is it truth — what are the rules here? Kirsty Dunlop tackles the difficult, yet illustrious art of the poet bio in this review of Joe Dunthorne’s All The Poems Contained Within Will Mean Everything To Everyone (Rough Trade Editions, 2018).

Whenever I read a poetry anthology - I hope I’m not the only one - I go to the bios at the back before I read the poems…it’s also a really strange thing when you publish a poem…you brag about yourself in a text that is supposed to sound distant and academic but is actually you carefully calculating how you’ll present yourself.

> It’s the middle of a night in 2019 and I’m listening to a podcast recording from Rough Trade Editions’ first birthday party at the London Review Bookshop, and this is Dunthorne’s intro to the reading from his pamphlet All The Poems Contained Within Will Mean Everything To Everyone (2018). As I lie there in that strange limbo space of my own insomnia, Dunthorne’s side-note to his work feels comfortingly intimate because it rings so true (the kind of thing you might admit to a friend over a drink after a poetry reading rather than in the performative space of the reading itself). Like Joe, and yes surely many others, I am also fascinated by bios - particularly because I find them so awkward to write/it makes me cringe writing my own/this is definitely the kind of thing you overthink late at night. Bios also function as this alternative narrative on the margins of the central creative work and they do tell a story: take any bio out of context and it can be read as a piece of flash fiction. When we are asked to write bios, there is this unspoken expectation that we follow certain rules in our use of language, tone and content. Side note: how weird would it be if we actually spoke about ourselves in this pompous third person perspective irl?! Bios themselves are limbo spaces (another kind of side note!) where there is much left unsaid and often the unsaid and the little that is said reveals a lot. Of course, some bios are also very, very long. Dunthorne’s pamphlet plays with this limbo space as a site of narrative and poetic potential: prior to All The Poems, I had never read a short story actually written through the framework of a list of poet bios. The result is an incredibly funny, honest and playful piece of meta poetic prose that teases out all the subtle aspects of the poet bio-sphere and ever since that first listen, I can’t stop myself re-reading.

> This work is an exciting example of how formal constraints in writing can actually create an exhilarating sense of narrative liberation. I see this really playful, fluid Oulipo quality to the writing, where the process of using the bio as constraint is what makes the rollercoaster reading experience so satisfying as well as revealing a theatrical stage for language to have its fun, where the reality of our own calculated self performance can be teased out bio by bio. The re-reading opens up a new level of comedy each time often at the level of wordplay. I’ll maybe reveal some more of that in a wee bit.

> It’s a winding road that Dunthorne takes us on in his narrative journey where the micro and the macro continually fall inside each other. So perhaps this review will also be quite winding. Here is another entry into the text: we begin reading about the protagonist Adam Lorral from the opening sentence, who we realise fairly quickly is struggling to put together a ground-breaking landmark poetry anthology. His bio crops up repeatedly in varying forms:

‘Adam Lorral, born 1985 is a playwright, translator and the editor-publisher of this anthology.’

‘Adam Lorral is a playwright, translator and the man who, morning after morning, stood barefoot on his front doorstep […]’

‘Adam Lorral is a playwright, translator and someone for whom the date Monday, October 14th, 2017 has enormous meaning. Firstly Adam’s son started smiling.’

The driving circularity of this repetition pushes the narrative onwards, whilst the language is never bogged down: it hopscotches along and we can’t help but join in the game. Amidst a growing list of other characters/poets- that Adam may or may not include in this collection he seems to be pouring/ draining his energy into, with just a little help from his wife’s family money- tension begins to build.  

> Although Adam is overtly the protagonist in the story, to my mind it is, in fact, Adam’s four-week-old son who is the real heroic figure. Of course this baby doesn’t have a bio of his own but he does continually creep into Adam’s (he’s another side note!). He comes off as the only genuine character: there is no performance, no judgement, he just is. Adam is continually amazed by his son’s mental and physical development which is far more impressive than the growth of this questionable anthology. The baby is this god-like figure, continually present during Adam’s struggles, with the seemingly small moments of its development taking on monumental significance. Adam might try to immerse himself fully in this creative work but the reality of his family surroundings will constantly interrupt. This self-deprecating, reflective tone led me to think about how Dunthorne expansively explores the idea of the contemporary poet and artist identity through metanarrative. In Ben Lerner’s The Hatred of Poetry (Fitzcarraldo Editions, 2016), he writes ‘There is embarrassment for the poet – couldn’t you get a real job and put your childish ways behind you?’ In a recent online interview with the poet Will Harris[1], when asked about his own development as a writer, he spoke about how the career trajectory of a poet is a confusing phenomenon and I’ve heard many other poets speak of this too: there are perhaps milestones to pass but they are not rigid or obvious and, of course, they are set apart from the milestones of more ‘adult’, professional pursuits. I think Dunthorne’s short story accurately captures this confusion around artistic, personal and intellectual growth and the navigation of the poetry community, through these minute, telling observations and the rejection of a simplistic narrative linearity. The story doesn’t make any hard or fast judgements: like the character of the baby, the observations just are. Sometimes, it feels like this project could be one of the most important aspects of Adam’s life (it might even make or break it) and we are there with him and at other moments it seems quite irrelevant to the bigger picture, particularly as the bios get more ridiculous. Here, I just have to highlight one of the bios which perfectly evokes this heightened sense of a poet’s importance:

Peter Daniels’ seventh collection The Animatronic Tyrannosaurus of Guadalajara, is forthcoming with Welt Press. He will not let anyone forget that he edited Unpersoned, a prize-winning book of creative transcriptions of immigration interviews obtained by the Freedom of Information Act, even though it was published nearly two decades ago. His poetry has been overlooked for all previous generational anthologies and it is only thanks to the fine-tuned sensibilities of this book’s editor that has he finally become one of the chosen. You would expect him to be grateful.

> Okay…so I said above that there weren’t hard or fast judgements; maybe I should retract that slightly. The text definitely doesn’t feel like a cruel critique of poets generally (its comedy is too clever for that) but, yes, there are a fair few judgements from Adam creeping into those bios. I am so impressed with the way in which Dunthorne is able to expertly navigate Adam’s perspective through all these fragments to create this growing humour, as the character can’t help inserting his own opinions into other poets’ bios. Of course, we are also able to make our own judgements about Adam and his endearing naivety: shout out here to my fave character in the story, Joy Goold (‘exhilaratingly Scottish’) who has submitted the poem, Fake Lake, to the anthology. Hopefully if you’re Scottish, you can appreciate the comedy of this title. Adam Googles her and cannot find any trace of her, which feels perfect…almost too good to be true.

> Dunthorne plays with cliché overtly throughout the text. You could say all the poets in this story are exaggerated clichés but that certainly doesn’t make them boring: it just adds to the knowing intimacy that, yes, feels slightly gossipy (which I can’t help but enjoy). For example, there is the poet who has:

[…] won every major UK poetry prize and long ago dispensed with modesty […] Though he does not need the money he teaches on the Iowa Writers’ Workshop. His latest collection is Internal Flight (Faber/FSG). He divides his time between London and New York because they are both lovely.

I am leaving out a fair bit of this bio because I don’t want to take away some of the joy of simply reading this text in its entirety but it is one of many tongue-in-cheek observations that feels very accurate and over-the-top at the same time (I feel like everyone in the poetry community knows this person). It is also even more knowing when you consider that Dunthorne actually has published a collection with Faber, O Positive (2019), a totally immersive read that also doesn’t shy away from poking fun at its speaker throughout. I always like seeing the ideas that repeatedly crop up in a writer’s work and explorations of calculation and cliché are at the forefront of this collection. I keep thinking of this line from the poem ‘Workshop Dream’:

We stepped onto the beach. The water made the sound: cliché, cliché, cliché.

Interestingly, there is this hypnotising dream-like quality to O Positive - with shape shifting figures, balloonists, owls-in-law – in contrast to the hyper realism I experienced in the Rough Trade pamphlet. However, like All the Poems, in O Positive, we’re always one step inside the writing, one step outside, watching the poem/short story being written. It’s this continual sensation of being very close to failure and embarrassment/cringe. (I can also draw parallels here between Dunthorne’s exploration of this theme and the poet Colin Herd who speaks so brilliantly about the relation between poetry and embarrassment- see our SPAM interview.) Failure is just inevitable in this narrative set up. It makes the turning point of the narrative- when it arrives- all the funnier:

As Adam typed, he hummed the chorus to the Avril Lavigne song–why d’you have to go and make things so complicated?–and smiled to himself because he was keeping things simple. Avril Lavigne. Adam Lorral. Their names were a bit similar. He was looking for a sign and here one was.

> If it isn’t clear already, this is a story that I could continually quote from but to truly appreciate the work, you should read it in its beautiful slim pamphlet format created by Rough Trade Editions. For me, the presentation of this work is as important as the form: this story would have a different effect and tone if it was nestled inside a short story collection. I think a lot of the most exciting creative writing right now is being published by the innovative small indie presses springing up around the UK. Recently I listened to a great podcast by Influx Press, featuring the writer Isabel Waidner: they spoke about both the value of small presses taking risks with writers and the importance of recognising prose as an experimental field, rightly recognising that experimental work often seems to begin with, or be connected to, the poetry community. Waidner’s observation felt like something I had been waiting to hear…and a change that I had noticed in writing being published in the last few years in the UK. I could mention so many examples alongside the work of Rough Trade Books: Waidners’s We are Made of Diamond Stuff (2019), published by Manchester-based Dostoyevsky Wannabe, Eley William’s brilliant Attrib. and Other Stories (Influx Press, 2017), the many exciting hybrid works put out by Prototype Publishing, to name just a few. There is also a growing interest in multimedia work, for example Visual Editions, who publish texts designed to be read on your phone through their series Editions at Play (Joe Dunthorne did a brilliant digital-born collaborative text with Sam Riviere in 2016, The Truth About Cats & Dogs, I would highly recommend!). But this concept of combining the short story with a pamphlet format, created by Rough Trade Books as part of their Rough Trade Editions’ twelve pamphlet series, feels particularly exciting to me and is a reminder of why I love the expansive possibilities of shorter prose pieces. Through its physical format, we are reminded that this is a prose work you can read like a series of poems without losing the narrative tension that is so central to fiction. The expansiveness of the reading possibilities of Dunthorne’s short story also reminds me of Lydia Davis’s short-short stories. Here’s one I love taken from The Collected Stories of Lydia Davis (Penguin Books, 2009):

They take turns using a word they like

“It’s extraordinary,” says one woman. “It is extraordinary,” says the other.

You could read this as a sound bite, an extract from an article, a writing exercise or a short story, the possibilities go on; there is a space created for the reader and consequently it encourages the unravelling of re-reading (which feels like a very poetic mode to me). Like Davis, Dunthorne’s work also highlights how seemingly simple language can be very powerful and take on many subtle faces and tones. I think short forms are so difficult to get right but when you encounter all the elements of language, tone, pacing, style, space, tension brought together effectively (or calculatingly as Dunthorne might say), it can create this immersive, highly intimate back-and-forth play with the reader.

> All The Poems Contained Within Will Mean Everything to Everyone. The title tells us there is a collection of poems here that are hidden: the central work has disappeared leaving behind the shadowy remains of the editor’s frustration and the marginalia of the bios. We feel the presence of the poems despite not actually reading them. The pamphlet’s blurb states that this: ‘is the story of the epiphanies that come with extreme tiredness; that maybe, just maybe the greatest poetry book of all is one that contains no poems.’ The narrative, as well as making fun of itself, also recognises that poetry exists beyond the containment of the poems themselves: it can be found in the readings, the performances, the politics, the drafts, the difficulties, the funding, the collaboration, the collectivity, the bios.

> A friend of mine recently asked me: Where are all the prose parties?…And what might a prose party look like? We were chatting about how a poetry party sounds much cooler (that’s maybe why there’s more of them). I think prose is often aligned with more conventional literary forms, maybe closed off in a way that poetry is seen to be able to liberate, but I think Dunthorne breaks down these preconceptions and binaries around form and modes of reading in All The Poems. I want to be at whatever prose party he’s throwing.

[1] University of Glasgow’s Creative Conversations, Sophie Collins interviewing Will Harris, Monday 4th May 2020 (via Zoom)

~

Text: Kirsty Dunlop Published: 10/7/20

[imyourliquor-youremypoison]

A Girl’s Best Friend (Peter Parker x OC) - Part 7

Synopsis: Diamonds are man’s best friend- or dogs are girls’ best friends, wait… how does the saying go again?

Warnings: Family issues; Peter has a crush and it’s complicated; mention of assault; good dogs; College AU; aged up! characters; TONY STARK IS ALIVE AND WE ALL LIVE IN A HAPPY PLACE CALLED DENIAL

A/N: In this story, Peter has Tom’s dog, Tessa.The dogs in the story play a minor but key role.

Word count: 2.8k

Part 6 <<< >>> Part 8

MASTERLIST

“You know,” Emmeline started, spinning her phone on the table, legs crossed, sitting on her balcony while Spider-Man laid in a web-hammock that dangled from the balcony above hers. “You sound way younger than I thought you were.”

He folded his arms behind his neck and crossed his legs at the ankles.

“I’m not that young…” he argued, although not very convincingly. “I’m an adult, legally. I don’t magically turn into my civilian self on the stroke of midnight.”

  “I know that, you hang out here way past midnight,” she laughed and stopped playing with her phone to better look at him. His gaze was still trained on the skyline, lost in his thoughts. They didn’t always talk much, but it was nice to just chat a little and share comfortable silence. “Still, I thought you were an actual adult, not just legal.”

“What does that even mean?” Spider-Man suddenly sat up, looking at her. “I’m an actual adult.”

“I don’t believe that! I think you’re my age, and I’m not even close to being a real adult,” Emmeline huffed, leaning back and crossing her arms on her chest.

“What’s a real adult, then?”

“Someone who has a job, is financially independent, is well established in life, has their shit together-“ she began to list off and Peter had to cut her off.

“Alright, alright, if that’s your criteria then I suppose I’m not an adult. Does friendly neighborhood Spider-Man not count as a job?” he still asked.

“Not if you’re not paid to do it, my friend.”

“Damn it,” he cursed under his breath. “But still, being an adult isn’t all about exterior things like money and status. It’s a feeling too.”

“Like it just dawns on you the first time you fill a tax form?” Emmeline suggested. “Because I don’t pay taxes, I don’t pay for anything, and that’s exactly my point. I’m not a functioning adult, I’m a kept woman at best,” she laughed bitterly and cracked open her beer. “Or is it when you don’t need to use a fake ID to buy beer anymore?”

As if on cue, Emmeline leaned down to grab a can of beer from the bucket of ice and threw it to him. He caught it without batting an eyelash.

“Good ones, but not what I meant. Like, what made you realize deep down, what changed inside of you?" Peter argued, rolling his eyes under his mask.

“Oh, you mean the newfound crippling anxiety regarding anything that is farther into the future than next week? Yeah, I have that now, fun times!”

“That's funny. You're funny,” Peter said, playing with his beer but not drinking it. He never drank the beers she offered, he suspected she was trying to force him to take his mask off, using politeness as an excuse.

“What about you?”

“For me it was...” He pursed her lips as if thinking really hard about it. “...back pain. Back pain and insomnia. One often deriving from the other.”

She threw her head back and laughed more frankly this time, filling Peter with an odd sense of accomplishment for making her laugh.

  *

                  Peter had been here dozens of times and now he had to pretend really hard to never have been. Granted, he had never stepped in, but Emmeline’s large balcony offered a pretty great view on the inside what with the large window panels she had instead of walls. It wasn’t the safest kind of housing, he had to say. What was it with rich people and windows? They were obsessed with lighting. Then again, he would wager Emmeline did not pick this apartment for herself. He had known her for months now and he found she had rather modest tastes and never judged something by the price tag, so to speak.

                With the notable exception of the leash she bought him the day they really met. He googled it and, boy, it was expensive. But another thing he had noticed was that nothing was too good for her dog – or his, actually. Tessa had gained a doting aunt of sorts the day Emmeline decided to become his friend.

                It was the first time he came in through the front door though, it had to count for something. He wasn’t Spider-Man escorting a girl who had been assaulted – or Spider-Man being an over-zealous superhero who kept checking in on her even though he knew she was safe and sound. He was Peter Parker, and Emmeline Gerard had invited him to her penthouse so they could work together.

                She closed the front door and they took off their shoes and coats. Tessa zoomed in and began to walk around, getting familiar with the place.

“It’s the first time you invite me here, and we’ve known each other for months,” he pointed out, good heartedly. It was a teasing comment, nothing else, and he was taken aback by her serious answer.

“This place hasn’t seen many visitors since I moved in five years ago.”

                Not at all what had had expected to hear. On the contrary, he imagined having such a gigantic place to yourself would prompt anyone to try and fill it with people, with life. It must be quite lonely to be on your own in there.

“I’ve just never been comfortable with having people over.”

Emmeline shrugged, biting the inside of her cheek. She tried to play it off as a casual remark, but Peter was having none of it and decided to push her a little for answers, to see if she would shut him off or not. He was hoping they were past that and she trusted him a little now, especially after they heart to heart moment where they talked about their parents. It had been a one-time thing, but he sensed she was more relaxed around him from then on.

“Why not?” Peter made a 360-degree spin, taking in it all in. That was something he had never thought he would see. Being inside a penthouse wasn’t really new to him since he met Tony in high school, but being in Emmeline’s place was exhilarating.

“It always feels like they are invading my space, always… snooping.”

                Yeah, Peter got that. Especially since he had so many secrets to hide from so many people.

“Your place is fancier than any place I’ve ever been to.”

“Now that’s not true, you’re working with Tony Stark,” she countered, leaning against the back of her couch and crossing her arms over her chest.

                He couldn’t believe the Stark internship excuse was still a thing. It had been seven years since it started, and no one seemed to find it strange.

“Alright, you got me there.” Peter couldn’t deny the truth after all. “I still think your place looks nicer.” His shoulders rose so high his neck disappeared. “It’s cozier. And I work in the lab most of the time when I go to Stark Tower, not in his last floor billionaire penthouse.” Also known as the Avengers compound, that he wasn’t supposed to know about.

“Right, right.” She waved off his comment and looked away. “I still try to keep the visitors to a minimum. It’s just awkward. Like what you’re doing right now!”

“What?” Peter frowned, a sliver of a smile on his lips. “What am I doing?”

                He wasn’t doing anything out of the ordinary as far as he was concerned. He was just standing in front of her, hands in his pockets, looking around a bit – he tried to spot little details that would tell him a bit more about her. Emmeline was such a private person.

“You’re standing there, looking at everything around you like you’re in a museum, probably wondering how much some of it costs, and you don’t even know if you’re allowed to touch anything, hence the hands in the pockets,” she listed everything he did wrong unbeknownst to him.

                Peter immediately took his hands out of his pockets and grabbed a little glass sphere that sat on a wooden base to prevent it from rolling away. He twirled it around in his hand, playing with it and glancing at her with a smug little smirk.

“What’s that little thingy?”

“That’s an original 1920s crystal art piece by French glassmaker Lalique, it’s worth 700,000 dollars,” she recited as though she had been an auctioneer in her past life, watching Peter nearly drop the little glass ball out of sheer shock, only shortly catching the priceless art object before it shattered on her floor, then replaced the thing on its stand with shaking hands.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, blushing like crazy.

                Emmeline laughed and walked past him, sliding a hand on his upper arm to gesture him to follow her.

“I’m just kidding Peter, it’s just blown glass,” she giggled, looking at his decomposed face.

“Not funny!”

“But it proves my point.”

“Which is that your place is too fancy for your working class friends?” Peter asked, just to annoy her after the joke she just made at his expense. It was only fair.

                Emmeline stopped at the kitchen island, placing her hands flat against the marble.

“No, I don’t like having people come here because it makes the gap between us bigger than it needs to be; they judge me based on all of this.” She gestured around them.

“May I advise you to not flail your 1920s French glasswork at them, then?” Peter suggested humorously.

                She didn’t laugh.

“It’s a goddamn snow globe Peter, I wasn’t serious.”

“Got it.” Peter swallowed with some difficulty. Clearly, he had tackled a sensitive topic, he couldn’t back down now though, and apparently joking wasn’t the right approach.

 “When people see this place, they have one of two reactions: there are those who start thinking that we live in different worlds and stop inviting me to stuff because it’s not fancy enough for me to hang out in their two hundred square feet flat and eat Domino’s Pizza. And then, there are those who think they can take advantage of me.”

“Who would do that?”

“A shockingly high number of people, Peter. People are disgusting,” she deadpanned. “Everyone in this city knows I come from money, but it’s not until they see how I live that they take the full measure of what it means. Making friends isn’t the easiest thing in the world.”

                That was when Tessa decided to butt in and strut over to Emmeline, sitting right by her feet and looking up with big, sparkly eyes, as if knowing that she was the one to go to is she wanted something.

“You have Bella at least,” Peter said, thinking of her own dog.

He had never formally met Bella; only Spider-Man had. She was at the vet for a few days because she had stepped on some glass shards and had needed stitches. Maybe that was the reason why he was even allowed here. After all, Bella was trained to not let strangers near Em, and as far as she was concerned, that’s what he was to her protective dog. Bella’s absence was also why he agreed to come. He was dying to see her apartment, but he also didn’t want to give his identity away.

                He wanted to echo her little explanation with his own experience and found he could not. He didn’t come from money, his father wasn’t someone important like hers, but he did have his own issues with making close friends, for different reasons than her. And he felt like a fraud suddenly, sitting here in her kitchen, in her home that she opened for him even though she despises bringing people here, forcing her to talk about things that stung, and yet not reciprocating.

“Yes, what would I do without her?”

                A large, goofy smile replaced the stern expression on her face when she bent over to pet her.

“Are you hungry, Tessa? I know it’s dinner time. C’mon, I’ll fill Bella’s bowl for you.”

                He didn’t add anything and just sat on the bar stool by the kitchen island while Emmeline went to get Tessa’s food and filled her bowls water, and a mix of dry dog food and meat leftovers from the fridge.

“Follow me,” she told him this time instead of touching his arm.

                A flash of electricity coursed through Peter when she had placed her hand on his bicep just a few minutes ago, and he wouldn’t have minded if Emmeline had dragged him all the way to where she wanted to go by the arm this time around.

                Actually, he just really would have liked to hold her hand.

                She stopped outside a closed door and took a deep breath, then turned around to meet his questioning eyes.

“Just so you know, I wasn’t talking about you.”

“Huh?”

“I know you’re not like those people who just want to be friends with me for my family’s money and influence,” she explained. “At least, I hope so.” Her eyes shifted when she said the last part.

“Hey, hey,” Peter whispered, taking the step separating them to place his hands on her shoulders and make her look up. “Em, you could be living in a cardboard box and be a nobody’s daughter and you’d still be the most amazing person I’ve ever met.”

                That was it: the lamest, most ridiculous thing that ever crossed his lips in front of this girl – and God knows he already blurted out some dumb shit in his times of awkwardness.

                She smiled softly, her eyes darting down a little while she placed a hand on Peter’s elbow to make him let go of her. It made her feel warm – whether it was his words or his touch, she couldn’t tell. But she didn’t let herself ponder the thought too long.

“Thank you for saying that. It means a lot.” And it took her a lot of effort not to start crying like a little girl, but she had pretty good control over her emotions. Living in the public eye tended to do that to someone. “You win.”

                Peter’s eyebrows rose and he gave her a confused look, planting his hands on his hips and watching her step back, one hand already reaching out for the door handle.

“I win? I win what?”

                Emmeline was pleased to hear the utter confusion in his voice and not an ounce of greediness.

“The right of entry.”

                When she opened the door, Peter wasn’t surprised to see it was her room, but he was surprised by the room itself. It was nothing like the rest of the apartment that resembled a design magazine front cover and was so white and pristine it blinded him a little.

This bedroom was warm.

                He wolf-whistled.

“Now, that’s more like it,” he said with a laugh, letting his fingers play with a leaf from a ceiling plant.

“More like what?” Emmeline walked over to her bed and hastily draped the duvet over it, smoothing it out. Someone didn’t make her bed this morning, Peter thought, amused by her need to make things look perfect, even though there was no need at all.

“You, obviously.”

                It was still far fancier than anything he owned, but it was toned down. It was presented in a normal, a-twenty-something-lives-here kind of way, and not like a professional interior designer did it all. There was no ikea furniture in his room, but it had this homey feel that he thought this building lacked the first time he followed her here.

“I can’t tell if it’s a good thing, but I’m going with a ‘thank you’,” Emmeline laughed. “Don’t take this in a weird way, but you’re the first person I show my room.”

“Not even-“ Peter stopped before saying something out of line, but Emmeline just stared blankly at him, one very unimpressed eyebrow raised at him.

“C’mon,” she said. “Say it.”

“It’s none of my business,” Peter argued to get himself out of this situation. She was obviously holding back a smile, and he couldn’t help but think she was enjoying watching him fumble a little too much.

“You were going to ask anyway, and you obviously want to know,” she replied, sitting down in her desk chair, legs crossed.

                If she pushed on her leg and rolled the chair a bit backwards to get in the shaded corner of the room, the resemblance with that scene in The Godfather would be uncanny.

                Peter braced himself, seeing no way out of this that didn’t involve backflipping out of her window to escape.

“Not even… your boyfriends?” he eventually asked, feeling supremely embarrassed that he would even be concerned to hear the answer and blushing like nobody’s business.

“No,” she simply answered. “I use the guest bedroom when I have a boy over. This is my room, it’s private.”

“Then why-“

                She sent him a sharp look and Peter swallowed down his question, mimicking to zip his mouth shut.

“Go get your laptop,” she told him, the slightest of smiles adorning her face, matching the mischievous glimmer in her dark eyes. “You wanted to partner up for this tutorial, so let’s get to work.”

                He should feel lucky being here at all and stop questioning why.

.

.

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Reblog to save a writer

Taglist: @justanothercynicalgenzkid @of-virtuoso

[letmeringabell]

Legends Never Die - Chapter 2

Chapter 2 : Fancy Meetin’ Ya

I know, I'm posting really fast. But you've just gotta let the creative juices flow before I experience untimely burn-out that makes it harder to write. On the side-note, I really love Ada Wong's design, I think there's something just so mysterious and pretty about her design. So, imagine Vanessa as Ada.

Why Vanessa? Well, I only liked Vanessa because you could shorten it to Van. I also considered Vesper, and Diana, which I think are suitable names.

Also, can you tell I'm a fan of longing glances and slow burn? Yeah, I eat that shit up. I'm a sucker for fics of these cliches, and I always wanna die. But anyway, do tell me what you think of this chapter, whether I'm going too fast, too slow, whether i'm writing too much or too little. If you have any headcanons or scenarios, tell me now or forever hold your peace. Or do I forever hold my peace? I don't know man.

(3185 words)

AO3 link : https://archiveofourown.org/works/20806688/chapters/49454489

-

The flurry of sand and desert heat hadn’t been too kind on him, but when has Outworld weather been known for Southern hospitality? Nevertheless, he counts his lucky stars that he’s finally back, because the last mission has his bones ragged. The last mission hadn’t been hard, just tiresome; One of Kotal’s ‘trusted’ partner had been selling Imperial secrets behind his back, and who better but Erron Black to chase the bugger down?

Only this partner was highly elusive—Sending him high and low, left and right, and running all around to catch a whiff of the man. He had roamed from city to city, from village to village, and his target manages to sneak away at the last moment each time. The whole cat-and-mouse chase is enough to drive any man insane, but the cowboy isn’t deterred by the challenge so arrogantly posed. In fact, he waits, bides his time on the down-low patiently for any misstep by his target.

Although, a word from the wise is overdue; One must never let their guard down during a chase, especially when the predator had been the masked marauder himself.

Yet all it takes is one afternoon for the man to forget, wondering through busy markets without a care in the world, while Erron patiently stakes out in a room of one of the buildings nearby with his rifle aimed surreptitiously at the man’s head. The reminder had been fatal; All it takes is one shot, and the man falls without a sound.

The chaos that ensues after makes up for the silence in the man’s death. Everyone gathers around the corpse, and screams at the horror of the whole situation. He feels no need to wait around and collect the man’s body; The news of that man’s death will travel around, and that is proof enough that he had been successful in his headhunting. Nature had given everyone something to fall back on, and sooner or later, someone’s gotta fall on it.

And this time, it was that man’s turn to fall.

And it was his time to tap out for the night, had enough of all these games of cat-and-mouse. Gotta rest the old bones before conquering the days ahead.

Imagine his surprise when he got back to the Palace, to see the place filled to the brim with Special Forces units. He sees the Kahn having a conversation with the Commander, and saunters towards them, ignoring the hushed whispers on the sidelines.

“Hola, Miss Cassie Cage.”

“Erron, how awful it is to see you.”

“I assure you Darlin’, the feelings mutual,” He shoots back, “What brings you over to our humble abode?”

It is Kotal that cuts through their ‘cordial’ banter, “I have invited Special Forces here to help strengthen our ties with Earthrealm. Kitana and Jade will take care of their day-to-day needs, you will overlook their sparring sessions.”

Erron glares at the Kahn, but he lets it slide – The Kahn always compensates for his time generously. It is what keeps him loyal, and motivates him to undertake all sorts of janky missions for the sovereign. There is never a dull time serving Kotal, and he appreciates the unpredictability in his missions. It keeps him preoccupied, and least of all, keeps him entertained.

He excuses himself and leaves the Kahn and Commander to their affairs. Besides, he has an errand to attend to; A drop-off of rare medicinal herbs for the doctors at the Infirmary. All of them had requested for this specific breed of Spider Lilly, said it was good for re-energizing the tired soul. He could care less about the methods used in re-creating that effect, what mattered was the results.

He doesn’t bother with knocking when he enters the Infirmary. They know it’s him by the sound of his footsteps and they scramble to surround him like moths to a flame. He hands over the flower, and they thank him profusely. Appreciation and gratitude are good for the soul, but when a man’s tired, nothing sounded more tempting than a sip of whiskey and a comfortable bed to sleep on.

He looks up and catches sight of a woman leaning against the doorway of the unused office. Short raven hair, equally dark eyes, and she stands hardly the height of Sonya nor Cassie Cage (at least, from this distance), but looks strong enough to easily throw a man over her shoulder should he look at her the wrong way – Fitting, for a person working in the Special Forces.

It doesn’t hurt that she’s easy on the eyes as well. So, he tips his hat off to her, Howdy unspoken in his greeting towards her. He knows she can’t miss it, because he catches her in the act of sizing him up as well. Yet, she seemed confused, and a little curious? Nevertheless, she seemed to return the gesture with a small nod of her own before closing the door to retreat into the room.

“Who is she?”

She is one of the Doctors from Special Forces, one of them had replied. She had been part of the Special Forces Delegation, and assigned to the medical unit in the Palace infirmary. She came to learn and bring back Outworlds treatments and cures back to Earthrealm. A question pops into his head-- Aren’t Earthrealm’s medical practice vastly different from Outworld? In Outworld, doctors use high-level magicks to heal wounds of all variety—Burns, grazes, you name it. Given the supernatural nature of Outworlds modern medicine, he highly doubts she can learn anything from these doctors who uses spells instead of science.

 (Then again, the only thing he knows of medicinal remedies is when his own Pa spat whiskey into his wounds, and damn, the pain had been one sonuvabitch to swallow)

-

“The Valerian root helps patients deal with their anxiety, a form of sedative, one might say. But taken in large and uncontrolled amounts, only backfires and induces insomnia.”

“What about this?”

“The Goldenseal root is used as an antiseptic. Again, if consumed in large amounts, is highly poisonous and will only further irritate the eye and skin.”

“And this?”

“The Echinacea leaf is commonly used to prevent flus or colds, but long-term use could disturb the body’s immune system.”

“Basically, too much of anything is a bad thing.”

-

Making medicine with the herbs and plants found in Outworld is challenging. The art of making medicine in Outworld, she finds, is similar to chemistry – If she places too little of one herb, the supposed effects don’t flourish and are made redundant because it is overpowered by the potency of other herbs. Yet, if carelessness had been her approach, she could easily induce unknown side-effects, or worse, actually kill a person. Thus, the delicate balance of underwhelming and catastrophic are outcomes she monitors like a hawk.

She enjoys this side of her work nonetheless. It allows her to better understand the more traditional aspects of her work, and expand on more creative options should modern medicine fail in being readily available.

However, the paperwork, and regular inventory checks are cumbersome all the same. Her rationale is that sometimes, you’ve just got to sit through the unsavory parts of the job so that you can reap its benefits. That doesn’t mean she can’t silently complain about how uneventful some days, or how stagnant her progress in learning can be. It’s become a point of contention, and it’s only been 2 weeks since her first day in Outworld. Her hands are itching for something new to work on.

Bored eyes cast sweeping glances over the city, and of course, she catches a glimpse of the cowboy himself. Ah, today is the training session between Outworld and Special Forces’ Soldiers. He is relaxed; There is a slight slouch in his posture, and he didn’t seem too interested in the body-tossing action happening right before him. She can tell, that he is still hypervigilant – His arms are at his side, and are steadily poised beside the holsters on his pants. All it takes is one motion to swipe his pistol up, and BANG!

And as much as she hates to admit it, her thoughts do float around the masked man she had met, no, seen. She hadn’t talked to him, nor has she passed him by in the past 2 weeks. She had asked her colleagues about the man, and the responses she had gotten were strangely varied – ‘He’s the Kahn’s main headhunter’, ‘A man who knows how to drink any man under the table’, and ‘Save a horse, ride a cowboy’. The last phrase had been told, but felt unneeded. Any person’s business under the sheets, is nothing she wants to know about. Least of all, his business.

But you are curious, a small voice whispers in the back of her mind, He is the leading man shrouded in mystery and danger.

She reprimanded herself; There are other things to be curious about.

-

The whole day has been a bore, and its starting to make his hands itch and fret restlessly. Apparently, today’s training session had been requested by Miss Cage, what better way there is to strengthen the bonds of friendship than participating in friendly kombat? He could just shut one eye, and believe her desire for camaraderie between soldiers of two realms, but he can see through her bullshit as clear as day, and it makes him raise a wary brow at the Commander.

The logic behind her unspoken reason had been sound – It is best to fight as many types of kombatants as you can, provided that one chooses their opponents well. Any Tom, Dick and Harry can get the theory down easy. But if you don’t have the practice, the real hand-to-hand experience, one can only expect to have their asses handed to them over and over again. Face-to-face Kombat allows fighters to exercise their real-time reactions, gives them the chance to better their reflexes and recognize the precise moment to either move forward and attack, or retract and defend.

So, today is a masterclass in Outworld Kombat for the Special Forces. However, the session is but a double-edged sword. Just as the Special Forces had come to learn and observe, the army had come prepared to do the same.

His eyes search for any telltale of black within the sea of browns and blondes, and is only greeted by her absence in return. He wants to make her acquaintance, and knows that she is a doctor for the Special Forces. That doesn’t give him the right to be waltzing into her office without any sort of official business. It would only invite talks of rumors and gossip to fly around, and he would be doing them both a favor by abstaining from such behavior.

So, what’s a man to do to earn his trip to the doctor’s office without seeming like such an ass?

He looks at Miss Cage, unless, the stirrings of a brilliant idea come to mind.

-

“Yo, Clint Eastwood! You too chicken to step into the Kumite zone with me?”

“Put your money where that mouth is, darlin’.”

-

So maybe he had been a little harsh, but Cassie had no qualms with dishing out her own brand of revenge – One rapid, well-timed kick to the core followed by a solid punch to his face. A just reward for insulting a beloved father. Outworld Soldiers are surprised by his lack of vigor in the fight, but none of Special Forces are surprised that Cassie is fierce in defending her family’s honor.

His face might hurt, and his pride a little wounded, but the fight had yielded results. He is sent to the Infirmary to await doctor’s treatment.

He waits because she is out for the moment, so he takes the chance to look around the room. There is nothing out of the ordinary; There is a couch placed near the door to welcome guests (or, patients), the books are shelved back-to-back against each other, and labelled for trouble-free browsing. He finds that most of the books are medical in nature, save for a select few in herbology and astronomy. A doctor must have her hobbies, he digresses. Everything on the desk is neatly arranged with each item assigned their designated corners; stationeries in one corner and a stack of papers in the other.

He picks up the top most paper on the pile, and lets his eyes roam over the elegant handwriting. He thinks she could easily be an artist because the sketches of various flowers and herbs are so lifelike, they mimic the figure of their real-life counterpart. There are arrows pointing to formulas and possible side-effects everywhere, and although her workspace maybe organized, her notes are just a jumbled mess.

But he admires her tenacity in the research because her notes are an impressive study in Outworld’s green.

Clack!

He turns around, and speak of the devil; She is there in the flesh, and a lot taller than he remembers.

“I’m sorry for the wait. My name is Vanessa, and I will be attending to you this evening.”

She ushers him to the seat beside her table, and begins her task; She listens to his heartbeat, flashes a light into his eyes, and asks him the routine, “Where do you feel pain?” and “Does your family have a history of serious diseases?”. He answers honestly and concisely – It’s just my face, and, I reckon not. She faithfully jots down whatever he says down into a piece of paper, and reaches for something in one of the drawers.

“First off,” She starts, and he sees a medical kit being placed on the table, “I can save you the trouble and stitch your wound now, but you’re also free to leave if you don’t want my medical attention, because in my understanding, Outworld has different and better ways to treat you. So, what will it be?”

Straight to business. “Have on, Miss Vanessa.”

She moves silently and deftly—She is quick at work to prepare all of the equipment, and arranges them in immaculate order on the tray in front of her. She disinfects the problem area, before filling the syringe with a clear liquid from one of the labeled bottles, and once he nods her assent, injects the anesthesia to help numb the pain during the stitching process.

Her gloved hands move nimbly, suture in one hand and the needle holder in the other, the constant loop of entry and exit is executed with practiced ease. Her hands don’t tremble, nor do they hesitate in fear of misstep. She is sure and confident with each push-and-pull, and it assures him that she is not without skill.

He takes the time now, to take a proper and closer look at her. Her short hair accentuates the high cheekbones and angular sharpness of her facial features and her eyes are a darkened grey; a reminder of misty mornings, and ominous fog. Her skin is glass-like, clear, no visible scar or blemish in sight. He spots the light dusting of freckles on tanned skin, no doubt, a result from the sun and heat of Outworld. She is what a cat would look like in flesh and blood, a thought he keeps safely to himself.

He will admit, she is a pretty little thing. Even so, the minute slouch in her posture, the mistiness and redness in her eyes, and the prominent dark circles under them is very telling. Underneath all that loveliness, is a woman exhausted. Whether it is the research or the field work that has her running on low fuel, he reckons that she could do with a few more hours of sleep.

She starts talking, her voice a soothing cadence to distract from the obvious monotone in the environment, “How did you get these wounds?”

“A souvenir from the past assignment, a man had gotten close enough to graze me with his knife, but not smart enough to actually kill me.”

“And why does your face hurt?”

“That’s a souvenir from your Commander,” He catches the question in her eyes, and the amused tilt of her lips, “That clown and his ten-gallon mouth deserved all the insults.”

“You really are a glutton for punishment,” She chuckles, sealing the stitch shut.

She gives him the standard doctor’s order – Rest and no sudden movements, or else he would risk exposing himself to an infection due to his torn stitches. He’s heard it all, from day one until day now, but he is thankful that she keeps it short and sweet.

“Do you sleep well, Mr. Black?” She interrupts him leaving, pulls out a bottle for him to see. “You can take it, it’s free.”

“Well, look who we have here, a doctor playing crafty salesman on a hot Sunday afternoon. Nothing in this world comes for free, so what’s the catch?”

She raises her arms in mock defeat, her expression is full of mirth, and a playful smile reaches her eyes, “Okay, it’s not FDA approved yet, but I know for a fact that it works. Cassie uses it, Jacqui uses it, and a few hundred others can also attest to its success.”

He raises a curious brow at her, a sign for her to continue her sales pitch. No matter how much she tries to hide it, he can tell that she is proud of her creation, because her voice is full of it, “It helps eases tenseness, and makes sleep easier, but unlike other soporific drugs, it doesn’t bring about excessive drowsiness, so you’re still able to react appropriately to any possible threats.”

Soporific, what a five-dollar word.

But he has something else in mind, because he leans in and places both arms rigidly on the arms of her chair, effectively trapping and confining her in the tight space between his arms. He leans towards her, and stops when the gap between them is nose-to-nose. He admits that he is shameless and forward in his flirting, but he wants to see how she would respond-- would she retreat further into her seat, or would she lean forward, would she bridge the gap between them?

So, she responds, neither further nor retreating. She stays still in her position; Her hands are firmly placed in her lap, while her grey eyes are staring straight back at him, her gaze sharpening into that of gentle steel.

“Hey Van, I was wondering if you had- Oh.”

Both of them immediately turn their heads towards Jacqui, the deer in headlights. Jacqui is full of apologies, because she is standing there, stumbling over her words, and says sorry over and over again for disturbing whatever doctor-patient examination they were having, and speeds out of the room faster than the pace she came in. Jacqui’s interruption breaks whatever tension, anticipation and apprehension swimming in the room, and it calms and cools the heat between them.

The Cowboy finally stands straight, his smirk hidden behind his mask and makes his way for the door.

“I’ll see you around, Miss Vanessa.”

[valasania-the-pale]

The Last Rose - Chapter Four

Here’s chapter four for all of you. Please enjoy and reblog! 

“I told you guys I’m fine, I don’t need this kind of pampering!”

“But Blaaaaake~ I made chicken noodle soup just for you!”

“Ish reawy goo’ Bwake!”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full, Ruby. It’s uncivilized.”

“Guys…”

“I added tuuuuna to the recipe~”

…

The sick faunus sighed.

“…In no way does this mean I’m okay with this.”

The heiress of the group didn’t look up from her homework. “Just accept those two are going to smother you already, Blake. They did with me when I caught the flu.” She sniffed. “You’re just lucky team JNPR hasn’t heard about it yet or you’d have Ren trying to slip that slime of his into your food and Pyrrha playing the amazon nursemaid.”

“…Right.”

…

I’ve had to learn… through long, painful experience, that there are times that you’ll be down and need a helping hand to pick you back up. Some of us have a hard time recognizing the hand when we see it. Or accepting it when extended.

Blake would twist sympathy into pity and kindness into contempt and mockery, never once suspecting that it was normal for people to want to simply care for and protect her. It took time – a long time – before she learned to think better of our concern.

The love we all shared was stronger, in the end, for the struggle we put up to help her recognize the truth. It was worth every tear, every argument, every hug and laugh.

*Sigh…* Silly girl. Was there ever a doubt we’d be there for you?

X_0_X

Dark shapes warred throughout her mind as Ruby shifted into consciousness. Hunched over with contorted limbs, or crawling with misshapen gaits on four or more legs, they glared at her with burning eyes. Accusing, so full of hatred, of loathing…

Her brow scrunched. She felt so hot…

X_0_X

“—but you’re getting better every day. Sun’s out fetching groceries right now… He’s been a great caretaker for you, did you know that?”

Long, clever fingers carded through Ruby’s hair. She could feel dampness on her scalp, a tiny trickle sneaking its way below her collar. It was cool against her skin, but she was so hot all over that it was nice…

There was a whimsical note to the voice now. “Your hair is so lovely... I’m a little jealous of it, actually. So long and thick. Lustrous, but none of that messiness I remember Yang complaining about back at Beacon.”

Ruby shied, eyebrows tightening. She remembered… golden tresses and affection… warmth, running a comb through that glorious mane… braiding, styling, being a good sister and helping with the grooming she had trouble with on her own…

The hands paused, in the midst of working out a knot. “Oh! Are you awake? Ruby?”

But she was gone, retreating…

X_0_X

“Miss Rose!”

So loud…

“Look, man. I know you need more information for the assignment, but Ruby needs to rest.”

“We’re leaving in three days’ time, Wukong, we don’t have time to wait.”

What…?

“Sir, please, you have the footage to look at while she’s resting – we told you we’d let you know the next time she wakes up!”

Velvet? What… what was going on?

The voices continued to argue in hushed voices, but Ruby was terribly confused. What did they want from her? She was so tired… she didn’t feel as overbearingly hot as before; now she felt like her every muscle was made of jam.

“…!”

She couldn’t muster the energy to crack open her eyelids, but she felt the attention shift to her.

“Ruby?”

She groaned weakly, curling her fingers at her side… Oh. Only on the one hand… the other was numb…

A different voice interjected, gruffer, deeper, and more sympathetic. “We’ll come back tomorrow.”

“W-wha—, er. Right. Thanks.”

“Save it, Wukong. We—” The second voice interrupted again. “Riot, just leave it. We’ll be back tomorrow, lad. She needs to be awake by then.” Then they were gone, taking their loudness with them.

Much better…

A quiet presence puttered around close by. It felt familiar, even if she couldn’t quite remember who it was... It was enough for her, however, and she quickly sank back into slumber.

X_0_X

Ruby woke slowly, eyes flickering open blearily in the morning light streaming through a nearby window. Everything ached, from the pounding beat quickly forming in her temples to the slow burn of… something… in her legs. Like tiny needles prickling under her skin…

Oh Dust, that light…

Some of her normal strength had finally returned, enough that Ruby was able to shift the covers slowly aside. Similarly slowly, she eased her body around, breathing deeply through her nose as pain pulsed through her body.

Just to the window. Just close the blinds. Then you can lay back down and sleep.

She managed to stand up, but that immediately proved a mistake. Her temples gave a particularly vicious throb and her strength deserted her. Her knees buckled, and worst of all she managed to clip her arm on the bedside on her way down.

“Agh!”

Sweet fucking Dust that hurt! Her vision wavered, the entire room rising and falling as though she were caught out on the ocean… in a typhoon…!

“Ruby?!”

Something in the other room crashed with the sound of breaking pottery, pounding footsteps following.

“Oh shit, Ruby! What are you doing out of bed?!”

Strong, rough hands touched her, feather-light and hesitant to aggravate her injuries further. Ruby curled around her arm tighter, willing the pain away. “G-g-good m-morning, Sun,” she gasped.

And then she passed out.

The next time she awoke Ruby was much more lucid. Her arm still throbbed beneath its plaster cast (and when had that gotten there?), but for once the pain was manageable. A low roar compared to the roaring cacophony of before.

Her legs, on the other hand, while not overly painful, felt strangely numb and… slick? There was something wrapped around them – shifting them around, it certainly felt like a bandage, if not any bandage she’d ever had before – but beneath was some sort of paste. A poultice?

And of course, her head still hurt, but she wasn’t thinking through molasses like before.

“You awake again, Ruby?”

Silver eyes flickered open. Sun was there, lounging in a chair pulled up from the kitchen at her bedside. A sprawled, open book lay forgotten on the floor beside him. She met his eyes, ignoring the weariness etched into his posture, and smiled. “Hey Sun,” she greeted, her voice slightly hoarse.

“Hey.”

She stared at him for a long moment. He stared back. Something in his eyes looked further than she was accustomed to with Sun, much further than skin deep. Part of her wanted to withdraw from those piercing eyes, retreat back into the security of unconsciousness, but…

But she owed it to her friend to talk to him. Ruby knew Sun. He would have suffered once he got word of her botched mission. She could look deeper too, and his darkened eyes were far too guarded.

So.

“You were the one who heard me earlier?”

“Yeah.”

He sounded incredibly tired, and not very happy. Ruby’s heart sank through her chest, realizing something. How long had he…?

“You haven’t been sleeping,” she observed quietly.

“No.”

“I’m sorry.”

Sun blinked. Ruby’s eyes dropped. She hadn’t expected her voice to sound so… timid. Nor for the sudden heat behind her eyes, welling up. He had suffered… his insomnia – his anxiety was probably – certainly flaring… sleeplessness was the symptom, after all, not the disease…

He’d suffered for his worry for her. Her voice choked. “I… Sun, I’m so sorry…”

Warm arms wrapped around her and Ruby buried her face in his shoulder, everything coming out at once in a torrent.

The mission. Her long flight and the preparations she’d made. The Deathstalkers. The smoke. Eventually finding the village in flames. The Colossus and her ill-fated battle against it. The cavalry arriving. Their deaths and her flight… all of it crashed down upon her, each memory leading to another in an unstoppable chain of events.

Sun was an attentive listener, gently asking questions to encourage her when it became too much and the words died in her throat. She could feel the headache forming in her temples again, the residual damage from the Beowolf teaming up with her emotions to overwhelm her, but she ruthlessly shoved her discomfort aside.

“I was so scared, Sun,” she whispered hoarsely, sniffling. “Everyone was dead and I just… I had to protect Kohroku but that meant I needed to run, and I hate running! My semblance makes it so easy, but I can’t take anyone with me without exhausting myself and… and…”

Sun rubbed her back as she hiccupped, finally running out of words. “I was scared too,” he murmured into her hair. “You’re my closest friend, Ruby. Sometimes even closer than Sage and Scarlet… Ever since Neptune died you’ve always been there when I needed someone who gets it and I was so scared you weren’t going to make it back.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, voice rough with emotion.

“I couldn’t sleep when you left,” Sun admitted. “I couldn’t shake this bad feeling… I was sure something would go wrong this time… And when the Guild’s messenger came over to give us the news, I lost it. Worked myself into a frenzy and then crashed so hard Scarlet and Sage had to drug me before I hurt myself…”

Ruby carefully pulled him closer with her good arm. “You hate that stuff though.”

Sun scoffed. “I didn’t give them much choice. I couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t. Not even a wink once you were gone, and I was already a zombie by the time you left…” he stopped suddenly, a weary look in his eyes. “I slept like the dead after that. Three days without waking up. Thirstier than I’ve ever been when I did, and still tired… but you were there.”

“I’m here, Sun.”

“Yeah.” His arms tightened. “You are.”

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything?”

Ruby and Sun jumped, pulling apart to look at the visitor. Ruby smiled to see Velvet, a stylish purse hanging off her shoulder (no doubt Coco’s pick) and an armload of groceries in hand. “Hey Velvet.”

“Hey Ruby, glad to see you awake and aware,” Velvet smiled, letting the groceries drop and bustling over to give her own hug. Ruby returned it as forcefully as she could manage with one arm in a cast, memories of Velvet’s fierce concern coming to the forefront of her mind.

She wiped her eyes as they separated, feeling better for the outburst of emotions. The two of them gave her the time to compose herself. “So, are you two my nursemaids now?” Ruby teased – weakly, admittedly – when she was ready.

“Doctor’s orders,” Sun grinned, looking in better spirits himself. “You’ve been out like a light, more or less, for nearly a week. You don’t remember waking up at all?”

Ruby hummed. Aside from earlier that day? “To be honest, not really. Before today, at least.”

Velvet left the room to put the groceries away as she let Sun catch her up on everything she’d missed. Apparently, she’d woken up a few times lucid enough to eat and drink what they gave her and speak a little while, but she’d usually be back asleep within a few minutes.

“It was the only thing keeping the doctor from hooking you up to an IV,” Sun told her seriously.

Then he gave her the rest of the doctor’s assessment.

Apparently, she’d managed to crush both of the important bones and severely damage the soft tissues of her forearm. While several aura transfers and the assistance of one helpful surgeon’s semblance to empower her own healing factor (she’d have to refer him to Jaune sometime…) had ensured she wouldn’t lose use of the arm entirely, it would be weeks before she’d be out of the cast and two months at least before she regained full use of it.

Her concussion had receded with little issue – she’d have to take several tests for it later, though with her aura it was unlikely to have left any lasting damage – but her legs were another story.

“You’re off your feet for a month,” Velvet said once she rejoined them, her voice soft with sympathy.

The Colossus’ toxins had killed most of the skin on her lower legs and was in the middle of eating into the fatty tissue and muscle by the time the doctors neutralized it. Fox, apparently, once he’d finished binding her arm, had been instrumental in delaying the onset until she’d been safe in Mistral. Her aura and careful surveillance would prevent her from losing use of her legs for any longer, but she needed to give her damaged flesh time to repair itself.

The suddenly stern eyes on her as they explained how staunchly they’d be in keeping an eye on her from now on were more than enough to impress seriousness of her injuries. Disappointed, and not a little sick to realize just how badly her body fared after the fiasco, Ruby could only meekly nod to the terms.

“I’m not going to be going on any assignments any time soon, am I?” Ruby said morosely, staring down at her hands. It wasn’t really a question.

“Sorry Rubes,” Sun patted her on the shoulder sympathetically.

Her shoulders slumped. Suddenly, she just wanted to go back to sleep.

“It’s not all that bad, Ruby,” Velvet said, obviously trying her best to cheer Ruby up. “You’ve got us here to keep an eye on you while you recover! Coco, Fox and Yatsuhashi are happy to stay in Mistral, so I won’t be going anywhere.”

Ruby’s smile was weak but genuine as Sun joined in, happy to be finished with the business of laying out Ruby’s various misfortunes and moving on to the healing process. Soon enough though she could feel herself sinking deeper into her sheets, heavy weights on her eyelids as she listened to the two huntsmen banter with each other.

“We’ll wake you up later, Ruby,” Velvet promised, chocolate brown eyes still filled with relief to see her awake and okay. “There are a few people who need to talk to you, but that can wait. Just get some rest.”

Ruby couldn’t find anything wrong with that. Happier, and feeling content under the supervision of her two caretakers, she easily felt herself drifting off to sleep once more.

X_0_X

It was several weeks before Ruby was able to get her cast off. They were some of the longest of her entire life, as she was forced to spend the vast majority of her time confined to her bed.

Between Sun and Velvet, she had all the care she could ever need while she recovered from her injuries. It was thanks to them that she was healing as well as she was, however slow the process.

They were one of the few bright spots Ruby had during those torturously long days.

Before, she’d been weak as a kitten and would spend most of her time asleep. That wasn’t so bad, since she was hardly awake to feel the lingering pain of her hurts in the times where her painkillers would begin to wear off.

Better, she wouldn’t have to spend hours staring at her ceiling in a vain attempt to find anything interesting hidden in the rafters. Reading got old after the fourth day. Television interested her not at all.

Nowadays she could more or less make the transition from bed to wheelchair (Sun or Velvet still kept an eye on her though, just in case), and her aura wasn’t quite as strained trying to repair her body, so there was some little bit of freedom to enjoy there.

But it was still incredibly frustrating.

No walking on her own, doctor’s orders. Fine. It wasn’t like her legs could support her anyways.

No picking up anything with her bad arm either. Well, it was in a cast, wasn’t it? It could use the rest.

Could she prepare her own food? Of course not! She could barely get out of bed without passing out, to say nothing about walking unaided. At least she got breakfast in bed every morning. And lunch. And dinner!

She couldn’t even relieve herself independently, still needed help with that! And wasn’t that just humiliating! Velvet was the very soul of compassion, but sweet fucking Dust Ruby wanted to scream every time that painful, embarrassing request came up. The constraints of her recovery were just… so…!

She tried to find silver linings, if not for her own sanity than for Sun and Velvet’s sakes. They were so patient with her – and Ruby appreciated it! – but she just could not stand having to sit still for so long.

Soon, they’d remind her, counting down the days until she would get her cast removed, and Ruby would subside for a little while. It was some freedom, even if she resented her inability to move around under her own power.

Soon enough she would have her legs checked out, and if the skin regenerated without any complications (“and there’s not reason to think there will be any at this point!”) she’d have those unwrapped as well.

Soon. Soon. Soon meaning another month, at least! That wasn’t soon!

Then! Then would come the arduous weeks of retraining her atrophied limbs to carry her. Another few months right down the drain.

And then… What then?

Dark shapes, BONE white against void black, BLOODY crimson streaking through their shadowy forms. They were COMING for her. They were endless. Turn from one, face another. Exploding from the ground. Busting through the rafters. The walls were NOTHING to their strength – what they did not break they slipped around, seeped through like some demonic plague.

She RAN.

Crimson irises amidst an aura of GOLD – a spear erupting from her gut. Pinning her. This wasn’t what she wanted! They stared into her SOUL, accusing. Her body jerked with each arrow piercing her flesh, the ICY blue manacles wrapping around her wrists further imprisoning her.

She could only whimper: “I’m sorry… Sorry… Sorry…”

Her dreams – her nightmares – were more vivid than ever before.

More than once she’d snapped awake, heart pounding freakishly fast and skin pale and clammy, and she’d be transported back to that moment. The roof above her head was a cage in that way. The architecture was of exactly the same make as Horikiri’s, so for a few split seconds between sleep and consciousness she would convince herself that it was a different roof over her head, that she could turn and see the rubble around her, wait and hear the CRASH of the Colossus into the cliffside…

Sun was often right there to calm her down and help her through the intermittent panic attacks that would often seize her. When he wasn’t, Velvet was there and quickly learned how best to talk Ruby down.

The rabbit faunus was very philosophical about the matter: “You had a very traumatic experience, Ruby,” she’d say to her in hushed tones, stroking her hair. “It’s not just your body that needs to recover. You just need to give it time.”

Ruby would listen to the words in silence, burying her face deeper into her friend’s warmth, and try to ignore the nagging doubt in the back of her mind. Would she ever recover? Truly?

There was still no word from the three teams who’d claimed the assignment to kill the Colossus, either. She had nightmares about that too.

On that first day the nine huntsmen had squeezed themselves into her room in the late evening, their sodden coats weighing down the rack next to her door. Winter was in full swing, and a blizzard had overtaken the city, blanketing it in thick snow. At her request her painkillers had been delayed so that she could answer their questions perfectly lucid, without any errors or mistakes – and without falling back asleep.

Three teams, each individual looking just rugged and professional enough to get the job done. Ruby had recognized a few of them by name – and judging by the tiny smiles or respectful nods, she was remembered too – and the rest by sight. On the whole they’d not forgone their weapons, letting her get a good look at the arsenal being brought to bear against the Ancient.

She’d counted three swords of varying sizes, a battleax fit to cleave an Ursa in two, two Dust mages with belts of powdered Dust at the ready and smaller daggers to fall back on, a pike, a mechanized chainsaw, and a hulking flamethrower painted an eye-watering fluorescent orange.

The eyesore’s wielder was barely five feet tall but incredibly bulky, and it was he who’d taken over leadership of the small coalition. She’d remembered from a few late nights spent in the local pub that his name was Sully, and that he was a terrible singer.

Ruby had stared at the huntsman and his weapon from the moment he thundered into her room, steel-toed combat boots and heavy armor clattering and shined to a bright finish. “What’re you lookin’ at there?” he’d demanded in a good-natured growl through a huge, bushy beard. “Do I look like some sneaky little ninja to you? Stealth’s for pansies – I don’t bother with it.”

And Ruby had laughed – painfully – taking an instant liking to the man as he plopped himself into a chair and waited for the others, eyes narrow and trained on her the entire time.

They’d talked late into the night, Ruby retelling her story no less than three times to the huntsmen. Each time they had new, increasingly pointed questions, and Ruby was quickly able to deduce a rough idea of what plans they were concocting. Then she would offer counter-ideas – suggestions, tactics, theories, and they in turn would grill her for more information.

Sun disappeared from the room an hour into the conversation, soon returning cold and bedraggled with three steaming boxes of pizza for them all to share. Velvet joined in, bustling around with pitchers of water and plastic cups.

It had been… fun, in a way. Engaging. While the huntsmen were never shy in correcting her when she over or underestimated their abilities, there was a respect for her own opinion that she appreciated. She was young, but she was also talented and cunning in a way she seldom got to express outside of pub-time recountings.

Here were people who respected the Reaper and all that moniker had come to mean among Mistral’s huntsmen circles.

It had to come to an end at some point, though. The last of the huntsmen filed out of the door just a few minutes after midnight, leaving Ruby well and truly exhausted. Her caretakers fussed over her like mother hens once they learned that her legs had begun to itch and throb sometime a few hours before – apparently Ruby was far more of a natural stoic than she’d thought.

She’d quickly fallen asleep and didn’t wake up until mid-afternoon on the next day.

The teams departed on their mission the day after that, which had been twenty-six days ago.

There was still no word from them, nor from the neighboring villages where they were supposed to check in either after completing the mark or in the event of their failure. The Mistral Council was taking no chances with the Ancient and had built up a heavy, temporary military presence in each of the outlying settlements near its haunt.

Were they still alive? Missions of this scale, with Grimm of this caliber, often ran long and involved more than one plan of attack. If a frontal assault failed, it was common to fall back on ambush tactics, and any number of increasingly elaborate follow-up strategies. The question haunted Ruby, though. What if they failed? What if she hadn’t been able to give them enough information? What if she missed something?

After waking from yet another nightmare, this one featuring a gruff, heavily bearded face blackened in a pained rictus, Velvet tried to soothe her. “What-ifs aren’t going to help anything Ruby,” the faunus whispered into her sleep-tousled hair. “You’ve just gotta have a little faith. You gave them everything they needed, let them do their part.”

“But what if—”

Velvet shushed her. “No more what-ifs.”

“But—”

“Ruby.”

And that was that, or it should have been. Her anxiety was not so easily dismissed and lingered as the minutes passed and her pulse quieted.

“…I feel like I let them down,” Ruby whispered, voicing the darkest thoughts her nightmares dredged up from her mind.

“You didn’t.” Velvet’s voice was steel. “You were strong and brave, and you gave them everything they needed and more.”

“…You really think that?” Ruby wished her voice wasn’t so pitifully small.

“I do.” And those warm, strong arms squeezed her tighter, and Ruby drew on that strength to banish her fears to the back of her mind. If Velvet believed it, then she could too – at least until the nightmares returned to resurrect those fears once more.

Before she went back to sleep, Velvet spoke to her from the doorway. “Do you need anything else from me?”

Ruby smiled at her, the special, shy one she reserved for her closest friends when she really wanted to get her sincerity across. “Just what you and Sun are doing already.”

“Of course.”

X_0_X

‘…An’s doing great – she’s going to graduate from Signal Academy soon enough. There’s just a few final examinations she needs to pass before they clear her. As always, she’s having trouble with her weapon forms since there are so few references – those notes by Qrow you forwarded were a great help to her by the way – but she’s consistently up to the standards required to graduate, and hopefully to get into Beacon as soon as the Spring term begins.

Anyways, we’re looking forward to hearing from you again Ruby. We’re thankful every day that you’re alright after your ordeal – I hope you know that should you ever need us we’d be happy to make the journey over to see you. The same goes for Jaune, if he hasn’t said it already in his letters.

Anyways, please don’t be a stranger! We’d love to hear back from you soon enough. An’s been clamoring to hear from her godmother, and we’re sure she would love to brag (yet again) about ‘how much ass she’s been kicking’ since last you wrote. And of course, we hope that you have a speedy recovery.

With love,

-Lie & Nora Valkyrie’

Ruby set the letter down in her lap with a soft smile on her face. While Ren’s formal touch was all over the letter, she could feel Nora’s bubbly personality shining through the ramblings and small bits and pieces of stories just waiting to be told.

It was the second letter she’d received from the couple. The first had arrived while she was still too weak to pick up a pen and write a response, and too prone to exhaustion to properly dictate to Sun and Velvet. Without the CCT in Vale, communications between the continents was still restricted to what could be delivered through the postal service, which was still slow and cumbersome despite having a decade to modernize itself.

It would only be a few more months before communications would be restored at least – the tower was nearing completion after six years of slow, laborious effort.

She’d already sent her reply a week ago, so the two had apparently crossed each other mid-flight. Jaune’s letter – so hastily written it had taken her ten minutes to fully decipher the chicken-scratch – followed their first by only a few days.

He was such a mother-hen normally that Ruby was surprised it was the only one he’d sent.

‘I guess teaching keeps him too busy to fuss’ she thought with some amusement. They’d all come a long way over the years…

Ruby leaned back in her wheelchair with a sigh. Not far enough to overbalance herself – lesson learned there, her arm complained for days after that – but enough to let her soak in the sun’s rays more fully.

It was a quiet winter’s day. After the initial blizzards passed, Mistral had been treated to just the perfect blend of sun and cold for the season. Blue skies overhead, a thick carpet of snow on each and every bush, tree, and rooftop in the city. Out here, relaxing on one of the city’s many terraces, Ruby could briefly forget the village in flames, or instead picture it quenched and cozily restored.

Sun napped behind her on a bench, snuggling into his heavy woolen jacket. For someone born to the sands and heat of Vacuo, he’d taken to Mistral’s winters like a native. Perhaps it was the lack of wind chill that day. Or the simple glory of icy-blues and whites on the grey stone of the mountains and terracotta tones of the city’s tiled rooftops. Ruby found each appealing in its own right.

Idly, she flexed her fingers, working the atrophied muscles with practiced determination. Build back that strength, and she’d be past the first hurdle of her recovery. That’s what the therapist had told her when she’d begun their work together.

Then Ruby perked up, hearing footsteps approaching with purpose. She recognized the gait to be Velvet’s – just fast enough to match her bouncy well of energy, measured enough to belay her status as a huntress and a warrior. Sun shook himself blearily from his nap, catching the same sound.

“Ruby! Sun!” Velvet shouted joyfully, noticing their attention.

“What’s up Velvet?” Ruby asked, slightly taken aback by the emotion. The rabbit faunus skidded to a halt beside her, not even winded after jogging three blocks and the flight of stairs leading up from Ruby’s home on the level below.

Velvet’s eyes danced with excitement. “They’re back!”

They? Oh!

“You mean…?” Ruby trailed off, needing to be sure but hesitant to be proven wrong.

“Yes! A little worse for wear – they’ve got a few broken bones, some cuts, a lot of bruises, and I think one of them had their weapon destroyed,” Velvet rattled off, eyebrows scrunching as she ran through the list. “But they’re all alive!”

“Oh,” Ruby blinked. Suddenly, it felt like she was floating. She grabbed the armrests on her wheelchair, needing something solid to anchor her. A wide smile crept onto her face unbidden. “That’s… oh, that’s good.”

“It’s great!” Sun laughed, leaping to his feet and dancing a happy-silly jig.

Ruby felt weight lifting from her shoulders. They were alright! The mission went okay! “The Colossus?”

“Dead,” Velvet’s smile turned somewhat vicious, but Ruby could forgive that. Part of her reveled in knowing that the beast from her nightmares was now banished to whatever hell the Grimm went to when they died. The rest… relief.

“I think we should celebrate!” Sun suggested brightly.

“A party?” Velvet perked at the idea.

“Some good food, music, invite the huntsmen of the hour – burn off all those bad vibes for good and let them know how we feel, you know?”

The two huntsmen looked at Ruby as one. They were getting to be eerily similar to one another in that way. “What do you think, Ruby?”

What did she think? She was floating! The Colossus was dead! Dead! And the teams were alive! She could only stare at them both, still largely poleaxed by the news for a few seconds, before she shook herself out of it. Celebrate? She smiled.

“That sounds like a great idea!”

X_0_X

Needless to say, the huntsmen were thrilled by the offer to celebrate their victory. Still riding high from the residual adrenaline of the final confrontation, many of them immediately pitched in to help gather together the local community and get the festivities moving.

Sun and Velvet hadn’t expected this, so the party was quickly moved to the pub where the barkeep was happy to accommodate them and to finally visit with Ruby after weeks of no contact (she hadn’t realized he cared so much – that had been a moment of holding back sudden tears).

It was a night of revelry, to say the least. Sully was quick to draw Ruby into a massive hug – leaving her gasping and looking to his team to rescue her from the prison of muscle, sweat, and the aromatic scent of lighter fluid.

They wryly toasted her misfortune and left her to their leader.

Later, and five tankards of beer deep into his cups, she managed to wheedle the full story of the Ancient’s fall from him, as the other huntsmen were all away chatting with friends elsewhere in the pub.

“The beastie was a bitch tah put down, and fought harder’n any Grimm I’ve ever encountered,” the huntsman boasted loudly for everyone to hear, his voice slurred from too much drink. “But it was nothing to Ol’ Bessie!”

“Bessie?” Ruby asked, hiding a smile.

“Bessie! She’s my…” Sully paused, before turning indignant. “Bessie? Bessie? Ya don’ know who Bessie is, girlie?!” He tapped the fluorescent monstrosity at his feet – like most huntsmen he’d refused to go without it even for a celebration. “She’s only the foremost in Vacuoan military technology, the most powerful heavy ordinance flamethrower available on the market!”

“Why Bessie, though?”

“W-w-pfft!” he spluttered for a moment, then muttered in a much quieter, more subdued voice, “It’s me mother’s name – but don’t you go tellin’ her that, you hear!”

Ruby smirked, turning to the weapon and curtsying as gracefully as she could, trapped in her wheelchair as she was. “Charmed.”

That seemed to mollify Sully. “Anyways, our first couple of frontal assaults didn’t do much more than knock some o’ the rust off o’ the beastie’s armor – good job on breaking that plate, by the way, can’t imagine how much force you put behind that spear to splinter it like you did – so we switched tactics and started going after them vines it had buried everywhere.”

Ruby nodded. Their prior meeting had revealed that most of their group was predominately landlocked, preferring durability, resilience, and sheer force to agility and speed. They had means of moving around when necessary – no huntsman survived long without some amount of mobility – but it was seldom a first response. Removing the Colossus’ means of controlling the battlefield would have been the smartest choice when force proved to not be enough.

“Took us a few weeks to manage that. Had to learn how to bait ‘em out without drawing too many Grimm. Turns out dropping a few explosives into the ground and letting ‘em detonate is enough to piss the big bugger off.”

Unsubtle but workable. Ruby nodded along.

“After that it was just cornering the bastard in the ruins and dropping explosives on it till it ran out of juice,” Sully took a massive draft of beer, emptying his mug. “Colossi draw their strength from the earth,” he muttered, suddenly quiet. “So, once it was cut off from its network, it couldn’t regenerate nearly as fast. Could have killed it quick-like up close, but we’d already had enough o’ that. And a good thing we did too – maybe it didn’t regenerate as fast, but it still nearly put a few of us in the ground when the explosives ran out and we went to finish it off.”

Her smile waned as he lingered in that moment, the mood in their tiny pocket of space dying. Ruby didn’t know what to say - she knew that weary look in his eyes. The memory of pain – or pain near-missed – carefully hidden below the surface was one she saw in the mirror each morning.

Nevertheless, it rankled her fiercely. Someone with such an open spirit didn’t deserve being left to their thoughts. Ruby wouldn’t let it last if she could help it.

“Hey,” she tried kindly, grasping his shoulder and giving it a shake. “You did it, you got out alright. Bessie wouldn’t want you moping, would she?”

Her broke out of his funk instantly, blinking at her like a stupefied owl, before grinning. “No kiddin’ she wouldn’t!” Sully roared, back to his old self so fast Ruby felt a touch of whiplash. Guffaws poured from him as he immediately engaged her in a dizzying flurry of banter and ribbing.

And that was the end of that. Ruby tried to keep up with the huntsman’s keen wit (somehow sharper for all the drinks he imbibed) but her thoughts lingered against her will on the darkness she’d seen in him.

Soon enough though, he picked up on her mood and, with a disarmingly sympathetic smile, stood up and loudly stomped across the room to challenge another patron to a drinking contest. Ruby was left to quietly watch the festivities with a glass of ice water (doctor’s orders, no alcohol) and her thoughts.

The other patrons left her to her quietude, the Reaper blending into the background as just one more in the crowd.

So much laughter – so much good cheer. Sully drank his opponents under the table despite the already considerable dent he’d put into the bar’s stock. An oily-haired Atlesian huntress tittered and sang tipsy renditions of Vacuoan shanties, face pink and eyes glittering like gemstones. Another huntsman tried to join in, throwing a beefy arm around the singer’s shoulder, but she deftly hooked a heel behind his ankle and sent him tumbling to the floor.

The laughter shook the rafters, the flowing taps already fast at work to paint the world a blur. There were no hard feelings, just lighthearted mockery at the victim’s expense. The sheepish reveler accepted his lumps with grace, however, and received a sloppy kiss on the cheek for his troubles.

Why?

‘Heh. Alcohol’s the best cure for bad vibes, kid.’

Her own smile turned brittle.

When conversation and tall tales turned inevitably to the two huntsmen who hadn’t escaped the village, Ruby feigned exhaustion and discreetly caught Velvet’s attention, asking to be taken home.

Sometime in the early hours of dawn, she still lay awake thinking about the other huntsmen. What qualities did they have that let them… let go like that? Was it the company? The occasion?

…The drink?

…

No. Happiness was not in the bottom of a bottle, she was certain of that much.

Ruby disliked the part of her that was envious of those people and their debauchery. They could disconnect, shelve the memories and move on.

Ruby marveled that Sully – a huntsman pushing forty and obviously experienced enough to have seen more than his share – could so easily brush off his demons with only the lightest of encouragement. Even before the debacle that was her last assignment, coming so close to so much wanton destruction left painful scars on her psyche; ones she still struggled to live with. And more, she knew that his story omitted plenty, despite his healthy boasting to the contrary.

Sully talked a big game of his teams’ strength and his prowess with ‘Bessie,’ but there had been more than one frontal assault to begin with, each a failure. He’d spoken of learning the Colossus’ tricks and how to bait its vines to the surface, but nothing of how many times that must have failed, of the slow, creeping poison that they delivered, nor the primal terror of the earth erupting in a shower of flying dirt, wood, and stone.

And if they’d engaged the Colossus at any point, they would have seen the village and the horrific flames – probably long quenched by now. The broken settlement. The rictus faces. Clarent embedded deep within the Colossus’ chest.

Had they found Bai? Reed? Some in the group had been their friends. She’d heard pieces of stories earlier that night, before she left; the toasts to two good huntsmen cut down before their time. Had they found their weapons, brought them back? Or had they left them their to rot with the murdered village?

The thought of all those people lying there without so much as a grave or someone to give them their last rites lingered on her mind. They deserved so much more than to be forgotten and left to the elements, like so much refuse…

It was all she thought about that night, her good mood fully evaporated by dawn.

X_0_X

The change overnight did not go unnoticed by her caretakers. Ruby couldn’t even muster a smile for them that morning, shadows dimming her bloodshot eyes. As she stared into the mirror that morning, a steaming cup of coffee beside her courtesy of Velvet, Ruby barely recognized her reflection. Someone older and more careworn than she was familiar with looked back.

Long, spiky raven locks spilled over her shoulders. At the tips they gradated softly to crimson, some quirk of her mother’s genetics manifesting itself in yet one more strange way. She’d never really loved her hair, keeping it short for the majority of her life until she’d moved to Mistral. Here though, it had been easy to put off the frequent trims she used to get, and slowly, it inched its way down her spine.

It was in her way now, ruffled and messy from tossing and turning all night long. She rummaged through the vanity for one of her hair ties and pulled the tangled mass all back, tying it into a simple ponytail. It looked more controlled that way, less liable to distract or get in her eyes.

The face uncovered was sharper than it once was. Partially the result of a lean lifestyle, spent mostly out in the wilds where rations and what little she could forage made up her diet. Her assignments came with few perks past the occasional meal furnished by the outlying villages, and without the constant influx of sweets she’d lost the last of her residual baby fat. No makeup, of course. Nothing that would run or smear or itch if she didn’t clean it up properly.

It was a mature face. Not quite lined with age, nor speckled with sun spots, though a few pale, silvery scars from the Beowolf’s claws did trace diagonally from her temple to her cheekbone. It should have been the face of a woman in her prime, but the eyes told their own story. Through them, she stared into the soul of one tired and weighed down by her experiences.

A frame of steel supporting a fragile mask; a delicate flower hiding its wilt. She was withered.

“Who are you?” Ruby whispered, seeing in this woman the same qualities she’d seen strangle her father over the years. She was someone Ruby would normally stop and share a kind word with; pick her up, give her a hug and help her on her way. ‘How can I help myself, though?’

“Ruby?”

She didn’t turn. Instead, she waited, and a wearied man joined the woman in the reflection, his haggard features and ever-so-slightly-hunched shoulders distracting from the deep blue pools of compassion directed at her.

Who was this man, who looked so defeated? Ruby leaned into the calloused hand on her shoulder, feeling lost.

‘Who are we?’

The mirror, of course, did not answer.

“I’m worried about you.”

“I’m worried about me too, Sun.”

“No, like…” Sun sighed. A flash of anguish passed over the reflection’s face. “Ruby, seeing you like this… you’re not you.”

“What if this is me, and I’ve just been pretending all this time?”

He scowled, a real seed of worry taking root in his expression. “The Ruby Rose I know isn’t one to stay down for long. She’s strong. Determined. Brave. She would never let anything stand in her way… or let an injury like this beat her.”

‘Like the heroes in the stories!’

‘Ruby… I think you have what it takes to be a good leader.’

‘You know what they say: like mother, like daughter!’

Ruby pulled away from his hand. Restless energy flared up within her… and feeling reckless she grabbed the vanity and pulled herself to her feet with a small grunt of effort. Her legs trembled beneath her, complaining just like she’d been warned they would.

The mirror was forgotten behind her. She couldn’t stand to look at that woman any longer. “Yeah,” she said. “Well, Ruby Rose is tired and scared, Sun, and she has no idea what she’s doing.”

She took a shaky step forward, but her balance quickly deserted her, and Sun grabbed her elbow to support her, mindful of the still-healing break.

Another step followed her stumble, then another, and soon she was crossing her room, every iota of her attention on just moving forward, away from the mirror and its reflection. The pain was meaningless, she convinced herself. Just one more obstacle. The leaden tendrils extending up her legs were just distractions.

She flung open the window once she finally reached the sill, letting the freezing air and light wash over her. Goosebumps rose immediately along her skin, but they were just one more thing to ignore.

Ruby breathed.

In... Out.

And the tension in her sickly frame slowly drained away. This was her reflection. This was what she would let in. Not that woman she’d seen looking back at her through haunted eyes. Not the woman pinched by trauma and fear. That woman was a specter, not even dying but very much deceased.

“Are you okay?”

Ruby closed her eyes. Warmth from the sun tickling her skin, tricking her body into thinking the cold was an illusion, instead of the other way around. Bracing, yet comforting at once.

Below her she could hear the bustling signs of a vibrant city in the throes of winter. Footsteps, voices raised in greeting and conversation. Smells muted by the snow drifted by, carried by the breeze. Wood smoke. Pine sap. Baking cookies set out to cool. The faintest whiff of incense.

Was this what Horikiri had been like? Just another Animan town, waking with the sun, hustling through the day’s chores? Ruby could see a ball leaping high above one of the many tiled rooftops nearby – children playing some game only they could devise.

It was all so idyllic. “I don’t know Sun,” she admitted. “I really don’t know anything anymore. Who I am, what I’m doing, any of it.”

More breathing. Her lungs pinched with the cold. Ruby simply let it wake her up.

“I don’t believe that.”

Sun looped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. Ruby leaned into the warmth. “You’re still the same person you’ve always been Ruby,” he continued. “Life’s dealt you a bad hand, sure. But you’re still here trying to pick yourself back up. You might not know how to do it yet, but you know how to try.”

“‘Trying’ is what makes me Ruby Rose?”

“You’re always trying to make the world a better place. Even with the small things others forget about. That’s what makes you Ruby Rose.”

She craned her neck to look him in the eyes but could find no lie. Only open, earnest sincerity and the fervent hope that she would understand.

Her heart swelled, and she squeezed his fingers, hoping that was enough to make him understand what she could not convey through mere words. Still… “I might be trying, but I don’t know how to pull myself out of this, Sun.”

“We’re here for you while you figure it out. You could do it on your own, but you don’t need to with us here.”

But how long would that take? How could she ask them to stay with her for so long? Would they even?

…Yes, they would.

“You really mean that?”

Damnit, she wasn’t a child, so why was her voice so fragile all of a sudden?

“Cross my heart, Rubes,” Sun smiled at her even as she ducked her head to hide the wetness gathering in her stinging eyes. “We won’t leave you alone in the dark.”

It was just the sun and cold air, she’d been staring at the ceiling all night. She wasn’t going to break down again.

A strong gust sent flurries of snow streaking through the air, rustling the rogue locks of her hair she’d missed pulling back with the rest. With it came a wave of relaxation and lightness. Not like she’d felt yesterday, but something she felt she might be able to hold onto this time.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

“’Course! Now can you tell me what’s been bothering you since last night?” Sun grinned unapologetically.

Ruby sighed. “Am I that obvious?”

“No,” his lips quirked, taking on a rueful cast. “But I’ve got a lot of practice reading you. Whatever managed to kill your mood... it’s important, and I want to help. Share the load, lighten the burden, and all that jazz.”

The scent of jasmine was on the air, drifting down from the temple, high up on one of the city’s upper levels. Ruby sighed. “…I was thinking about the village. All those people… do you think they were buried? Got their last rites?”

Sun blinked, and then his smile turned sad. He shook his head wonderingly. “Only you, Ruby… Now I feel like an asshole for not thinking of that myself.”

“Hey,” Ruby gave him a squeeze. “Don’t be like that.”

He stared out over the rooftops. “It’s fine… just… yeah. You’re right, they probably didn’t. Maybe. I can ask around if you want. See if anyone knew them.”

Incense…

“Do you think you could take me up to the temple?” she asked. “I think your idea is good too, but…” But maybe she could find strength somewhere she’d never thought to look before. If nothing else, it might ease the looming tide of guilt slowly strangling her.

It was a direction.

Sun understood. “I’ll grab Velvet. Once you get dressed, we can head out as soon as you’d like.”

X_0_X

The city of Mistral’s temple to the God of Light was simple, but elegant.

A monk clad in simple grey robes cheerfully wheeled her past several fountains into the main courtyard where it was customary to offer worship. The roughly circular area was open to the sky, the sanctuary taking advantage of a natural crevice in the mountain. The grey rocky walls had been carefully widened and smoothed over with incredible patience, pillars added in for strength and stability and lanterns substituting for the sun where its light could not reach down.

In the summer, running water would stream through carefully planned channels in the rock into pools carved from the mountain itself, though right now they ran dry. Situated seemingly at random around the sanctuary were tablets inscribed with the elaborate characters of Mistral’s old tongue, protected from the elements in their own miniature shrines.

What wasn’t naturally cut from the rock itself was either constructed from simple wood, paper, and terracotta tiling, and there were plenty of areas for plant life and greenery to take root. Among other specimens, several ancient beech trees were lovingly sculpted into the architecture of the shrine, their intricate root systems weaving through the stone, substitute for any, more elaborate decorations.

More channels were cut into the stone floor to collect rainwater and divert it further down the mountain where it could be collected into one of the city’s many cisterns. They were simple affairs, pragmatic and efficient. With winter in full swing, a light dusting of snow had managed to find its way inside. It was already being swept away by a few acolytes.

The clear water of the main pool was perfectly clean, kept from freezing by the braziers burning every few dozen feet. Several trays of incense were lit all around it. They lent the shrine a hazy, soothing air, and Ruby felt a little of the tension she felt as a stranger to this place slip away.

There was a simplicity here she could appreciate, she realized, as she knelt on the prayer mat the monk provided her. All uncomplicated tones of grey and brown, accented by the splashes of color nature provided… A serenity, inherent to this sacred spot. For a moment Ruby let it fill her, breathing slow and deep.

She lingered amidst the peace of this place, but the moment soon passed, and Ruby slowly opened her eyes. Her offering – a bundle of meadow sage, perhaps not as fresh as it ought to be, but all she could find at the market this time of year – lay before her, as well as her own tray for burning incense.

Her legs twinged beneath her, but it was a distant sound to what it had been earlier. They were healing quickly – she would soon be able to start rebuilding the muscle she’d lost.

She wasn’t quite sure what she ought to do. The head monk had already assured her that they would conduct the proper funerary rites for the deceased of the village, but that left her with little for herself to work with. What could she say to a god she didn’t believe in, of a faith she’d never known?

Ruby wasn’t religious, and never had been. Taiyang was at best distant from his heritage, and Ruby had been too young to take in whatever teachings her mother had seen fit to give her as a child.

Awkwardly, she lit the end of one the incense stick and licked her lips. “Ah, hello,” she said unsurely.

Naught but the gentle swish of a broom on stone responded.

“Right,” Ruby muttered. “Um. I guess you already know who I am if you’re really out there, but it’s proper to introduce myself, right?”

Silence.

She cringed. “My name is Ruby Rose. Daughter of Taiyang Xiao Long and Summer Rose… I’m a huntress. I make a living trying to help people and protect the world from the Grimm.”

That felt better. Talk about what you’re familiar with.

“That’s what I’m good at, killing Grimm. Aside from that I don’t feel like it’s a long list…” before she might have included ‘helping people,’ but she wasn’t quite comfortable with claiming that at the moment.

“I’m not much of a believer myself,” she admitted. Hopefully that wouldn’t count against her prayer too much. “It never seemed important to me. I still don’t see much point in praying for things to happen when I can try and do them myself.” That was the truth. “But maybe, despite that, you’ll listen to a stranger asking for help.”

Her offering rose lazily from the tray, wandering lines of pungent smoke joining the scenery. Unplanned, random, yet strangely at one with its environment. Ruby wrung her hands, trying to keep her eyes locked on one spot.

She didn’t feel at one with anything.

“A lot of people died at Horikiri. You’d probably know, ‘cause, well. Yeah…” Ruby cringed again. “I fought with two of them. Bai Long and Reed Bryce.” Stocky and the Knight. For a short while, her saviors and comrades. “They were believers. I asked a few of their friends about it. Apparently, they came here pretty often.”

Would they be here now? Ruby wasn’t familiar with their concept of the afterlife, and what it meant for peoples’ souls once they were gone. For all she knew there was a special realm for departed souls. Or they were reborn into someone else. Or they could be wandering alone across the face of Remnant…

Well that was a depressing thought. She hoped it was something more pleasant than that.

“I don’t know what I should say to have you grant them your blessing, but please guide and protect them, wherever they are,” Ruby said. “They deserved so much more than what they got… them, and all the people in that village…”

All those innocent people…

Ruby had no more words to give, then, so her prayer ended as awkwardly as it began.

She was back to feeling like a stranger; a trespasser on sacred ground pretending to know what she was doing here.

“Ah… thanks for hearing me out,” she finished, feeling like a fool.

She looked up at the monk from earlier, the older woman leaning against the wall in calm repose.

She read the plea written in Ruby’s expression and walked over. Her disquiet was loud enough to disrupt some of the tranquility of the shrine. “I see you are finished,” she observed, eyeing her uncomfortable posture.

“I think so.”

The monk frowned. “Do you not feel at peace, huntress?”

Ruby opened her mouth, but a rush of emotion filled her – a torrent of boiling water rising beneath her skin – and she couldn’t speak around the sudden lump in her throat. Nor could she meet the monk’s eyes.

What would she see within them? Pity, as she so little desired? Disdain, as she felt she deserved?

Bloody CRIMSON pools boring into her, the molten BURN of hot steel in her gut as lancing, gleaming arrowheads sank one-by-one into her flesh. HATE. That was their message. For what she’d DONE. For what she FAILED to do.

What… was she doing?

The rush of discomfort sent her pulse into a pounding staccato.

She was a trespasser in this place, unworthy to intercede on behalf of those people… This was all wrong. The gods were silent – was it just a sign of her unworthiness, or more? How could anyone feel comfort after praying here? How could she?

What was she even doing?

Something must have translated in her expression, for the monk quickly sensed Ruby’s distress, and lowered herself to kneel beside her, comfortable despite resting directly on the cold stone.

“Your body speaks for you,” she said crisply, calmly. “Your emotions are writ on your face as clearly as if you’d shouted them from the terrace. What troubles you?”

Ruby kept her eyes lowered, wrestling with the conflict within her. The voice she replied with was strangled. “I don’t know what I’m doing here.”

“You came to pray for your friends, did you not? Though they are no longer with us, I am sure that they would be grateful for your concern.”

“Yes, but…” Everything she wanted to say seemed inadequate. It was another mark on the long list of things eating at her.

“I don’t know!” she whispered, pressing her face into her hands. She shuddered as her heartrate climbed further. Oh Dust… not now…

“Hm.” The monk watched her for a long moment, before a wistful smile crossed her lined face. “Well then; Ruby, was it?”

“…Yes?”

“Would you care to humor an old woman for a little while?”

Her heart pounded in her chest, painful, but not beyond recall. Yet. “Sure.”

The woman’s expression did not change, but she resettled herself, crossing her legs into a lotus position and indicating Ruby do the same. Ruby mirrored her; eyes screwed shut with everything focused inward. This was a distraction – the kind monk was trying to distract her from her turmoil, but it wasn’t working.

“I’d like you to breathe with me a while,” the woman said.

Her chest was tight, but Ruby complied.

Thump.

The monk breathed deeply; long, relaxed drafts of breath that filled the lungs. Ruby matched her, careful not to inhale too much of the incense smoke (it would be humiliating to choke on it).

“Now,” the monk intoned softly, her eyes drifting shut. “I understand that you are merely here to pray on behalf of your friends, so I will spare you the spiritual component of this exercise. My faith teaches us to revere balance, and it is very obvious that you’ve lost yours.”

Thump.

In… Out… In… Out…

“Allow yourself to feel,” the monk said, her voice at one with the environment. Distinct from the silence, but not intrusive. Very different from the throb of Ruby’s pulse growing in her ears, drowning out all else with increasing intensity. “Do not discard your emotions. Do not seek battle with them. They are a part of you and will make themselves heard in their own way before they are content.”

Thump.

In… Out… In… Out…

Ruby’s emotions roiled within her like a hostile sea. She felt a small sense of security – she was intimately familiar with this kind of exercise, after all, which counted for something – but it was small in the face of the looming wave of pain and doubt hanging over her.

This wasn’t a panic attack. She was calming down. Breathe. This wasn’t a panic attack.

Thump.

“Picture yourself as a blossom riding on the face of the water. Where the waters rise, you shall follow. Where they fall you shall sink.” The monk’s voice overlaid her internal conflict. “No matter how the waters roil, you shall float along, until at last they lose their fury and become calm once more.”

The monk paused, then her voice whipped out, sharp as a lash. “Breathe, huntress.”

Thump.

In… Out… I-iin….

CRIMSON eyes boring into her so ANGRY you promised the Colossus loomed above her like a vast brooding mountain crushing her an avalanche of FURY rolling over her rocks blunt and sharp digging into her skin breaking her body bones pulverized and why couldn’t you do more you think that’s enough you RAN—

Ruby’s breath hitched, her lungs burning.

She turned and saw the VILLAGE in flames licking the walls of the ravine hundreds of souls lost their faces stared at her burning EYES faces contorted why they lay there strewn about casually but their eyes why the Colossus laughed at her an avalanche of sound and dark amusement why its eyes bored into her mocking her this is what you FAILED to stop why she could see into its SOUL the same hatred she saw in all Grimm but they were there too why they were crowding her so many faces so many eyes all CRIMSON SHE COULDN’T BREATHE!

A stern voice and two strong hands shaking her shattered the vision: “Ruby! Breathe!”

Ruby sucked in a huge lungful of air and her world tilted, everything coming back to her in a flood of too many sensations. Her lungs burned, her heart hammered away in her chest like a hummingbird’s, her head swam as her brain finally reclaimed vital oxygen.

She’d crumpled in on herself at some point, her ribs and stomach and all the abused muscles still labored by the process of healing screaming at her. Only the monk’s strong hands on her shoulders kept her from pitching forward into the cold stone.

Those were secondary concerns.

Ruby gasped and choked on each new inhalation. Through vision tinged grey Ruby, saw a phantom version of the temple, drained of its colors, sights and smells muddled, as though through a fish-eyed lens.

Without warning, she was sucked back down into the maelstrom.

Their faces scowled at her, accusing. Stocky build, Mistrallan features sharpened in anger.

“‘Make sure our sacrifice was not in vain, Ruby Rose!’” Bai snarled, his chest a pulped mess of flesh and blood and bone. “Where were you?!”

Ruby gasped, eyes welded shut.

“I gave them what they needed to avenge you!” she shouted, tears running down her face in the vision and in reality.

In…! Out… In…! Out… She was a blossom on the water…

“Too late,” Reed growled thunderously.

In…! Out…! In…! Out…! No matter how the waters roiled…

“Coward,” they spoke in eerie unison, eyes a bloody crimson ripped straight from her nightmares. “You RAN. You left us behind. You broke your word.”

In…! Out… In… Out…! She would float along…

“I did my best,” Ruby whispered.

In… Out… In… Out… She could feel cool hands rubbing her temples, a soothing voice above her, a strong presence unwavering.

“Not enough.” The huntsmen echoed, voices suddenly sad. “Never enough.”

In…! Out… In… Out…

The bowman’s blue eyes watched her mournfully, as did his partner and the multitude of presences that appeared around her. Why? Why us? Why now? Why? Ruby let her tears flow unabated, her heart ripping open anew as the victims of the tragedy crowded around her. Each a face, a life, a chance. Their bodies ripped and torn and defiled in their own ways, yet undiminished in their worth.

“I’m sorry,” she cried thickly, giving in to the torrent of emotions consuming her. “I wish I could do more…”

In… Out…

Her heart did not slow. The pain was still there, bright and searing. But instead of burning her to ash Ruby began to melt with it. A wall within her chest dissolved with her tears, and, tired of hurting so much, she curled into an even tighter ball and let them flow.

The visions passed, as did the memories of the burning village and its people. Ruby allowed herself to mourn their passing and bathe in the furious sorrow-shock-anger-horror-frustration… Everything was a thick, ugly mess within her, twisted into matted knots, nothing she was prepared to deal with – nothing anyone was prepared to deal with…!

Why? Why? What was the point of it all, of such senseless tragedy?

The monk – Ruby would need to ask her name after this – was a calming presence while she sniffed and hiccoughed through the last dregs of her attack.

Ruby wished that Velvet or Sun were there; they knew best how to calm her. But the kind woman was gentle, and that was enough. Her cool fingers carded through Ruby’s hair like Velvet’s, and her strong presence was like a lighthouse guiding her to harbor, similar to Sun’s.

Eventually she asked a few gently probing questions, and Ruby found herself pouring her heart out, working through the nightmares in the back of her mind one by one.

“I feel responsible for what happened,” she said with a watery voice. “I know I did my best, but if I had just been a little faster, maybe I could have done more. If I were more skilled, stronger, cleverer… maybe Bai and Reed would have survived.”

Her voice became ragged. “It was my plan that failed, even if it was Bai’s choice to buy me time to escape.”

“He would have been proud to know you survived, and that you continue to carry his legacy through your every action,” the monk said calmly.

“Maybe.” Ruby wasn’t so sure. “And… I’m afraid to go back.”

The monk’s frown turned her face into a knot of wrinkles. “You hardly need to return to that place.”

“No,” Ruby shook her head, her heart squeezing in her chest in an echo of its earlier fit. “Out there. Hunting. Being a huntress again… How can I go back to that? I was terrified… I scared my friends half to death. I broke my body. I almost died!”

Dust, what would have happened to Sun had she been any slower against the Colossus, or the Beowolves, or if CFVY had been even a minute later than they’d been? Or her other friends, so far away in Vale? Her death would hurt them all more than Ruby was even remotely comfortable contemplating.

It wasn’t even a matter of a simple, single mission gone wrong. That was expected, and had even happened before.

But she’d seen her reflection in the mirror. Injuries and experiences the likes of which she’d endured were terrible things, but they were not responsible for all of she’d seen on that person’s face.

That woman… Ruby didn’t like her reflection. The person looking back at her from dimmed silver eyes was a specter she’d spent years denying she was becoming, and she wasn’t comfortable with staying that way.

It was…

Everything she’d spent years building and maintaining seemed to be crashing down around her and she couldn’t hold it all in place. The life she’d built in Mistral was hers, and she’d spent so long cultivating it – herself, her friends, contacts, her reputation – how could it all turn to ash in such a short time?

The monk squeezed Ruby’s shoulder sympathetically. “I can’t claim to understand your experiences,” she said, introspectively. She sounded unsure. “But I do believe that we determine our own paths… If you believe your place is no longer to be found as a huntress, then perhaps you could look elsewhere?”

Elsewhere?

“But what else could I do?” Ruby’s voice was laced with more than a little despair. “I’ve dedicated my whole life to being a huntress. It’s what I chose to do… I don’t know anything else.”

“Life is full of choices,” The monk countered. “If you aren’t content with the ones you’ve made, choose something else. Failing that, try to transform the choices you’ve already made into something you can be content with.”

“I don’t know…”

And she didn’t. What could she possibly do with herself if not continue to hunt Grimm?

Certainly, there were other professions – the likes of which filled by people like Kohroku and other public servants – but she didn’t have the training, or the experience, and weren’t her skills best served out in the field? The world needed huntsmen. As many as possible, especially now. Lives depended on them. How many more people would die because she was too afraid to return?

The monk gave her a little shake, pulling her from her thoughts.

“Ruby, from what I can see you have endured many trials that continue to test your character…” she closed her eyes, seeming to struggle with herself for a moment. “It is obvious you carry a great deal of pain, some of it painfully new, the rest old and poorly healed. If you would allow it, may I offer you some advice?”

“Please?”

“I believe you should seek healing,” the monk said bluntly. “Hopefully after today you will find the beginnings of closure for your most recent ordeal, but you shouldn’t stop there.”

She smiled painfully, and Ruby saw the shadow of loss pass over her face as she drew on long-faded memories. A family member? A child, perhaps?

“You are obviously someone who values the welfare of others over your own.” Pain, again, twisted the old woman’s face. “Admirable, but you must take care of yourself as well, lest your altruism burn you from the inside out. Find new ways to help people that don’t require you destroy yourself in the process… you do others a great disservice otherwise.”

“I… I guess.” Ruby didn’t know how to take that, so she stared at the icy blue ring of sky visible through the top of the sanctuary. At the clouds passing by, and the stonework. Anywhere but the eyes of the monk, which burned through her. “I wouldn’t know where to even start though…”

“Try teaching,” the monk offered, and the suddenness of the direction made Ruby look at her once more. There was a wry smile on her face.

“Or parenting,” the monk continued. “Or some other job that puts you near young people. They have the most dramatic growing to do, and I’ve found it easier to grow myself when I’m surrounded by others doing the same. It’s what I tell my younger monks to do when they start feeling stagnant.”

Ruby bit her lip, a frown etching her face.

Teaching… Could she see herself doing that?

…It bore thinking about.

The monk seemed satisfied as Ruby pulled herself upright, patting her on the shoulder as she wiped away the last of the salt tracks on her cheeks with the back of her sleeve. Her legs ached fiercely – she would have to deal with her physician’s stern glares and reprimands for her actions today – but overall, Ruby felt strangely refreshed by her outburst. Stuffy, tired, and embarrassed to have cried like a child in public but refreshed.

The monk had one last thing to say to Ruby as she helped her into her wheelchair. The old woman seemed settled, almost peaceful now, as if the shadow of whatever memories had plagued her had lifted.

Her calm grey eyes crinkled at the edges, at one with her smile.

“You will find your way if you seek it in earnest, Ruby. Look to your friends and loved ones to guide and comfort you. And remember that balance, like peace, is seldom easily won, nor easily kept.”

X_0_X

The monk’s – Padma’s, she’d learned – advice stuck with Ruby the entire way home. Sun and Velvet immediately picked up on the signs of her panic attack, and Ruby was soon treated to the combined force of their overzealous fussing.

Needless to say, she was delivered directly to her home and sent straight to bed. What few protests she put up were swiftly silenced by a stern glare from Sun and the full, guilt-inducing watery-eyes-quivery-lip routine from Velvet. Ruby endured their concern with patience she probably wouldn’t have possessed only the day before, but her heart wasn’t really in putting up a fight for her personal autonomy at the moment anyways.

Teaching. Her? With her painfully mediocre grades, her failure to even graduate from her freshman year of Beacon Academy – her, Ruby Rose?

‘You’re smarter than you give yourself credit for Ruby.’ The memory came unbidden to her mind. ‘Maybe you’re younger than all of us, but you’ve been keeping up just fine in everything but the academia. And skipping two years of interim classes is more than enough justification for that gap in your knowledge.’

She lay there, frozen for several long seconds, holding her breath. That voice, which she’d only heard in snatches of pleasant, idyllic dreams, or worse: mocking her from the depths of her nightmares.

Weiss…

‘No, that doesn’t mean I’m letting you get out of your reviews! And that’s no excuse for your atrocious penmanship either!’

She did not allow herself to remember that voice.

…No clenching pain in her chest, no flash of unendurable grief…

It was just another part of the routine she’d maintained for years, hoping that time would dull the sharp edges of those shattered dreams. The ceaseless cycle of assignment, rest, and more assignments was broken only when Sun or Velvet or Coco or some other visiting friend dragged her away, or else during the occasional slip on her part.

…No shrieking Grimm, nor the pounding boom of canon fire…

Exhaustion and work kept the memories away.  Of late, the pain of her past had been replaced with the horrors of her last assignment, but experience told her it would soon return to continue haunting her.

…No crunch of stone, whine of straining metal, no spreading pool of crimson, no streak of white playing over her vision in an echo of her nightmares…

None of it.

Right now, Ruby just felt tired, thinking of her partner. Her attitude. Her sass. Her dry humor, when it deigned to reveal itself… Her biting, yet elegant and aristocratic tones. A voice made and refined for singing…

Dust, Ruby missed her voice.

Surprising herself, and feeling oddly disjointed from reality, Ruby permitted herself to contemplate the monk’s words.

She was tired.

It showed in so many ways she couldn’t bear to ignore it any more than she could ignore the bruises, the broken bones, or the nightmares. Her dream of becoming a huntress had been realized, but it was the dream of the child she’d been, not the woman she was now.

With each passing minute she felt more certain of her earlier conclusion. She had to find something else – whether that was leaving behind her mantle or remaking it into something different, she had to do something.

She’d started down the road to healing from her recent hurts at the temple – no longer did those emotions weight so heavily on her soul, though their hurt still lingered – but were they the only scars she carried?

Golden locks and lilac, the looming presence of despair and apathy palpable the moment she entered the room.

Was she really just giving up?

‘Sometimes bad things just happen, Ruby… Just leave me alone.’

Yang…

Her hand on Blake’s shoulder, eyeing her teammate’s flattened cat-ears with deep concern.

‘I really have no idea what I’m doing Ruby… All this time, I’ve convinced myself I’ve been doing the right thing, but I really don’t know… Is what we’re doing the best we can do for the world? Are we on the right path?’

Blake…

Rubble strewn, the crumbling edifice above her head a mountain waiting for the last of its roots to shatter, eager to entomb her, permanently, beneath it… she was deathly afraid. Dust clogged the scant air, and then – the copper-scented tang of spilled blood.

‘No…’

She knew that hair, that sword.

‘No…! Noononono! WEISS!’

Ruby stared dully at the ceiling.

The memories were old… just thinking of them was a rusty knife in her breast, dragging across the vulnerability within.

But could she—

Could she heal from that? She was broken. Was there a point?

Cold-cut sapphires boring into her, a face flushed with volatile rage, only matched by her own fury. It was her only defense against the freezing of her soul. And the shouting…

‘You…! You heartless bitch! How could you say that, after all she did for us!’

Her hands clenched and unclenched on the sheets. The disconnect was fading and the pressure in her ears was returned, but she could feel the epiphany at the tips of her fingers…

Could she really do it?

Outside, Ruby could hear the bustling of the city as late afternoon brought an early sunset and an unexpected wind chill. So many people going about their lives, some of them must have felt the same things she had – most of them, most likely, given the dangers Remnant posed. Surely, there was a chance for her to fix herself?

Maybe. It was possible. Others had done it, surely – hundreds, thousands, tens of thousands of times. Why couldn’t she? Why couldn’t Ruby Rose do something, this one thing, that plenty had proven possible? She could believe it was possible. She did believe it.

…She did. There was a chance.

But….

The brief, shining sense of elation she’d grasped faded like mist through her fingers, leaving her with questions.

What now? If she was to start down this road, not knowing where its end lay, where should she begin?

X_0_X

The morning dawned crisp and clear. When she walked into the bedroom with a tray of steaming food in hand, Velvet was greeted by a tired, but determined Ruby sitting at the windowsill.

“I want to go to Vale.”

[1dreality]

Zayn Malik was never the celebrity you thought he was. If it wasn’t already obvious from his detached, often melancholic interviews in the wake of his 2015 departure from One Direction, it will be from the title of his second solo album. The very elongated 27-track Icarus Falls is comprised of more of the sparse R&B that Malik has perfected since his first release Mind of Mine in 2016, but like its titular myth is also indebted to themes of incredible ascent and crushing decline.

A decline not of Malik’s career, it should be said, but rather of his own mental health, the album serving as both an intimate meditation on Malik’s life so far and a dire warning about the trauma of instant fame. It all leads to one obvious question: Is Zayn OK?

In an age of millennial openness and Instagram confessionals, Malik remains something of an outlier: an enormously famous and highly visible celebrity, but one whose ambiguity allows us to project much onto him. In our collective consciousness, he has been the 1D-fleeing villain, smoking cigarettes, being mean to his bandmates on Twitter and looking miserable as well as the “soft boy” pin-up, a vulnerable figure in desperate need of a hug.

Much of that ambiguity is intentional. Along with declining to tour Mind of Mine, Malik is often press-shy, choosing not to take part in TV sit-downs or play the social media game in an era in which somebody like Ariana Grande spends much of the waking day interacting with her fans on Twitter and Instagram.

And while Malik has been open about some of his past struggles, including his battle with an eating disorder at the height of his One Direction fame and consistent difficulties with anxiety, they’re often revelations that feel accidental in nature. We learn of them during an unexpected moment of truth-telling between him and a journalist, the subject quickly changed soon after, or through lyrics that are just descriptive enough to imply deep truths. Even talking about his anxiety in an essay for Time Magazine felt like a necessary course-correction after a string of cancelled gigs led to unflattering rumours about his health in the press.

Whether Malik’s public persona is intended as a protective mask or not, it is still difficult, particularly in the wake of Icarus Falls, not to feel something for him. After all, his jump from a working-class kid to an international superstar worth a reported $50 million, practically overnight, is the sort of trajectory most of us would struggle with at the age of 40, let alone at 17 when Malik auditioned for The X Factor.

Icarus Falls doesn’t cover any new sonic ground for Malik as an artist. It sees him return to the same well of threadbare, silky R&B that helped Mind of Mine easily trounce his fellow One Direction bandmates in the “best first solo record” stakes. But it does whirr with a noticeable sadness, Malik repeatedly mourns the peace of his pre-X Factor past and beats himself up for mistakes he feels that he’s made since. And when he speaks of emotional pain, it often sounds not like something confined to history, but rather something he’s dealing with every day.

“I’d rather be anywhere but here,” he sings on Good Years. “I close my eyes and see a crowd of a thousand tears / I pray to God I didn’t waste all my good years.” On Insomnia: “I’ve been roaming and strolling all in the streets / Burning my eyes red, not slept for weeks.” On Back to Life: “I been flying so long / Can’t remember what it was like to be sober.” On Satisfaction: “Nobody said this would be easy / Nobody gave me a rule book to follow.”

Even typical love songs are fatalistic in nature, talk of Armageddon running through both Flight of the Stars (“I will follow / Hold you close standing on the edge of no tomorrow”) and Tonight (“Love me like tomorrow’s never gonna come”), while much of the album nods to an unnamed great love in Malik’s life that he needs to overcome incredible odds to be with – nothing new for love songs, but given a greater weight when paired with his statements over the years. Because if we know anything about Zayn Malik, it’s that he often can’t stand being Zayn Malik.

Through much of the little press he has done, Malik has expressed unease with most of the trappings of fame, particularly the assumptions that he ought to be personable and friendly with industry figures or musical collaborators. And when it comes to One Direction, he still appears burnt by the experience. While he told Vogue in November that he has recently been able to see his time with the band as “an amazing experience,” despite the “bulls---” of what he refers to as “the machine,” he also told GQ in June that he didn’t make any actual friends during the peak of his fame: “I definitely have issues trusting people.”

In the numerous articles that pop up every winter recalling how good The X Factor used to be, clips are embedded that showcase many of its most memorable contestants, and every year it becomes that bit more shocking how much One Direction looked like children during their time on the show. The scrawny limbs, those Justin Bieber haircuts, the awkward school-talent-show bopping and shuffling. It somehow worked, enough at least to turn them into a tween phenomenon, but in hindsight it’s indefensible that they were pushed as significantly as they were.

There was always something deer-in-the-headlights about the band in its early days, a sense that at least a few of them had been pulled along for the ride as opposed to having a firm grip on the steering wheel. The hunger so visible in pop bands of similar notoriety, whether manufactured or not, wasn’t always visible – and while all of them have transitioned into stable adults who are, for the most part, comfortable in the spotlight, their jarringly different responses to fame remain clear.

It’s important to remember, for context’s sake, that Malik was always a reluctant star. Only attending his original X Factor audition after being guilted by his mother into waking up early and making the journey there, he was, in his own words to The Fader, “a lazy teen”. And even during the audition stages, he expressed reluctance to properly join in, walking off stage during a choreography rehearsal and having to be coaxed to go back. At the time, Malik’s reaction registered as a petulant strop, but now feels oddly prescient.

Of Malik’s One Direction bandmates, Harry Styles was always the most naturally inclined to superstardom – such an affable schmoozer and networker that it was quickly no longer surprising to see images of him palling around with Mick Jagger or Stevie Nicks. Liam Payne always bore the personality of someone very eager to be seen, lack of self-awareness very much included, while the perpetually chipper Niall Horan has always simply appeared very, very happy to be there. But both Malik and Louis Tomlinson have often visibly struggled, uninspired by the more performative and fraudulent elements of celebrity, or the levels of attention handed to them by Simon Cowell and co.

“What I really can’t ever get used to, or really enjoy, are these super geared-up celebrity parties,” Tomlinson told Noisey last year. “No one actually cares. You see people who are beyond self-absorbed, and that’s why it can be a dangerous place.”

Malik has echoed similar sentiments. “I don’t work well in group situations, with loads of people staring at me,” he told GQ. “And when you say ‘star’… everyone wants you to be this kind of character that owns a room or is overly arrogant or confident. I’m not that guy, so I don’t want to be a star.”

What’s odd is that, for all his claims, Malik does bear all the superficial trappings of modern stardom. He’s a fashion darling but is permanently magnetised to the covers of cool indie magazines. Furthermore, his on-again/off-again relationship with supermodel Gigi Hadid has, since 2015, become a Generation Z equivalent of Johnny Depp and Winona Ryder in its aesthetic-heavy, era-defining popularity.

But Malik is also simultaneously detached. The GQ profile, his most extensive recent interview, bears all the hallmarks of a journalist struggling to fulfil a word count because of an uncommunicative subject, writer Carrie Battan even expresses Malik’s tendency to reply to her questions in “friendly but anodyne one-liners.” Like the very best of pop idols, from Britney to Beyoncé, Malik is so compelling principally because he’s so hard to read. But this can also be a poisoned chalice: every expression of doubt or self-pity determined to be a cry for help, every revelation shaping an image that may or may not be real.

It means that listening to Icarus Falls isn’t an entirely joyous experience, Malik’s lyrics painting a picture of a young man still working through the discomfort of his sudden fame and the trauma of a moment in the spotlight marred by illness and fractured relationships, many of its scars still visible today. But it’s also a record that you can’t help but admire as a result, especially if it serves as a form of catharsis for him.

In the decade since Britney Spears was forcibly taken to the hospital surrounded by hundreds of paparazzi photographers, our collective relationship with the idea of fame has greatly altered, particularly for a generation who watched Amy Winehouse essentially die before their eyes. The one beneath them are currently coming to terms with a raft of recent pop star crises, from Demi Lovato’s overdose to the deaths of artists like Mac Miller and Lil Peep.

For all the obvious charms in Malik’s life, from his incredible fortune to a kind of artistic freedom that he never had in One Direction, you’d have to be particularly cold not to feel empathy for the sheer strangeness of his adult existence; a world of rampant, maddening attention that has historically led even the strongest of stars into tragedy.

The Zayn Malik of today is a little bruised, a little listless, his magazine profiles never complete without references to the cloud of marijuana smoke that lingers around him, or his need to lock himself away from the world. It doesn’t sound like the most ideal of outcomes for a man who calls himself a pop idol Icarus and sings with whispery detachment that he has “[flown] too close to the sun.” But we can only hope that it at least serves as a parachute.

[ertrunkenerwassergeist]

Born Into the Wilds - A Coeurl’s Eyes

Finally finished the second chapter! Here’s the link to ao3.

Little bit of info for everybody not wanting to slog through the tags: The wandering stories are stories first told and taking place during the years of wandering before the people settled down in Galahd. Technically everybody over 80 is considered an elder in Galahd but the elder storytellers are the ones with any kind of true authority. The First Hunt is a rite of passage, to be considered of full member of the comunity and earn your family name, one takes before the age of twelve.

Hadnissa words: ahtrii (nominative plural of ahtri) = Spirit; umbrella term for everything from actual nature spirits to the presence of their ancestors mahir (accusative singular of mahir) = Mother; woman who birthed me; affectionate form straahnosa (dative singular of straahnos) = Foreigner; neutral term for 'someone not of my country

The obligatory boring talking chapter before we do something interesting again. Featuring: Nyx' bad ideas, Pelna, Libertus and Crowe as the responsible ones and Cor as the inquisition.

This should have been quite a bit shorter. Uups -.-

“You know what the paperwork is for the use of a potion out in the field? It’s an ahtrii damned headache,” grouched Pelna as he sat beside his sickbed, sunken into the chair like a petulant child.

“Why do you have to do the paperwork? If I remember correctly it was Axis who used the thing,” said Nyx, eyebrows raised.

Luckily the potion had healed him enough that he didn’t have to be sewed back together but still he would need to stay in the hospital until tomorrow. The doctor and nurses were walking on eggshells around him. It was aggravating. They couldn’t know what had happened on the mission already. He supposed it could have something to do with the fact that he had been admitted utterly covered in the oily black stuff the MTs leaked when cut into pieces. At least Pelna had gotten over his tiptoeing stage during the last few hours they had been back in Insomnia.

“He foisted it off on me because I was the one to make him do it,” the other man pouted.

“Then it’s your own fault for letting yourself talked into this,” grinned Nyx and reclined further into his pillow.

“Yeah well, you try telling him no when he gets going.”

For a moment they grinned at each other before Pelna grew serious. “Nyx? What in the name of the Hunters happened in that base?” he asked, his voice growing deeper and more quiet. “One moment we’re losing very badly and the next you’re between them teeth bared and lightning everywhere. You ripped off an MTs head with your bare hands.”

“Is that what it looked like?” blinked Nyx.

Huh. No wonder the other guys had been so careful around him.

Pelna gave him a flat stare and Nyx winced. “It was worse. Way worse. You-”

The door opened and the burly form of Libertus stepped into the room, followed by Luche and lastly Crowe, who was the only one in this group who hadn’t been part of the mission.

“There is our hero. You feeling any better?” crowed Libertus as he let himself fall into the second chair with a big grin on his face.

“The staff here is very charming,” grinned Nyx, glad to have escaped the dreaded topic for a bit longer. “How was the debrief?”

Libertus made a face.

“That bad, huh?”

“It’s the Marshal who is doing it. Every person separately. It feels like you’re facing the inquisition like in the wandering stories.”

That gave Nyx a start. “Why the Marshal and not the Captain?”

“Because it was the Captain’s information that was faulty,” answered Luche, his face grim and eyes blazing. “They say it was his informant that tipped them off about the plans and the new base and now it’s on his head that the mission was such a disaster.”

“That’s utter bullshit,” spat Libertus.

“You think I don’t know that? They’re just looking for a reason to discredit us some more. As if they haven’t done that enough.”

Nyx dearly wanted to say something about that but he knew if he did it would just explode in his face and Luche would storm out in fury. A thick silence settled between them all that was only interrupted by Crowe’s vexed huff.

“Can we maybe not talk about that? I would rather know what happened during the mission that has everybody in a titsy. The guys come back from the debriefing and the first thing some of them do is go to the elders and now everybody is talking about the Ulric Clan again and digging up the old stories. On the way here I even heard an interesting rendition about your First Hunt. Something about your ancestors turning you into a coeurl.”

Nyx groaned as all eyes focused back on him. He knew the stories people were telling about the Ulrics, of course he did. As a child he had begged his mahir nearly every night for those stories. Back then he’d still been Nameless, but then he’d gained his Clan Name at just nine years old and suddenly those bedtime stories had become his stories, and they had gained an uncomfortable weight he hadn’t known what to do with. He still didn’t. But now he wished he’d actually paid closer attention when the stories had been told around the great fires.

But he hadn’t.

Nyx would actually have to talk with the storytellers, he realized. Or he could ask Libertus to guide him towards a snake and hope one of his ancestors would show him what to do, if what they said about the Ostium Clan was as true as the stories about the Ulrics seemed to be.

Yeah, no.

Libs would keel over laughing if he were to ask. He still preferred that over the old gossips, though. So Libertus it was, as soon as the people stopped not-staring at him.

His gaze wandered to Luche who was frowning at him but not looking at him. That might actually take a while.

“I don’t know what happened,” he managed to say at last. “I really don’t. One moment we’re about to lose that damned fight and the next all I could think about was protecting all of you.”

Crowe frowned, clearly no understanding. Libertus didn’t fare any better and he had actually seen the aftermath. Nyx just didn’t know how to put to words the animal-deep jungle-instinct that still pulsed in his chest like a heartbeat. Thankfully it – whatever it actually was – was quiet now and didn’t make him want to curl around his people and hiss at everybody else who stepped too close to them.

“We couldn’t get too close to you, what with all that lightning you were throwing around,” said Luche in an echo of Pelna’s earlier words. “Everybody knows that you have an affinity for thunder spells, but this…”

“We know what the King’s magic feels like and whatever you did definitely didn’t come from that. Something was blocking the more powerful magic at our disposal and made the rest very draining but you still did what you did and it didn’t have that artificial feeling royal magic has,” said Pelna.

“Wait, the royal magic feels artificial to you?” asked Nyx perplexed.

Crowe frowned and crossed her arms in front of her chest. “That’s what you got from that? This sounds like you used a magic of your own. Do you know how many people besides the royal family have been born with magic like that? Exactly one and she’s called the Oracle.”

“I’m just that special,” grinned Nyx, but on the inside his stomach dropped down to his knees. That couldn’t truly be everybody, could it? Galahd had its own kind of magic that was pretty widespread, but it was subtler than the warping and the elemency spells Lucian magic was known for.

“I’m scared to ask, but: What does the King’s magic feel like to you?” asked Pelna, his expression curious.

“Like jagged pieces of glass, like it doesn’t belong, an intruder.”

“I’ve never heard that description before. Mine feels like a too hot firestorm but still with that artificial undertone in it,” said Crowe, her frown deepening.

“That’s very nice and all, but what does it have to do with what the hell happened in that base? What’s the point?” Libertus wanted to know.

“The point is,” said Crowe and cast Libertus a dirty look, “that what Nyx did apparently lacked the artificial undercurrent we all feel when using the magic the King gave us, which means – I think – that what he did is an innate talent and nothing else.”

“It’s still there, you know,” said Nyx, and at once all attention was on him again. “It feels a bit like the deep jungle around our village, like you know a predator is watching you. Nearly like its living. It’s really strange.”

“Well, that doesn’t sound ominous at all.”

“Shut up Libertus! No one asked you,” hissed Crowe.

“Hey! You were thinking it, too, don’t deny it.”

The only woman in the room scoffed but didn’t, actually, deny it. Nyx couldn’t really blame her. It didn’t just sound ominous; it felt like it, too.

“Could you use it again?” asked Luche from his place against the wall.

Nyx hesitated for a moment, thinking. Maybe? He may have said that it – whatever it was – felt like a predator watching him, but what he hadn’t mentioned was that it felt like meeting that coeurl on his First Hunt again. Like it could devour him at any moment but it wouldn’t because it was protecting him, helping him.

He tried to reach for it like he would for the King’s magic and the spark answered immediately, its energy spreading through his body. It tingled and he could feel his instincts sharpen; his field of vision grew at once wider and narrower, the colours changing and throwing him slightly off balance. The smell of disinfectant underlined by sickness burned in his nose, nearly drowning out the smell of his pack mates around him. Energy traveled like lightning under his skin and Nyx felt his chest rumble in a content purr.

“Eh, Nyx?”

“Hmm?”

It took him a few seconds to find his human voice again and remember how to use it. He felt the sudden urge to round all of his pack mates up and lick their wounds. The golden one, the burly one and the darker one all smelled of blood.

“What the hell are you doing right now? Your eyes…”

Nyx blinked. What was with his eyes? His concentration broke and for a moment he keenly felt the loss of his sharpened senses. He looked at the other three in his room. Pack mates, must protect, echoed the spark within him. They looked like they didn’t know if they should bolt or stay. What had just happened?

“What did you just do?” asked Crowe more curious than anything else, while Libertus stared at him in the same way he had done when Nyx had told him what had happened during his First Hunt, Pelna breathed a quiet “What the hell?” and Luche went back to frowning.

“I wanted to see if I could use whatever it is again?” It came out more like a question than anything else.

“In a hospital,” she deadpanned utterly unimpressed.

“Maybe not my best idea,” he muttered half under his breath. “So, what about my eyes?”

“Quick, tell everybody else, Nyx is starting to learn some common sense. The water serpents must’ve grown legs,” mocked Crowe.

“Your eyes looked like a fucking coeurl’s, that’s what,” said Libertus at the same time.

Nyx’ mouth fell open in surprise. He really, really needed to talk about this with someone who had experience with this. Sadly none of the candidates was still alive.

“Oh.”

“Fuck, this is a mess,” muttered Pelna, dragging his hands through his hair.

“Does none of you realize the potential advantage we get with this on the battlefield? Nyx practically slaughtered one third of the enemy by himself back there,” said Luche a strange expression flickering over his face. It had the feeling of desperate hope.

“You realize that Nyx is, like, one person, don’t you? He cannot be everywhere at once and magic, wherever it’s coming from, is not endless within a human body. It doesn’t matter if it’s Lucian magic or his own. You, as a unit leader, should actually know that, Luche,” hissed Crowe and glared at the blond man.

“Wowowow, stop. I’m all for kicking the Niffs ass with this but I have no idea what I can actually do, what it is or what it does and I’m not dumb enough to use an unknown variable on a hunt,” said Nyx feeling strangely agitated.

Crowe made a there you have it gesture, looking smug.

“You’re going to experiment with it, aren’t you?” asked Pelna resigned.

Nyx nodded. Of course he would, but before he could answer the door opened again and this time it was Marshal Leonis himself who entered the room. At once all conversation ceased as they all stared at the man. No one wanted to be caught talking in front of a straahnosa. The man might acknowledge their cultural differences most of the time and back off – and was better for it than ninety percent of the people living in Lucis – but there was no need to upset Lucian sensibilities when it came to Galahdian… ah, heathendom, like the nobles and the press so delicately put it.

“Glaives,” he said in greeting, his face as stern and stormy as ever. “I would like to talk with Sir Ulric, alone if possible.”

Libertus patted him on the shoulder hard enough that the pain in his side flared up again while the others nodded at him before they all trooped out, not giving the Marshal more respect than necessary. Only after the door clicked shut behind them did the older man move.

“It is good to see that you were not too badly wounded, Sir Ulric. May I sit?” said he and motioned towards the seat Pelna had vacated.

“Of course Marshal,” nodded Nyx and tried to sit up straight. It did not really work.

“Don’t bother. I’m only here to ask a few questions about what the other Glaives of Units Kresch and Roh said during their debriefing. As well as what I and the rescue team saw in that yard. The doctor assured me you are capable of doing that.”

“Sir, if I may ask: What will happen to the Captain?” Nyx figured he might as well ask before his own interrogation began. Captain Drautos was a capable man, even if he liked to ignore social practices most of the time.

The Marshal hummed and tapped his clipboard against his knee. “Captain Drautos has nothing to fear. He is merely helping us trace the information as far back as we can manage to ascertain from whom exactly this trap came from. Ulldor may be a decent General most of the time but his ability to lay traps is rather abysmal. Now, walk me step by step through everything you did on this mission, Sir Ulric.”

Nyx suppressed a sigh, rearranged the blanket around his legs and started talking. This may actually take some time. He hoped he would get something to eat after this.

[melforbes]

what's been your favorite part of writing seaglass blue? is there a part in particular that you couldn't wait to write? is there one you were avoiding?

to be honest i am 100% flying by the seat of my pants with this which right now is out of character so i haven’t exactly gotten to the dreaded parts yet lmao

i have an ending in mind (and a final line) that i really like but that i have a gut feeling no one else will like but i’m not compromising with it and i’m a little nervous to post that eventually. i’m not nervous about writing it but i don’t think it will necessarily come across well. Like it feels a little end of the sopranos but also it’s not like that at all but it’s the same existential vibe if that makes sense. which it doesn’t at all. but still

i actively avoid dialogue because it’s not my strong suit. i also can’t get the Mulder Voice right (deadpan snark etc) and then throwing in Big Feelings i’m just so out of my element

so far i shockingly haven’t dreaded writing any part of it. i did end up blocked with this last chapter because i hadn’t entirely decided what to do with the plot and the plot i’d thought through and didn’t actually use (and lmao have since forgotten!) just was not working at all so i didn’t write and instead did the whole running in circles thinking it through thing that isn’t writing (i recommend reading atomic habits by james clear ahaha! that running in circles motion gets a massive drag in there) that ultimately was never fruitful AND EITHER WAY i started a new drug for the other side of my life and it gave me wicked insomnia and at two am everything righted itself so i finally figured out where i was going. But that being said i never really dreaded it even though i oftentimes dread a scene or two in most chapters i write and i think the lack of dread comes from how it’s all set up in a very cozy way and it’s hard to dread something like that

i couldn’t wait to write the wedding which is why i dive into it so quickly. And i really wanted to interject parts of their “wedding night” or afternoon or whatever because those were my favorite moments to visualize. there’s another part down the line that i can’t wait to write but i also can’t spoil that haha. i think like...the most anticipated stuff i have coming up for the next chapter (or maybe the one after that depending on how the wordcount shakes out) is a specific conversation about specific things that happens in the dark. and uh i will not elaborate beyond that aldskjasldkjfdalsgj

my favorite part of writing it. this answer is so disjointed i’m sorry. i’ll put the rest of this under a cut because i’m rambling ahaha

my favorite part of writing it has been like...i think this is a multitude of things which is why i wrote msr again after a long unintentional break from it. idk if i ever really mentioned this (or at least if i mentioned it recently) but i started writing msr here in mid 2016 to rekindle my passion for writing while i was very very ill long term, and that culminated in the “everyday msr” archive i have on my ao3, which thus was a log of self-comfort in hard times as well as (unintentionally) documentation of how i neurologically healed during that treatment. so, bizarre. i was in a hard place back then and writing helped me keep my head screwed on straight, and luckily with msr you can write the shittiest things and someone will still be genuinely happy to read it and will look past any lack of talent or training or experience or anything and instead see you, someone having an idea and offering it to others, sharing something for the sake of feeling something good together. that (combined with my own personal gratification of having done something) really helped me emotionally during that time. like when you can’t be of service to anyone in the world, barely even to yourself, it’s really reassuring to hear “i was having a hard day today and this small thing you did eased me” and know that they didn’t need quality or exceptional talent; they just needed you to show up. i’m getting off topic but all of this is a roundabout way to say that i’m essentially back in that same place right now and have been for the past little over a year and like. It’s bullshit ahaha. like it’s absolute bullshit. But it’s strangely valuable to have this like...same connection as i had last time, just in a bit of a different way. it’s still msr, it’s still a kind of Happy Place for me, but there’s an overarching plot, i have other stuff that i write too, etc. but still, i appreciate being able to go back to an original comfort and form that comfort in the same way. the “everyday msr” stuff was intended to be just extended written-out headcanons about domestic msr post iwtb or post revival #1 that i could write in one sitting, and this isn’t entirely different from that; it’s just that the domesticity has a twist and a different era. but it’s the same stuff as before - pictures of misty places, gentle music, living based on the season, being a homebody, cooking for your lover, natural beauty. it’s nice to return to that place right now

another favorite part of writing this is that maine was an important part of my childhood. my family spent a week of vacation there each year (outside of bar harbor, not on mdi but right outside of it) and i kind of associate that purity with it. it feels like one of the only elements of childhood that i haven’t found adulthood corrupting. like we learn that disneyland is just a capitalist hellhole and whatnot when we’re older but maine hasn’t been ruined for me yet and i treasure that. And having them there feels special as a result. i very much on purpose didn’t label a town they’re in (or even base where they are on a real one lol all of that is glossed over enough anyway that i’m not worried about it) but it felt important and right for them to be in maine. it feels special to tap into the very brief time that i shared with the show while i was still a part of its cultural landscape. that sentence makes no sense. in other words i was born in 1997 ahaha. but either way like...i get to people this place that is already special to me and give them love and safety within it and that feels good in a way that i’m struggling to describe. And also i could go on some stupid rant about how Cell Phones Hurt Our Social Circles or whatever but i do genuinely miss rental houses that got 10 blurry channels on rabbit-eared tin foil televisions in a day and age when you normally got way more than that, all while you’re in an era in which boredom is still normal enough that all of that means “well, no tv for this week i guess!” and then you play a board game instead. it feels good to voluntarily create a place like that, then ask in my own life, why don’t i just live like this? And then to struggle through plotting something because there’s no digital numbing with television and smartphones and whatnot, and to understand my own hesitation, and to explore that a little more whether or not it’s in writing

another favorite part (yes i will in fact keep going!) is that the writing style is a little bit atypical from my current norm which allows me certain freedoms that i haven’t really opted for in a while. on the off chance that anyone has read any of my other recent stuff (though this is...a very small chance ahaha) it’s clear that these chapters are much shorter and less prose-heavy than my other stuff is, and that’s really helpful in that editing it is much simpler and writing it happens much quicker. if life were predictable and i had better self-discipline (and better health! can’t discount that one haha) then i could easily get a chapter out every weeks, in comparison to other stuff that i updated once every three months. i’m trying to keep each chapter to being about 3k in length (which they seem to naturally tend toward anyways, i didn’t create that metric so much as just went along with it) and there aren’t frequent “flashback sequences” (there are callbacks and past things brought up, but they’re not significant portions of chapters that go back and forth in timelines and make a nonlinear plot, the linear plot dominates and each scene is more or less in chronological order even if there are callbacks) so i’m not too worried about pacing or structure or anything like that. i never set out to make it “simple” i think it reads better this way and i appreciate that a lot because i can take a break from other stuff that’s a bit more jagged and just do this instead. it’s also nice to write something that i feel is more on the readable side than other things. i think my biggest inspirations for this (which i realized accidentally with the “he wants to brush her hair” line ahaha) were our souls at night and the sunlit night, both of which have a kind of dainty prose style and are a little low on long descriptions but can say a lot with one simple sentence. recently i’ve focused a lot more about darker subject matter and uglier parts of humanity so it’s nice to be able to focus on something that i feel like matters and has a more readable quality to it without actually sacrificing anything in the process or trying to dumb something down

so i think that’s it! that’s my thoughts! this is too long and far too personal! haha!

[fortheloveofeos]

Vampire Ignis

Hellooooo, Vampire Iggy. 

If you read Incubus Prompto, you may be able to tell that these two belong to the same sort of world. Gladio’s story will be next and also is a part of this story. 

Hope you enjoy. 

XXX

The Old City had been avoided since in the Awakening, as it had come to be known. Everyone knew the story of how King Noctis had reappeared after ten years, taken his warrior best friends with him to stop the darkness and bring back the light to all of Eos. It was a fairytale that stemmed from the truth.

Insomnia had lain in ruins for decades since the Awakening. There had been small attempts to save the city, the capitol of the Lucian Kingdom, but after several failed attempts at any sort of progress the ruins were abandoned. It was a sad, haunting reminder of what had actually happened all those years ago.

Archaeology had not been where you had planned to end up in college, but there you were at the edge of the broken wall looking ahead at all the remains of the once brimming Insomnia. You had worked closely with a professor to uncover any kind of information that could shed new light on the Awaking and after the ancient tombs and texts, you had made your way here. Your professor, like every other sane person, had not wanted to risk a venture into the ruins. Hell, very few had ever gone into the city and returned. In fact, you were doing this without anyone knowing your plans – other than a very worried roommate who agreed not to sound the alarm as long as they heard from you every hour.

Armed with a camera, trowel, and a pistol, you took a deep breath before carefully descending into the city.

Taking pictures to document each of the details you could see, you moved slowly and carefully forward. Some of the rubble bore spray painted insignias and names – evidence of the vandals that usually went missing. There was also evidence of looting in a few somewhat intact buildings but now everything lay covered in a solid layer of dust. More than once, you stopped to inspect a strange substance dried onto the stone or cracked pavement. Each time, you snapped a photo and pushed forward trying to convince yourself it was anything other than blood. Your path had taken you well into the center of the city when what remained of a gleaming, black building caught your attention even through the heavy coating of grime and dust that covered the ruins.

“The Citadel,” you breathed aloud in wonder. Even in its fragmented and ruined form, you could picture its majesty with ease. If the stories were to be believed, than that was where King Noctis had made his last stand. And it was where his warriors had perished in the final battle. If there was anywhere left that could share some light on the story of the Awakening and the return of the sun, you would find it there.

The sun had already begun its descent by the time you reached the Citadel ruins. With time working against you, you wasted no time in finding a way inside and praying to the Six that something might be left inside that could be of some use to your search.

The beauty and craftsmanship of the building was evident despite the ruined state as you snapped picture after picture. The portion of the building that had survived seemed stable and sturdy so you didn’t worry about the stairs being able to hold you. Finally, you pushed open a rotten wooden door to reveal a perfect view of the evening sky and the landscape beyond the ruins of Insomnia. The remains of a throne stood sentry as if attempting to protect the ruined kingdom and all that remained of the capitol. The view was breathtaking.  

Snapping a few pictures of the room, you moved closer. Careful of the crumbling steps, you reached what remained of the throne where an elaborate sword was driven into the back. A stain ran from where the sword had pierced the back of the throne to the once cushioned seat. Without thought, you gasped and stepped back. Your hands covered your mouth at the realization of who had died there.

“Tragic, isn’t it?”

Another gasp left you as you turned toward the voice. A young man, probably in his early thirties, stood a few stairs beneath you in the shadow of one of the remained walls. His accent was old, something not very common and unfamiliar to you. His sandy brown hair had been styled back from his face in a vintage fashion, though several rogue strands escaped to hand into his eyes. One was a beautiful, vibrant see green while the other was a milky white. The scaring over his eyes appeared as though he had been blinded, though now both eyes bore into you with clarity. His height allowed him to look into your own eyes though he stood several stairs down from you.

“Who are you?” You swallowed and studied his clothing looking for any indication as to how screwed you were. His plain black pants and button-up were stylish and well-fitting but gave away nothing as to his identity. “Where did you come from?”

A crooked smirk pulled at one corner of his mouth as the stranger blinked. You noticed he held a pair of glasses in his hand toying with the arms though he seemed to have no use for them. “My name is Ignis Scientia, brave archaeologist. And I imagine with that bit of information that you can discern the rest.”

Ignis Scientia. The name rattled around in your head as the semesters of research poured back through your brain. Retainer. Strategist. Warrior. Crownsguard. Friend. The Ignis Scientia of history held many titles and was always described as a man of manner and refinement. He was one of the three that accompanied the young Prince from Lucis. He was wounded at the battle of Altissa and lost his sight. He became a very skilled daemon hunter after the prince had disappeared and had lain down his life to allow his King time enough to save the world. He had died centuries ago and while this man did resemble the few surviving depictions of him, There was no way he was Ignis Scientia.

“I can see the disbelief on your face, little one. I give you my word, I speak the truth. Though, I’m not certain what weight the word of a “dead man,” he used air quotes to emphasize his words, “might hold.”

Uncertain, your mind circled back. “How do you know I’m an archaeologist? Did you follow me?” You had tried to be careful as you navigated the ruined city and you hadn’t seen signs of anyone following you. Your planning had been careful and so you carried nothing of value if this man aimed to rob you.

“It is not often that anyone crossed into the ruins of Insomnia. I keep an eye out for the occasional treasure hunter or vandal, but researchers are a rare sight. You’ve been taking careful notes,” he nodded toward the camera. “You were being so…respectful I decided it might be interesting to see what you were after.” Taking another step towards you, he was now looking down at you. “Tell me, have you found it?”

Suddenly, your mouth felt dry and your instincts were telling you to run away from this man and this city and everything attached to it. Something about the predatory look in his eye and the way he seemed to be looking through you was alarming. “I-I came here looking for information about the Awakening. To find out what happened to the King and his warriors.” You voice sounded so light and fragile. You hated how weak you sounded.

A darkness passed over Ignis’s features for a moment before a stern look settled onto his face. “I’ll tell you what happened to the king.” Reaching out, his fingers curled around your wrist to lock you into place. You struggled but his iron grip held you fast. “He returned after ten long years of darkness and the loss of hope only to sacrifice himself. His friends gave their own lives so that he may have enough to save the world. He faced the darkness alone and took his life.”

“And his friends?” you whispered after a moment of silence. Dread had begun to fill your chest and you tried to slip out of Ignis’s grip. You feared you knew the answer.

Chuckling, Ignis released your wrist and watched as you fell backwards onto the stone floor at the foot of the throne. “They all died. But the darkness and daemons would not allow them a peaceful end. Rather, they invaded their bodies and their souls and turned each of them into creatures better suited for the darkness their king was giving his life to banish.” Anger seemed to boil in his words as he looked down at you. He appeared to be weighing his options before stepping back and allowing you back to your feet. “If I were you, young archaeologist, I would take my camera and run.”

Pushing your luck, you hugged your camera close and backed away from him. “They…they turned you into one of them? A daemon?” You carefully retreated down the stairs one step at a time while you faced down Ignis, too afraid to turn your back to him.

In answer, he ran his long, delicate fingers through his already messy hair. A small laugh escaped him before he smiled and allowed his teeth to be on full display. Elongated fangs pushed into his bottom lips and the hair on your arms rose in horror. “Run, little archaeologist. I’m afraid It’s been quite some time since I’ve had the company of anyone so inquisitive.”

Not needing anymore prompting, you turned and sprinted from the throne room taking the stairs in the stairwell as quickly as your legs would carry you. Adrenaline burned through your veins as you ran, pushing your body past its normal limits. The sun was too low in the sky for you to have any hope of it providing assistance against a daemon. You imagined Ignis would be close behind you but you couldn’t help but worry about what else could be hiding amongst the rubble.

Shadows cast by the ruins distorted the path you had taken into the city. Refusing to stop, you jumped, ran, and climbed over anything in your way to keep moving. The wall had just come into sight when your foot caught on piece of broken building and sent you crashing to the weed covered ground. Groaning, you pulled your foot free from the rubble, noting only a small scrape on your shin where blood was already beginning to escape.

“Intelligent, agile and delicious. I’m quite the lucky man today.”

Turning, you caught sight of Ignis as he leaning against a boulder that had one been the stone foundation of a skyscraper. “Please, I just want to leave. I won’t come back,” you promised as you pulled your trowel from its sheath and held it as a sort of makeshift weapon. It was sharp enough to cut if he got close enough.

Pushing off from the boulder, Ignis nodded. “And that is just the problem, dear one. I believe you and I are going to learn a lot from one another.”

In a flash, he pinned you to the cold earth and smacked your trowel away. Looking into his oddly colored, predatory eyes you could see plainly the curiosity he held. Deeper still, there was sadness and anger.

“Please,” you whispered once more and attempted to push on his chest.

“Now, now,” he chastised as he leaned in, “begging is unbecoming.”