#because he has always been sickly yet is somehow still alive a year on

[shijiujun]

Lonely Dream | 孤梦

Summary: And when all is done and dusted, sometimes Lao Wen still gets those headaches of his, and the spots where Ah Xu had the nails driven in stil throb in pain on a cold, rainy day.

Some slice of life and domesticity for WenZhou as they enjoy more years than they expected to have initially, together.

Notes: OKAY so there are too many theories going out there for special ep ending, and nah not going there! So the concept of this is SOMEHOW Zhou Zishu saves Wen Kexing at the end of Ep 36, and they need to head into icy mountain cave for a WHILE but not forever. They head back down to Four Seasons Manor once Wen Kexing recovers.

Basically SHL ver. WenZhou, but with TYK ending (where WenZhou fight in the icy mountains for a bit after Wu Xi cures him and then head back down into the world of the living). No immortal lifespan, but hey, they get the rest of their normal lives together! So yeah, they can still eat normally, no snow and ice diet please.

Word Count: 4,500+ 

✨✨ Link on AO3 ✨✨

******

They visit Ah Xiang and Cao Weining’s graves once Wen Kexing’s year-long recovery in the frigid cold of the mountains is complete.

Zhou Zishu says that it is for Lao Wen’s recuperation, but he suspects Wen Kexing, the heartless bastard, knows that he has taken this year too, to finally stop hurting, to stop going through the bone-deep, heart-wrenching terror at the prospect of losing him.

Opening his eyes in the armoury a year ago, his five senses were returned to him, but at what price? Feeling Lao Wen’s cold hands against his, his stark, blinding white hair a horrifying contrast against his beautiful face, and the man almost leaving him.

Leaving him, once again.

Horror turned into anger, the words stuck in his throat, his chest so tight and heart slamming against the bones caging it, Zhou Zishu had regained all that he had lost-

-and then lost the most important thing, person, to him.

Someone he values above his own life, who had lied to him, who had so stupidly, stupidly gave himself up for him.

Zhou Zishu does not want to remember how he survived that day, how he spent minutes, hours, and days after, making sure Lao Wen continued to hang on to his very last breath.

In the past year, the cold he was constantly plagued with had nothing to do with the wintry landscape.

He knows he is pushing it a little — his eyes have rarely left Wen Kexing since they were moved to the mountains at Wu Xi and Senior Ye’s suggestions. Initially, Lao Wen slept and Zhou Zishu had no idea if he would ever wake up.

Before he would even open his eyes, the panic typically set in just like that, gripping him by the throat the moment he woke. Zhou Zishu would have to reach out for Lao Wen across him on the bed, the fear receding only when he heard and felt Lao Wen’s breaths under his fingertips.

For a long time, Zhou Zishu thought that he would be with Lao Wen in this state for the rest of his life. It was not all bad — as long as Lao Wen was alive, who cared if he spent the rest of his years guarding a sleeping Wen Kexing?

Who’s the lazy one now, Lao Wen, he thought plenty of times in the months after, his hands caressing at Wen Kexing’s cheek bones and pale face, which was of the same colour as his white hair.

Fortunately, fortunately… he managed to keep the person he wanted in the end.

They have been so focused on recuperating, stuck in the mountains and in that isolated environment, it was easy to distance themselves from everything that had and was happening outside.

Even though Wen Kexing did not mention a thing, Zhou Zishu knows that he spends some nights awake, looking out into a sky full of stars, quiet and pensive. He knows it, because he does the same.

For Jiu Xiao, for Han Ying, for Qing Luan.

For a young woman who called him Zishu-ge and Sickly Ghost, who threatened to fight him if he left Wen Kexing all alone. A beautiful young woman who should have gotten her happy ending on that tragic afternoon.

For a young man, who had a smile that could light up even the darkest of corners in a place like the Ghost Valley, who would have protected his to-be wife with everything he had.

The pain and grief that comes with losing Ah Xiang and Cao Weining is no easier to bear a year on.

===

Wen Kexing recalls the way she looked that day, all beautiful in her green and red bridal robes, finally able to live a life basking under the sunshine without anything holding her back. That was what he always wanted for her.

What a huge mistake that wedding was.

His whole life, aside from Ah Xu, has been a cycle of repeated mistakes, over and over again. If he had just put his foot down and insisted on not letting Mo Huaiyi in, if he had not just walked away in anger and instead stayed there, they would have stopped Xiao Cao’s death, and Ah Xiang’s after.

Why had he walked off? How did beautiful Ah Xiang, an Ah Xiang he was ready to give away, end up taking her last breath in his arms?

A sting on his right ear pulls him violently out of his depressed reverie, and he yells, “Ow- Ow, ow, ow, Ah Xu!”

“Don’t think that I don’t know what you’re thinking,” Zhou Zishu says, pulling Wen Kexing’s face close to him by the ear. “There is no point dwelling in the past. Life and death… when the time comes, no one can escape from it.”

Wen Kexing’s eyes sober a little, bitterness flashing across his face. Remnants of his hatred and resentment from more than a year ago, before he met Ah Xu.

“If I had just kept her with me-“

“We all make our choices,” Zhou Zishu says, his voice gentling as he lets Wen Kexing go, but the man does not move away.

“If she had to choose again, she would probably have chosen the same.”

In the cold, their hands find their way to each other, clasping warmly under their thick sleeves, the rims lined with fur.

They stare at the graves for a little longer. And while Wen Kexing has never believed in some higher power up there or the heavens-

-this time, with every ounce of his being, he prays and wishes that Ah Xiang and that pig will find their ways back to each other in the next life, no matter what.

Zhou Zishu’s hand squeezes around his, and Wen Kexing turns to see his Ah Xu’s warm smile and gaze.

“Shall we go home?”

Home. The place where they can live out the rest of their natural lives together.

“Let’s go home,” Wen Kexing agrees.

===

“Ah Xu, that is not the way you-“

Hearing Wen Kexing nag for the thousandth time, Zhou Zishu has finally had enough. Slamming the broad vegetable knife onto the wooden chopping board loudly, he turns and looks at the man next to him.

“I’m not the one who begged me to do this,” Zhou Zishu says, turning to walk away, “You make dinner. I told you it was a waste of time-“

Before he can finish his sentence, warmth engulfs his back, and something sharp snuggles into his shoulder bone. A familiar scent — jasmine, from the incense that Wen Kexing likes to use — wraps around him, hands trapping him in between the counter and the limpet attached to him.

Wen Kexing’s palms close over his hands, then guides them to pick up the knife again. Zhou Zishu stiffens, but does not move away. He lets Wen Kexing curl his own fingers properly over the cabbage, and chop at it neatly, over and over.

They have not yet spoken about this between them, despite laying in the same bed right next to each other night after night. The cave was hardly a luxurious abode and to save effort and space, Zhou Zishu fell asleep next to a comatose Wen Kexing for several months, wanting to ascertain that he was alive and breathing at any given moment.

After Wen Kexing woke, Zhou Zishu continued to sleep next to him, and Lao Wen never once brought it up in conversation.

Coming back to Four Seasons Manor, Wen Kexing naturally turned up in his room instead of the one he was staying at before, already asleep when Zhou Zishu returned to turn in.

This man is his soulmate, the person he would give everything up for no matter what it was. His lost shidi, but even before that, this man was someone who was willing to do everything he could for him. Who cared for him like no one else ever would again.

Beyond that? Zhou Zishu knows of his feelings, and is rather certain of Wen Kexing’s. He supposes that after pledging to save each other’s lives at the expense of their own repeatedly, some things just do not have to be articulated.

Zhou Zishu leans into the hold, relaxing entirely.

At this, it is Wen Kexing’s turn to be stunned at the reciprocation where he was expecting none before, but the man recovers quickly. He snuggles in even closer, the side of his face pressed right up against Zhou Zishu’s. 

His Ah Xu remains still, as if unbothered, and Wen Kexing decides to try his luck.

“Ah Xu,” he angles his head slightly, his mouth brushing lightly over Zhou Zishu’s cheek as he murmurs straight into his ear.

Ah, there it is. Zhou Zishu freezes against him, now making to move his ear out of Wen Kexing’s reach.

“What?”

Wen Kexing smiles, amused and so, so fond.

His voice still low and sultry, he continues, “I think you’re right, you should let me cook instead. You’re murdering the cabbage.”

Zhou Zishu pauses for a good two seconds before turning to glare at Wen Kexing. Wen Kexing recognizes that look, and the warmth on Zhou Zishu’s back vanishes instantly just as he starts waving the knife at him.

“Wen Kexing, don’t you think you’re being ridiculous and childish-“

Laughter fills the kitchen, a sound that is incredibly melodious, immediately soothing all the uneasiness Zhou Zishu feels.

Outside, all twenty disciples try not to peek and look at their shifu and shishu being strange again. One of the younger ones, Xiao Man, cannot help but angle his head in the direction of the kitchen, and then says, “Da-shixiong, shifu is going after shishu with a knife! Is he going to be okay?”

Zhang Chengling sighs inwardly, then smiles and pats the boy on the head.

“That’s shifu’s way of showing how much he cares about shishu.”

Back in the kitchen, having heard that tiny quip from their youngest disciple, Wen Kexing finally stops in his tracks, turning around mid-escape to grab Zhou Zishu around the waist with a hand, and the other going to the hand that is holding onto the knife and stopping his Ah Xu from possibly murdering him.

He sets the knife aside, but his other hand does not move.

“What are you doing,” grumbles Zhou Zishu, looking away, his expression a little stern, as if telling Wen Kexing not to be such a nuisance.

This close, however, Wen Kexing can certainly see the light flush on Ah Xu’s cheekbones. 

If Wen Kexing had to rank all the beautiful bones that Ah Xu has, it would probably be scapulas first, followed by his cheekbones.

Wen Kexing’s eyes dip a little lower.

He thinks collarbones may rank third.

“Ah Xu.”

“What?” sighs Zhou Zishu. “Let me go, the disciples need to finish the last set of practice-“

He is cut off when Wen Kexing swoops downwards, and catches his lips in his.

Zhou Zishu’s eyes go wide, but before he can do anything like move away and out of Wen Kexing’s firm hold, the man circles his waist with both arms, effectively trapping him and bringing him closer.

Wen Kexing’s body temperature tends to run on the colder side these days, a side effect of him having been brought back from the brink of death.

Right now, however, Zhou Zishu can feel nothing else but the scalding heat. His hands move up, intending to push Wen Kexing away, but they end up clutching tight around the man’s broad shoulders.

He does not stop the kiss, letting Wen Kexing’s lips roam as they like.

Outside, an unfortunate Chengling who sees this finds his eyes going wide.

“Erm,” he clears his throat quite loudly, gaining all the disciples’ attention. “Let’s head outside to finish our practice.”

He ushers everyone out, while wondering how the hell he hadn’t seen this coming.

Everything makes so much sense now.

===

Four Seasons Manor grows, and Zhang Chengling along with Bi Xingming end up taking over some classes and teaching of their own.

Wen Kexing does not want to admit it, but it seems that when he asked Ah Xu if he was a servant here, the man actually meant it. His little Chengling, who is not so little anymore, still comes to him to ask for tips or begs him to give some pointers to the other disciples, but most of the time, Wen Kexing is cooking.

He makes breakfast, is involved in lunch, and definitely ends up cooking a feast every dinner. Thankfully, Bi Xingming is unlike his da-shixiong and shifu as he actually has some kitchen sense, but Wen Kexing has truly been demoted to servant in this manor.

A servant that ends up in his master’s bed every night, Wen Kexing thinks then, and feels better about it immediately.

“Shishu, let me help you bring these out,” Bi Xingming says, stepping into the kitchen just as he’s done with the last dish.

“Mnn,” Wen Kexing hums in assent without looking up from his soup, tasting it one last time.

At the very least, these days, Zhou Zishu is able to actually, actually taste the food he lovingly cooks.

“Perfect,” he nods. “Is your shifu not up yet? It’s almost lunch time.”

“Ah…” Bi Xingming blinks, “You said not to disturb him until he wakes up, and he hasn’t left the room since morning.”

Wen Kexing frowns slightly. Sure, he worked Ah Xu over thoroughly last night, but not to the extent that he would need to sleep in for this long. Worry niggling at him, he gets Bi Xingming to start lunch with the other disciples first without waiting for them, and heads in the direction of their room.

The last time Zhou Zishu slept in so late, it was the night he confessed his past to Wen Kexing, of how he caused the deaths of everyone in Four Seasons Manor. He was deathly ill then and emotionally wrung out — things that Wen Kexing loathes to see on Zhou Zishu.

“Ah Xu?” Wen Kexing calls, sliding the door open gently.

The lump under the covers is the same as when he left it this morning. Wen Kexing takes quick strides and goes over, sitting down on the bed next to Ah Xu.

“Ah Xu?” he calls again, his voice soft as he reaches out for Zhou Zishu’s face.

His lips are pale, eyebrows furrowed and perspiring at the forehead.

“Ah Xu, are you ill? What’s wrong?”

Zhou Zishu’s skin is of normal temperature, much to Wen Kexing’s relief. His brain runs through a a million scenarios, none of them good and just as he’s about to yell for Chengling, something clicks in his head.

He does yell for their Chengling in the end, but for a hot bath instead with a pack of herbs and medicine from the stash Wu Xi gave them before he headed back home with Jing Beiyuan.

“Is shifu okay?” he asks, worried.

“He will be,” Wen Kexing says, lifting Zhou Zishu out from under the covers and heading for the bath. “Don’t worry, I’ll watch him. You continue training with the other disciples, otherwise when Ah Xu wakes up he’s going to scold all of you again.”

As Zhou Zishu soaks in the steaming medicinal bath, Wen Kexing sits right next to him, pillowing his head on his arms, which are sitting on the rim of the wooden tub and stares at him.

A few years have passed since the days when Wen Kexing despaired at Zhou Zishu dying in a short few years and the peace they have now makes it easy to not think about the past. He forgets sometimes that despite being healed, despite him giving his life force to Ah Xu, the man’s body has been to hell and back with the nails.

And forcing them out of his body forcefully while he mistakenly believed that Wen Kexing was dead, wanting to take revenge for him-

For the rest of their time together, Wen Kexing knows he will forever be guilt-ridden at this. If only he had just told Ah Xu, if only he didn’t make another stupid decision, there would have been no need for the armoury. No need for self-sacrificial plays, no need for lost time.

That Zhou Zishu would love him still and be with him, that is nothing short of a miracle.

On days like these, when the weather turns just the slightest bit wet and cold, his body starts to hurt, especially the points where he kept the nails in. All seven of them, the stupid man.

Wen Kexing inches forward and presses a kiss to the man’s temple.

For this life and every life after this one, Wen Kexing swears he will always be good to Zhou Zishu.

===

He loves and hates Wen Kexing’s hair, even after several years have passed. They are nearing the ten-year mark since leaving the mountains, and Zhou Zishu has slept next to this man every single day after, but whenever Wen Kexing shows up, Zhou Zishu has to admit that his breath is always taken away.

Wen Kexing looks ethereally gorgeous with those white strands, his features standing out even more clearly, not that Zhou Zishu would ever tell him that lest it goes to his head. However, it is a reminder that his silly, stupid shidi and now husband would dare to sacrifice his own life for his without telling him.

It is a constant reminder that he lost him, even if momentarily.

“Ah Xu, why are you are staring at me like that? You’re going to make me shy. Did you miss me? I was only gone for two days,” Wen Kexing says unabashedly during dinner.

At once, coughs and chokes go around the table, and the clanking of dropped chopsticks on the table echo through the dining hall.

Zhou Zishu takes a deep breath to compose himself and resists the urge to fight with the man over dinner. It would be a waste of food, not to mention a futile argument seeing that Wen Kexing has not changed at all since the first time they met. As long as he does not break out into poetry-

“Ah Xu, I missed you too. It is so fortunate that your heart is akin to mine-“

At that, everyone immediately stands from the table and excuses themselves, stumbling over one another as they parrot that they are full and do not want to have anymore.

It is an open secret that they are together — not because they are hiding it, but simply because they find no need to verbalize what they are to others — and if it was another couple that was stuck in this situation, he would possibly find it amusing, but Wen Kexing is incorrigible and has been for years. 

Zhou Zishu finds that while he loves the man and is utterly devoted to him, is willing to die for him, at times like these maybe they should have both just stayed dead.

“Wen Kexing, have you had enough?”

He reaches out, intending to pinch at Wen Kexing as a lesson, but the man catches his hand within his deft fingers and brings it upwards so his hand is cupping one side of his face. Wen Kexing turns his head a little to press his lips to the open palm, a soft smile tugging at his lips.

“I missed you,” Wen Kexing repeats. “It’s strange how it has only been two days, but I miss you like I’ve never missed anything else before.”

The impending reprimand dies on his lips.

Fine, just this once.

Zhou Zishu sighs and pinches at Wen Kexing’s cheek instead.

“Ow, ow! Ah Xu, Ah Xu, this face is a work of the heavens, how can you trample on it like this?!”

Zhou Zishu’s eyes are once again drawn to Wen Kexing’s white locks, and he unconsciously reaches out.

As if knowing what Zhou Zishu is thinking about, Wen Kexing grabs for the hand again, interlacing their fingers together.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before I faked my death, and then not telling you at the end, before I….” Wen Kexing says, swallowing with difficulty. “Ah Xu, if I could change it, I would. But at the end, if I was given the same choice, I would have chosen the same.”

It hurts to think about that morning, seeing Wen Kexing’s hair all white and almost lifeless, his hands dropping from his.

“I know,” Zhou Zishu breathes, hiding his face in Wen Kexing’s shoulder. “I know.”

===

Zhou Zishu hears of the supposed ambush on Four Seasons Manor while he  has half a day’s journey left before he gets home.

The unrest in jianghu truly never ends; their fight with the Scorpions, with Tian Chuang, with Prince Jin and Zhao Jing was rewarded with peace for a few years, but people never say contented for long. Old sects are wiped out and new ones emerge. Most of them know not to mess with Four Seasons Manor as his and Wen Kexing’s reputations indeed precede themselves, but it is unavoidable, perhaps, for some newer and ambitious ones to mistakenly think they can take both of them on.

Well, they must have made sure Zhou Zishu was not in the manor before striking, as if Wen Kexing could not take all of them on himself.

He arrives in the nick of time in the heat of battle, although a quick glance shows that Four Seasons Manor is still holding up pretty well, with Zhang Chengling and Bi Xingming leading the rest of the disciples.

And there he is, Wen Kexing, all regal in his red embroidered robes, and his white hair pinned up neatly. Every movement from his sharp and deadly fan strikes true. His eyebrows are furrowed slightly, his eyes revealing a thirst for blood that Zhou Zishu hasn’t seen in a while.

He shivers at the want that hits him, even though it is not the time and place for it.

Zhou Zishu lands opportunely behind Wen Kexing and parries a blow that was coming straight for Wen Kexing back.

The both of them exchange a glance, and wordlessly, delve right back into the fight.

When the dust settles a few hours later, Zhou Zishu makes sure injured disciples are looked at while others clean up the mess. His attention finally freed up so he can focus solely on Wen Kexing, Zhou Zishu turns, only to see his husband a distance away from him, supporting himself against a wall.

He recognizes the signs of Wen Kexing’s brain-splitting headaches immediately, and rushes over.

“Lao Wen!”

“Shishu!”

Zhou Zishu catches Wen Kexing just as he collapses, his legs giving out under him. His fingers immediately search for Wen Kexing’s pulse.

This is an all-too familiar scene, but Zhou Zishu cannot remember when this last happened. His body growing cold at the implications, all the fears are now suddenly dredged up from the trenches of trauma sustained at a point in time long ago.

“Go get Physician Yao,” Zhou Zishu snaps at whichever disciple is standing closest to them, before picking Wen Kexing up.

Zhang Chengling turns up in their room before the physician does, and whatever fear he is experiencing right now abates slightly.

Before the manor started to grow, there was only the three of them. If anyone understands what he is feeling right now, it would be Chengling.

“Shifu…” he says, trailing off as he kneels down next to the bed and looks at Wen Kexing. “Shishu hasn’t had this in years, what happened?”

“Maybe… I don’t know,” Zhou Zishu exhales heavily. “He could be just.. too tired.”

They watch over him until the physician arrives. Zhou Zishu refuses to be chased out, and the tightness in his chest only disappears once she rolls her eyes at him after testing Wen Kexing’s pulse.

“The both of you are not young anymore,” Physician Yao almost scoffs. “And the injuries and illnesses that the both of you share combined can fill up a list a mile long. He hasn’t exerted himself like this in a long while, suddenly letting it all out in a fight like that, of course there are bound to be side effects. Stop looking at him as if he’s about to die.”

Zhou Zishu is about to thank her, when a weak rasp comes from the bed, “… been there, done that.”

Relief floods him at the sound of Wen Kexing’s voice, and immediately after, anger burns hot through him as the man’s words sink in, “Wen Kexing!”

Physician Yao retreats, knowing by now not to give instructions to them both when they get like this. Instead, speaking to any of their disciples would be much more reliable.

===

Later, after all has quietened down for certain, the stench of blood fading somewhat, Wen Kexing blinks languidly, not wanting to move at all, or do anything.

If he was to die in this position right now, he would have zero complaints.

Zhou Zishu pats at the back of his head gently as Wen Kexing lies almost half on him, his ear pressed over Zhou Zishu’s heart, comforted by the strong beat. Years later, the both of them approaching the big five-o, and Wen Kexing is still like a child sometimes.

Well, he’s making up for lost time.

He is greedy for more years with Ah Xu, in this life and every single life after. A hundred, a thousand years and more. Every little bit, he wants to spend with Ah Xu.

“Ah Xu,” he murmurs, and feels the vibration of the man’s response through his chest, “Before, I could not have what I wanted. I could not play when I wanted to, there was no one to teach me martial arts when I wanted to learn and the things I wanted I could not afford.”

“The person I wanted to keep, I was too late.”

This conversation seems so far away now, but is as clear to the both of them as if it happened just yesterday. That rainy, storming night.

A night of despair and hopelessness.

Zhou Zishu huffs in amusement.

“And now?” he asks.

Wen Kexing looks up, and cheekily responds, “Well, the martial arts part aside, Ah Xu, you pay for everything now, so I can afford everything! And in terms of play… you would know best how well I play now with-“

He’s cut off with a warning look from Zhou Zishu, although the man does not attempt to jostle him, still worried about his earlier headache and injuries sustained from the fight.

Wen Kexing loves this man, to the depths of hell and back.

“And… the person I want to keep, is right here with me.”

Zhou Zishu’s answering smile lights up every fibre of being.

They have forever to look forward to.

***

[thomaslightwood]

The Weight of Love

THOMASTAIR WEEK - Day 2 (16th July): Thomas Appreciation Day (hosted by @youngreckless!)

I managed to put myself together to write this, hope you enjoy it 🤧

Words: 1 773

•

When Thomas was a little boy he hated runes.

He hated seeing the anxious faces of his parents when the Silent brothers put the Voyanceon rune on his hand. 

He hated how he had memorized the Nourishment rune and still did it on himself.

He hated how the Iratze runes were put on him over and over again when he had a bad ill episode.

He hated runes.

But he loved musical notes.

In a way they were so similar to the Shadowhunter runes but it didn't cost anyone worries.

The first time he wrote a song - full written song - he didn't want to show it to anyone. It wasn't something that was meant for anyone's eyes.

“Tommy!”

Thomas sighed. He loved his sisters. He loved his parents. But sometimes their love was a weight that was crushing him.

“I'm coming!” he shouted in response. He hid his notebook with stories and songs under his bed, carefully putting a few things over it. Then he ran over to the living room where his sisters were.

“Yes?”

Eugenia was furiously pricking with a needle the tapestry she was making. Or trying to make. Barbara was doing the same as her's but she used the needle much calmer. She looked at Thomas.

“Come here with us,” she smiled. “The dinner is soon.”

Thomas sat on the couch next to Eugenia without saying a word. He knew why his sister had asked him to come. So they can watch after him. Like he was a glass that could be broken by the wind.

“Barbs,” Eugenia said, her face a little red. “Please come help me with this or I swear to Raziel, I'll rip it off.”

Barbara left her tapestry on the table and stood up from the chair she was sitting on, coming to the couch. Thomas moved at the end of it, making space for her.

“Here,” Barbara gently took Eugenia's needle. “You must be careful with the threads…”

While Barbara was explaining to Eugenia, Thomas was staring at the wall without blinking. He wanted to be alone. To write a new song. To train. He didn't want his sisters to babysit him.

Barbara laughed. Her laugh was soft, quiet, warming up something in your chest.

“It's alright, Nia. It's hard.” She stood up again. “I'll bring some of my materials. Wait a second.” Then she left the room, heading towards her bedroom.

“Damn it,” Eugenia said, angrily throwing her work at the table. “Stupid, useless thing.”

She hid her face with her hands and took a few breaths. Thomas, unsure what he could do to comfort his sister, approached her. He slowly hugged her, wrapping his short hands around her. 

She looked at him. Her eyes were wet. But as she blinked a few times the tears disappeared. Eugenia hated people seeing her cry.

She hugged Thomas across his shoulders, almost crushing him in a hug.

After a few seconds he murmured, “You're stopping my oxygen.”

A devilish smile broke on her face.

“This is not my problem. I'm a big sister, I have duties of annoying my little brother.”

Thomas giggled and tried to fight her off. They ended up falling on the couch, laughing. 

Barbara was standing on the door, smiling, while she watched them.

•

The day his parents decided he was ready to go to the Academy, Thomas had conflicted feelings. On one side this meant he wasn’t looked at like a fragile little boy. On the other hand - he had to deal with people. He was worried he wouldn't find friends. Or he would do something stupid and everyone would laugh at him.

The night before his first day at the Academy Thomas couldn’t sleep.

But in the end everything turned out fine. Even better than he expected to. He had a whole group of friends. While there, he missed the solitude he once had. He missed being alone with his own thoughts. But he liked being here. To talk with so many people who weren't his family.

There was one thing he couldn’t escape. That worry on everyone’s faces. He agreed to go to the Academy because he wanted to go away from his overprotective sisters and worrying parents. But sometimes he could see the same worry on his friends’ faces. Maybe it was all in his head. But he couldn’t get rid of the feeling that since they once knew him as a sickly boy, they forever would see him as a sickly boy.

The only one who didn’t have this worry on his face was Alastair Carstairs.

•

Thomas was aware he was becoming ridiculous. But he wasn’t sure he could stop.

He didn’t want to be Alastair's puppy that follows him everywhere. Matthew hated him. James was bullied by him. Alastair was nasty to everyone. But still. 

Thomas couldn’t explain it but there was something in Alastair Carstairs that was… extraordinary.

Sometimes Thomas would spot Alastair looking at him when he thought no one was watching. He was turning away quickly and called him “pipsqueak” or “half pint”. Thomas’ heart was starting to beat very fast when this happened. Like a small song was trapped in his heart and Alastair’s closnesses was making it louder.

Shortly after James, Matthew and Christopher were expelled, he found himself in an old room in the Academy. It was all dust and dirt that made his lungs ache. But he stayed because there was an old piano in it.

It made him smile. He took out his notebook with songs and sat in front of it. He was happy to touch it, to feel its coldness and steadiness. It was refreshing. 

Eventually he decided to examine the rest of the room. It was stuffed with books and old furniture. 

“Pipsqueak?” 

Thomas jumped. He turned and saw Alastair next to the piano. 

“What are you doing here, pixie?”

“Um” Thomas said. “Just looking around.”

Alastair’s gaze slowly moved to the piano. Thomas’ heart stopped. His notebook was there. Alastair was going to see his notebook.

“T-That’s nothing-”

But Alastair was already reaching for the book. He grabbed it from the stand. Thomas started to tremble. He hurried towards the other boy.

“Please, this is just-”

“Wait a second, tea cup,” without much effort he avoided Thomas’ attempts to take his notebook back. He was scanning the pages and then glanced at Thomas. Looked back at the page.

“That's not bad, pipsqueak,” then he gave him back the notebook, turned around and before leaving the room stopped. Turned to him. “You should let me play this sometime,” Alastair said and left the room.

Thomas' heart was beating fast. He was still trembling but for other reasons. His face was hot.

He glanced at the song Alastair had looked at. It was his first song. Did he really like it? Did he really want to play it?

Thomas hugged his notebooks, smiling, because he imagined how Alastair was playing his song.

But this never happened.

•

“You damn Shadowhooligans,” Polly murmured. “Don't have demons to hunt or something?” she sounded annoyed but said this with a smile. 

The four boys, giggling, headed towards their room where James managed to make their exclusive place in the Devil's Tavern.

Thomas was happy. He felt alive. He couldn't remember the last time he felt so reckless, so independent from his family. A time when he could just be.

As he looked at James and Matthew he thought how lucky they are. To find themselves parabatai. They were so different, not just by appearance. James was more quiet natured, more into stories and books. Matthew was loud, bohemian and liked being around people. Yet they somehow made it work.

Sometimes Thomas dreamed of having the same bond with somebody. The only one he could think of was Christopher. He was his brother in every way except blood. But he knew they weren't like this. Christopher would be kind of Shadowhunter Thomas wasn't and vica versa. And he couldn't imagine being with someone like Matthew - he loved him with his whole heart - but Thomas would prefer somebody more like James or himself.

Probably the parabatai-hood wasn't for him after all.

•

“I believe you'll like it there, son,” Gideon said to Thomas. “It helped me a great deal when I was your age.”

Thomas was packing clothes. He soon would turn eighteen and he was going to his travel year. He was scared. And anxious. But so excited at the same time. He looked forward to it for months.

“I hope so,” he said while putting a few shirts in his pack. “I will have a great opportunity to practice my Spanish.” 

Gideon smiled. “Indeed.”

He watched Thomas pack for a few minutes with a warm smile.

“Tom,” he said quietly. Thomas turned to him. Gideon hesitated. “I came to realize that all the attention and care the family took for you were necessary but… that they may have been a burden for you.”

Thomas looked at the floor. Gideon put a hand on his shoulder.

“You never said so, I know. This is what you do. But I have noticed it. When you're annoyed at the overprotectiveness of your sisters, at your mum and I when we put some restrictions on what to do, especially when you were younger.” 

Thomas looked at his father. His face was kind, gentle.

“It's alright. When I was your age I did similar things. I was silent for… some things. You know the story of your grandfather. But going to Spain had a really good influence on me. It helped me grow outside my father's control. I hope it can do the same for you. I strongly believe when you have the chance to be on your own and far away from all the people that overwhelm you with their care, you'll do great.”

Thomas' eyes were wet. He blinked a few times, trying to chase the tears away. 

“I… I don't want to be away from you.”

Gideon hugged him and gently squeezed him. Thomas buried his face in his father's chest.

“I know,” he said. “I also know that this can be scary and equally exciting. Just want to let you know… it's alright to feel this. All of this. Has always been and always will be. When you return you'll be changed. And our family, we'll be here, waiting for you.”

Thomas hugged his father too. It was alright. Everything was going to be alright. 

“I love you,” he whispered, his voice a little muffled.

Gideon kissed the top of his hair. “I love you too.”

[ganondoodle]

Having lived my whole life in the same place, its strangely sad to see the change around it, helplessly watching.

I remember the old bridge over the little creek going by just beside our house, small and crafted from natural stone, ivy growing all over the thick stone railing. I remember climbing on it to reach the fruits of our old plum tree, giving some of them to strangers walking by or to just sit there and watch the water. Now there is a big bridge, made of blank concrete and maschine cut granite, with railings of metal bars. I know the old bridge had to go, after all, i was the one who noticed the weird noises coming from it during a rain heavy storm, as the stones that once withstood tanks rolling over them, were loosening and falling into the water below. I saw how the thick stone railing slowly started to move, and watched as it fell, hastily running outside in the rain to stop cars from driving there as we feared it could break more ... . Our plum tree had to be cut down for the new bridge to be build, as had the wild bushes and trees growing at the sides of the stream including the giant healthy chestnut tree on the other side of the bridge, it was so big my arms couldnt have reached around even half of its trunk; i liked walking under it just to stare up into the huge tree crown. I cried when it was cut down. Our biggest cherry tree was displaced to make way for a metal walkway for pedestrians, its roots cut too shortly it soon started to die; and yet, here it still stands, the trunk falling apart, barren and dead while one single branch still grows leaves, clinging onto life.

I remember the big willow, its crooked and twisted branch creating little plays of shadows in my room at night, illuminated by the moon. I remember it breaking off and falling onto our swing in the garden during a storm, utterly crushing it. I cried when the tree was cut down piece by piece. My father placed pieces of its trunk and thick branches around the garden, they started to sprout again, but all soon died anyway ... exept for the biggest part of the trees wood, still lying in the grass, it sprouted again and took root, even after the droughts of recent years stunting its growth, its still alive. The trunk it grows from is falling apart, slowly becoming one with the ground. I hope it wont damage the tree when its splintering apart further. I water it in the summer.

I remember the sandpit in our garden we used to play in. How deep we could dig until the earth came through. How when needed, we would drive somewhere not far, to get new sand for it. I remember climbing around on the big mountain of sand, searching for the best parts to take from, how we always overloaded our car by a little bit and yet the people we bought the sand from, still let us through. The sandpit is now overgrown, almost swallowed by grass and moss. The piece of the trunk of the willow is right by its side.

I remember the big spruce tree in our garden. We called it "Wetterfichte" (weatherspruce), it was the tallest of all the trees, its top had multiple crooks and the end was split in two, both kept growing for years. It didnt make it through the drought last summer. My father had to cut it down a few weeks ago. He screwed a big hinge at half of its height and build a little circle of protective wooden beams around its roots so it wouldnt damaged the little garden of saplings we planted there, when it falls. It worked thankfully, the various kinds of saplings didnt suffer much, if any, damage, including the stump of a piece of the willow i put over there because little maple seedlings took root in a hole within it. They are still growing. Sometimes in the spring, i go around the garden carefully plucking out the little maple seedlings to plant them somewhere save from the lawnmower. Even if most dont make it in the end.

I remember the sudden freezing temperatures last year, just when my walnut trees started to open their buds. We tried to cover up the twins we planted in the spot of land that nobody really owns, we call it "Niemandsland" (No-ones-land), like the area sophie, from "howls moving castle" traveled to after being cursed. The frost killed the little trees buds and leaves anyway, but they sprouted from the sides afterwards, even if weakly. This year they are as lively as if nothing happened. Only the dead endings of where their original crown used to be is a reminder. And i watch anxiously, when workers come to mow down the grass on the other side of the creek, fearing they might step over it and mow down the saplings i care for so deeply too, as if they were no different from the grass.

I remember the big hedge that used to be on the other side of the road. Birds would eat the berries of it and build their nests within its branches. As kids, we used to pluck some berries off and jump on them, they sounded funny when squashed under our shoes, like bubble wrap. When people moved into the house that the hedge belonged to, they ripped out the bushes during the birds nesting season and replaced it with a thin metal fence. They mow their lawn every few weeks with one of those rideable lawnmowers. The grass thats left stands in patches of green and brown. Its perfectly short.

I remember the second big chestnut tree, always in the view of my window. Its been a sickly one for as long as i can remember clearly, though almost as big as the one was by the bridge. It has deep scars in its bark from nails and pins that people used to hang up announcements for the restaurant build behind it. The restaurant is long closed and the rooms rented for little theater perfomances every now and then. Not long ago they cut off all its branches, i dont know why and all i could do was watch helplessly. It grew leaves from its stumpy ends again. They are half brown and shriveled up and half green and lush, just like it always has been.

I remember the tall maple tree my parents cut down when i wasnt home, knowing i would protest it if i was there and somehow hoping that doing it behind my back would make it any better. It was one of my favorite trees. I didnt talk for days.

I gaze into the distance. Theres the big oak tree on the horizon, now fully green and lush. It was leafless for so long, i feared it didnt survive the drought.

My view wanders to the two big healthy fir trees not far away, knowing, one of them will soon be cut down to make way for a garage.

And all i can do is watch.

Helplessly.

[thatbrownb1tch]

Edit:

Okay wait so someone asked for this but I can’t find their question anymore but I’m still posting this. Also this is my first fanfic so I’m sorry if it’s trash. If you guys have any advice it’d be really helpful and appreciated. I’m not the best with smut but I am willing to go a lot more deeper than what I did in this

Summary:

Set after TWK, Jude moves on and spends 5 years in the mortal world. She ends up getting married but the land is dying in Elfhame so Cardan kidnaps her.

Cardan

“Your majesty,” a soft voice entered the throne room. I looked up to find a human servant standing there, quivering.

“Yes?” I asked louder than I intended.

She jumped a little, “the court of Shadows are requesting an audience with you.”

“When?” What do they need. The last time they were here, they made it very clear that they weren’t happy about how I’m okay with Jude stay away for so long.

“Right now would be better,” The girl was skinny, not slim like Faerys but sickly skinny. Something that no mortal should look like, yet every single human I’d seen looked exactly like that except for two.

“Alright, send them in.” They entered silently without saying a word, “So are you planning to talk?” I broke the silence.

“Yes,” The roach began but he was cut off.

“You have to get her back. Look at Elfhame, it’s failing without her. The land is dead, no plants are growing. We’ll all die off if you don’t find a new bride or get her back,” The bomb blurted.

“I don’t know who you are talking about,” My eyes narrowed. I didn’t like how they figured out that Jude truly did become my wife.

“Drop the act. We figured it out and you have to go get her back. Your majesty,” The roach added.

“She stayed away for 5 years. I doubt she’s willing to come back any time soon unless I bring her here without her will,” I realized what they wanted me to do the second the words left my mouth. My expression must’ve given me away because the pair suddenly looked satisfied.

“Great, so go get her now,” The bomb clasped her hands excitedly while the Roach led them outside.

Jude

“Honey?” I called out to Thomas. “Is everything alright?”

“Yes, just there’s someone here-“ I heard a loud noise and then Thomas groan. I was up before I knew it and my feet led me straight to the kitchen where I picked up a knife. It wasn’t very sharp but whatever out there wasn’t very sharp to attack at the front door step. People were always outside in the neighborhood, if anyone did anything outside their house it would spread like wildfire. I walked towards the front door to see a cloaked figure standing with my husband inside. The door was locked so no one saw anything.

“Thomas?” I slowly walked over to him with my grip on the knife fastening.

“I’m okay, I’m okay,” He said as he stiffened. His arm went around my waist quickly as the man approached us.

“Who are you?” You could hear the fear in my voice but something about this person was familiar. As if I’ve seen him before but I couldn’t place my finger on it with the hood covering his face. He took another step towards me and before I knew what I was doing my hand were pushing the hood down while the knife was pressed against his stomach. I think my eyes are deceiving me. There’s no way he’s here standing in front of me, the shock still doesn’t leave me as he pushes me away and goes towards Thomas. Memories flash between my eyes, how Madoc swung his sword and killed my mother and father in front of me. How their life less bodies were on the floor as Vivi, Taryn, and I were forced to leave and go to that wretched place which broke me in so many ways. I stood there as I watched the same man chock my husband to death like he did to my parents years ago. I watched how he picked Thomas up by the throat and looked straight into my eyes. I could hear Thomas’s shouts but I couldn’t bear to move. Get out of here! Jude! Go! Jude! Leave! Run Jude! I staggered back to the front door but I heard Thomas fighting for his life. I can’t just run, I needed to save him. Save my husband and save this life I’ve created for myself. One where I got to live a happy life, one where I didn’t need to be scared every second of the day. I took a step forward to him.

“Take me, please. Leave him. Take me,” I pleaded. If one of us deserved to be taken by him it was me. Madoc released Thomas and turned on his heels as fast as he could. He grabbed my arm as he began to pull me with him outside where hopefully someone would see us. But somehow, not one person was outside, it was just me strangling underneath the grasp of the man who just attempted to kill my husband.

“No!” I heard Thomas yell from inside but we were too far away from him by the time he opened the door.

I woke on a bed, a familiar one that I haven’t seen in a very long time. I woke up to a man sitting in the chair next to me. But not just any man. He was my husband, my true husband.

“Jude,” He breathed.

“Why?” It was the only thing that I could say. Why did he need to ruin it for me? Every single good thing has always been ruined by him. It’s as if he swore to ruin my life for centuries, as long as I’m alive.

“What?”

“I was happy.”

“I know, but I wasn’t,” His eyes softened at my gaze.

“What is your problem? You banished me. I had a happy life with a man I loved,” I never told Thomas I actually loved him because the truth is, I cared about him but not in the way I should’ve. He was more like a best friend to me than a husband but I never did tell him that. We had fights about it too, he always said I never thought of him as a husband but I never confirmed it. He never could see through my lies like Cardan could, it gave me an advantage. I lied about the stupidest things but Thomas always believed me. He always believed me about eh stupid ta things m, even ones where you could see through my lies. He lashed said it’s because we’re in a trusting relationship but I think he just loved me too much to fight with me.

“How I’ve missed your lies,” Cardan always knew when I lied.

“I did not miss you at all,” I wanted to make it clear that I’m not happy about what happened.”

“I know you didn’t. But the land did, Jude, everything is dying off. You have to come back, please.”

“I am back.”

“No, given any chance you’ll just run again, you won’t stay with me. You’ll run away again. Please, stay,” His pleads were nice to hear.

“I hate you. Cardan Greenbriar I will always hate you and don’t you ever think I’ll change my mind because I hate you and will always hate you,” I wanted this to be the truth so badly yet deep down I knew this was a lie.

“Fine, divorce me then. We don’t need to tell anyone but the land is dying with the Queen being gone. The land can be great with just one ruler,” He said disappointed.

“Fine. Just know that I will never love you again,” Once more a lie was said. The real truth was I couldn’t stop thinking about him, he was in my head 24/7.

“I’ll try,” He said as he leaned in closely. There was barely any room in between of his as his lips grazed mine. I could feel his hunger, I wanted it as much as he did in spite of everything I just said. He waited for a second before pressing his lips harder on mine. I could feel it deepening while he moved so he was now on top of me. I was under him, vulnerable, not ready yet. I could tell this was what I was waiting for. For 5 years this was all that I wanted.

“I hate you,” I gasped as he entered me with no warning. I couldn’t tell when he got his pants off, but more than that when I was changed into a night gown and had no underwear on. He thrusted into me as I moaned out his name. We became one, like we did all those years ago. I hate him so much but what I hate even more, is how much I’ve wanted this.

“How I’ve missed you,” He said as he fell over next to me on the bed. “So you’ll stay?” I can’t believe that he was still thinking about this.

“After you kidnapped me and tried to kill my husband?” We all knew who my real husband was but it still didn’t mean he could just ruin a life I built.

“You didn’t even love him.” He always could look through me, “Jude, please, stay.”

“Fine, but promise me I can leave any time I want to,” I want a plan b. One where I can run to Vivi, one where I won’t need to go to Taryn or Madoc.

“I promise, you may leave whenever you desire.”

“Thank you, and I have a question,” I had many but this one, I had for a while.

“Yes?”

“Why did Madoc kidnap me?”

“Everyone else was too scared. Most thought they’d die,” He laughed a little.

“And by everyone, you mean you?” I too know a little about Cardan.

“Ah,” He made eye contact with me, “what type of husband would I be if I wasn’t scared of my wife?”

“A bad one, I’d say,” If I knew anything about Faery couples, it’d be that the man always had the upper hand. But, I think we’ve made it clear that we will always fight for it, “I will always be in control.”

“Unless we’re in the bedroom,” I could feel his smirk.

“Shut up,” now I’m laughing and soon Cardan’s joined. We lay there for a very long time. I don’t know when but we fall asleep, and I have the best night of sleep I’ve had in 5 years.

Outside the walls of the palace, the sky is somehow more blue while the grass has become greener. Flowers grew while plants took over. Trees stood tall again while they filled up the once dull forest. Elfhame became lush and green once more, the best it’s looked in the last 5 years. No one acted as if anything was different but everyone knew, the high king’s bride has returned. He’s finally feeling how he felt all those years ago with the love of his life. The one who somehow brightened up his day with just a glimpse of her face. The one who he stared at as if she was the sun, lighting up eternal darkness. The one who made him feel alive again and again with each laugh that left her. Each smile and giggle that rarely showed up. How he couldn’t wait to spend the rest of his life with the girl who meant everything to him.

[dreamiesdotcom]

you've been fooled! | p.js

Summary: There's something about coffee, breathless moments, and watching memories of the many April 1st you've shared that makes it so hard to resist.

Word Count: 2.1k

You've always been fine with being alone. Being alone afforded you silence, and that's all that you need to have the illusion of peace of mind. That's why months before entering this school, you considered it your mission to not get too much attention on you — if possible, none at all.

Only that it fails the moment you step in, an angel-faced boy asking you if God sent you to this school to guide him.

'No, my parents are the one who sent me here and it's so that I can get an education, not babysit kids.' You politely said, and now you can't even count how many people keep on praising you for doing that! How rare is it to see someone tell others to leave them alone? You swore that one more person trying to talk to you when you're trying to have a sandwich and you're —

"New kid?" a voice rings from behind you, and you turn your head back a little so you could see who's speaking. He grimaces a bit. "Oh, Y/N from the rival school, huh. I've heard fun things about you."

...perfect. Now, you can forget your mission and die.

Your day instantly glooms, and you turn back to your meal. All your plans of starting fresh has just been washed away, and you take an angry bite off your sandwich before someone completely ruins lunch for you.

"If it's about that video, leave me alone."

Silence.

"Donghyuck! Oh God, I'm so sorry..." suddenly comes another boy, slightly panting as he pats the mean one's shoulder a little too harshly. His eye-smile makes it a little better.

"Hyuck's not trying to be mean, he just speaks like that. 'm so sorry!!!"

You squint at him, skeptical.

"Oh, I meant when you told Jaemin to back off when he tried to flirt with you on the hallways." Ah, that. What a fresh start, huh?

Said Donghyuck scratches his nape, looking sheepish as he takes the seat beside you. "Did I sound like I was picking a fight again?"

You chuckle to yourself. That probably explains the cut on his lips pretty well.

"Yeah, you kinda did. Sorry, bro, but I would've slapped you."

"What a way to spend your first day, then." He rolls his eyes, motions for his friends to move tables, who does with little hesitation, "Welcome to this hell hole! It's not the best, but it's as good as Satan's den could be."

You laugh, but you quickly notice curious stares directed at you. The person in front of you smiles shyly and looks away when you meet gazes, and honestly, you don't know how you went from there to a year later, Park Jisung shamelessly holding out a drink at your direction.

"Just drink it, it's iced chocolate! I made it myself!"

"That's nice, Sung... but I only drink coffee." you warily smile, "I don't like sweet things."

The sly smirk Renjun sends you from the other side of the table only encourages your little act, and it takes you all the self-control you could muster to not crack up then and there. Of course, you know what day it is. Of course, you're not gonna fall for his antics, nor the kicked-puppy expression he wears as he insists, "Liar! You live for sweets!"

But, you must admit that it did make you waver.

"No? I like strongly flavored stuff, Sungie," you point out with a grimace. Just for show, you point to Jaemin's cup beside you. "Like this: Nana's coffee, really bitter and strong. This is what I like."

Chenle holds in his laughter. "Since you made it yourself, why don't you just drink it?"

Jisung's eyes widen, "What? No!"

"Drink, Sungie!" comes in chants, alongside multiple repeated versions of 'Jisung! Jisung!' seems to hit something much like his pride, and he lifts it with an expression not suitable for the situation; he looked way too afraid of the chocolate drink. Everyone's holding in their giggles as they watch Jisung grimace and take a gulp out of the cup, trying to play cool even though he chokes not even moments later. Your smile widens.

The salt must be a nice twist.

What a classic, huh? Donghyuck grins, Cheshire and smug, and then he claps.

"Happy April Fool's day, everyone! Park Jisung has fooled himself!"

###

No way in the world are the only words circulating in your head as you pace around, and it's not at all helping. You heave a big sigh only to hiss at him, "What do you mean 'no pranks this year'?"

He shrugs and flops down his bed, "You know we're running out of ideas since Christmas."

"Oh," you widen your eyes, dropping down next to him with your palms covering your face in disappointment. You peek through your fingers, "This is bad."

The plastic stars you've plastered on his ceiling together with Renjun look sickly green at the moment and everything feels out of place. After all, what is April 1st without pranks? What's gonna happen now? You thrash around the bed. You muffle a scream and just hope that he'd open his mouth and come up with something.

"Hey, what about we go on a date as a prank?"

And as usual, his mouth is better off closed.

"Is this your way of flirting, or is this your way of asking me out?"

Jisung makes a confused sound, "What? It's gonna make them freak out, what do you mean?"

"Are you acting out on your feelings or do you actually think that's a good idea?" you take your hands off your face, sitting up and then shrugging at him, "Lines blurred."

"Err. Could be a prank, I guess..." he follows suit, sitting cross-legged in front of you. He smiles, "Unless... you want it to be a real date?'

"Dude, I don't know. When did you get this confidence? Years ago you were stuttering around me." You huff, not knowing where this conversation is going, but a flush creeps on your cheeks. You look down on your fingers as you mumble out the next words, "But if it is... well, sure. I'll go on a real date with you."

You didn't know what falling in love felt like, but in the middle of his room, something felt way too raw and surreal. What is it that says so much about him? Is it the plastic stars? The globe laying on his desk? The map taped at the side of the room? The way dull blue paints his walls, or the way constellations speckle his eyes? Maybe it's the yellow hoodie he's wearing? You don't know which, but right now, something feels strange — something in the scent of cinnamon and cocoa and shades of yellows and blues just feels unabashedly Jisung, and somehow, you just thought that it must be like this.

It should be legal to feel this good.

"Ha! You're kissing, aren't you— oh..."

You both startle to look at where the door swings open, everyone in your friend group standing behind an accusing Jaemin, each one of them looking at him with the eyes of murder. You crack up a laugh, falling over the bed laughing; alone is slightly less entertaining of a thought when you have friends.

"Aish, Na Jaemin —" Jisung groans, standing up while clapping at the older. "Happy April Fool's,  you've fooled yourself."

###

Knees pressed together, head down low, eyes closed, mind empty. Anguished and cold.

"But I've tried my best...." you dejectedly whisper, holding the paper in your hands that said 'Second' in silver delicate swirls. You look up to her with hopeful eyes, "All I need is a chance, mom. You see, Renjun's really good at that subject, he could help me—"

"Those friends again! 'You see', this is why you didn't make it as top of your class!"

"It's... it's one subject, mom. If I try harder, I can —"  you scramble to explain, chasing after her as she moves up the stairs. "You're... mom, you're not taking me away, aren't you?"

The despair in your tone doesn't even shake her. "One day. Go have your fun, and then we'll leave. I'll ask your brother to focus on you more."

"Mom, no! We said that if I study well here, I won't have to leave!"  you reason out. "I really like it here, and I have important people here, and I'm trying hard. We agreed that I'd get to stay if I don't cause trouble, and mom— mom, no, listen!"

"That's my choice. It's for the betterment of your academics—"

"But what about the betterment of my life? What about my choice, mom?"  you hate the way you feel so weak and your voice cracks, but through the blur of fears and your unshed tears, you croak out, "What about me?"

Anguished and cold. So cold, freezing. So loved and all on your own.

"Last time you made a choice, you shamed yourself and this family. You don't deserve your freedom, Y/N." She grimaces. The memory fills your gut with guilt, "And look at you, answering back at your own mother! It's those friends, isn't? They've ruined you more than you've already ruined yourself!"

Quickly enough, the remorse is gone and anger floods you. How dare she?! You look up to her in disbelief, "This is about you ruining my trust, mother. Not them."

"The boy, then." she muses, and it's where you decide that there's no changing her mind. "Love, Y/N, will get you nowhere at the moment."

But it's what kept me alive until now.

You inhale sharply at your thoughts. How does one make forever out of a day?

Maybe you can walk every street, every corner. That date you and Jisung never got to go to, you could do that too because heaven knows how much you wanted that. Maybe you can go take them anywhere, somewhere, and waste away. Maybe you could fall asleep staring at the stars, sharing your dreams, and maybe, just maybe, time wouldn't matter. Better yet, maybe you can change your mother's mind.

Maybe if you just try again, this time much fiercer although you've always been the fiercest, it might be possi—it's impossible. You realize it's impossible as you look out the car windows, watching the city change landscapes in blurs.

Maybe it's really just a different kind of heartbreak to be doing all that you could and still not get the results you wanted. More than it proved that now is not your time again, it also made you feel like a failure. Like you're lacking, insufficient. Never enough.

But you really, really thought you could stay. You hoped.

"Happy April Fool's..." you whispered to no one but yourself, meeting your mother's gaze as she smiles at you through the rearview mirror. You lean your head to the glass, eyes closed and mumbling under your breath, smiling on your own, "I've fooled myself."

And just like that, you were alone again.

###

"Good Morning, may I take your order?"

You press your lips in a thin line as you hear the muffled voice, phone in between your shoulders and ear as you search for your pouch somewhere around your bag. Hurriedly, you muster up your words, "Oh, yes, good Morning too! Just one Iced Americano, please—"

That voice... who?

Looking up, your heartbeat halts, and you try not to look so stunned, something you miserably failed. At least, that's what you read in his amused expression. You stay in silence as you wait for him to finish up your drink, carefully pushing your card towards him as you take your drink from his hold.

"I... I see you're still helping Yongie, huh?" you smile softly, hesitant. "Thank you, Jisung."

Flashbacks, sweet smiles, children at play every day of the year no matter how old — free. When was the last time you've missed such freedom?

He returns the favor, that saccharine expression, and you drag yourself out of the place before you decide to do something stupid. Why is it so easy to see the past years when you're watching it flash by through his eyes?

Standing outside the Cafe wistfully, you look at your cup, tracing over his messy handwriting of your name, basking on the nostalgia of seeing the same hastily written letters that somewhere in time occupied most of your cards, notebooks, and journals. A fond chuckle leaves your lips as you read the post-it note attached.

Happy April Fool's day!

I thought I'd give you hell once you come back for leaving, but well, Park Jisung's fooled himself, huh? My number's still the same. Let's talk sometime soon.

I missed you.

[stetervault]

Hey, love the blog!!! I was wondering if you had any fics where Talia is terrible to Peter and/or Stiles? I know that's a lot of fics so maybe ones where it's a notable plot point? Thanks!

Here are some I know, with various levels of bad alpha/sister/all-around person!Talia (some have her redeemable, others not so much):

IBDC: Teen Wolf by moonstalker24 --> Pretend to be dating AU Part 1 & Part 2

Peter pretends to be Stiles' boyfriend, which quickly evolves into being his actual boyfriend.

The Sphinx of Beacon Hills by Guede (Stetopher)

Stiles is a sphinx, and he’s winging his way to visit his buddy Scott when a storm drops him in Beacon Hills, the craziest, crankiest, coldest place ever. And somehow, he ends up with a bunch of werewolves.

The Other Husband by Therapeutic_Steter

Tumblr Prompt: You start working with your spouse and everyone thinks you're cheating because they don't know that's your spouse.

Home by Ragga

Don't be like him, they would say, and then add, or else you get burned.

Unable to bear the whispers any longer, This One left. He forsook those who forsook him, left him bear his scars alone, the scars he bore for his herd. It was better to be alone, stay off the currents, than swim with those most undeserving of his loyalty. So mote it be.

That is, until he met That One.

Ink Blossoms by Triangulum

"So, you're going to ruin your niece's baby shower with flowers in the wrong color?" the florist, Stiles, asks when they reach the counter. He pulls out a binder and starts flipping through it.

"Not ruin. Mildly inconvenience," Peter says.

"Right, messing with a hormonal pregnant woman seems like a great plan."

"To be fair, her fiance and the father of her baby is my ex-boyfriend," Peter says. "And we weren't broken up when they started 'dating'."

Stiles looks up at him in surprise. "And you're still getting her flowers?" he asks.

"It's under duress, I assure you," Peter says. He absolutely wouldn't be here if his alpha hadn't ordered it.

"Well, shit, yeah, let's get you some purple revenge flowers," Stiles says.

God Only Knows by katiemorag

Peter still couldn't quite believe he was being made to attend his niece's wedding, reason number one being that her fiancé was Peter's ex, who had cheated on Peter with Laura.

There's also the slight issue of his entire family refusing to believe that his boyfriend, Stiles, actually exists.

You Are so Much Better Than I Ever Knew Before by lavenderlotion

“Oh sweetheart,” Kate cooed, voice sickly sweet and obviously fake. “You didn’t think you were dating...did you?”

Stiles just stood there, still in shock and only coherent enough to shrug his shoulders. “Oh sweetie, that is just too cute. No, Der-Bear here just needed something to keep his cock warm while I was away visiting family.”

what the dust reveals by WindyRein

That one where Stiles and Peter are soulmates and there's spy-assassins and wings and other stuff.

You Just Got Ghosted! by Ragga

“What’s your name, angel?” little Stiles murmured even as his eyes fell closed, quickly losing his battle against sleep.

Stiles smiled. It was a little sad but also heavy with the knowledge that what he was doing was the right thing—heavy with the knowledge he didn’t deserve the moniker bestowed upon him.

“You can call me Mietek.”

Or the one where there's time travel, feels abound, two Stiles in one timeline, and one of them stuck somewhere between the planes of existence. Yet a ghost can still manage to save the day and get the girl. Or the wolf. Manly wolf. Because Peter.

Toothed Morality (Send Me Flowers) by rightsidethru

“The world is a dark place, moje kochanie; it is one filled with monsters, always ready to gobble you whole. Be wary of the promises they give: seal every vow with blood and bone and Name. A True Name, one that will bind them to their word.”

“But how will I know that they’re telling the truth, Matka? Couldn’t they lie…?”

“You’ll know, mały płomień.”

Send Newts by Bunnywest

The first thing Peter notices is that Talia’s smiling, and that in itself makes him suspicious. When he sees that Laura’s smiling too, his distrust intensifies. “What?” he demands? “What is it?” Talia’s smile widens as she serves him a cup of tea, made just how he likes it. “Just wondering if your new husband knows you’re such a curmudgeon in the mornings,” she says sweetly. Peter’s cup clatters against the table and the tea spreads in a puddle, ignored. “My what?” “New husband,” Laura chimes in, and then she’s wrapping her arms around Peter’s neck, and saying, “Thank you, Uncle Peter,” and hugging him tight, and the memory of last night tugs at him again. What happened again, exactly?

The Various Triumphs of Mischief Bilinski by Whispering_Sumire

"Hello, Chris," sings a honeyed voice from behind.

Chris' attention snaps toward the intruder, his gun already out of its' holster and aimed at whoever it is — a boy, apparently, with braided russet hair, a red jacket, and wise eyes. He's wearing a gas mask, but Chris can tell by the way his eyes crinkle around the edges, the way sun-burnt sand swirls in his irises, that he's smiling.

Chris cocks his gun.

"You killed my father," he says.

"No offence, but he totally deserved it," the stranger agrees with cheerful solemnity.

"What the hell are you doing in my home?" Chris demands. The kid is perched on a windowsill in Chris' office, as nonchalantly as if this were something he did every day, as if they were familiar.

"I was just wondering," the kid speaks softly, fond amusement sewn through with a peculiar resignation, "how you'd feel about putting down some nazis?"

[Or: The one where Stiles goes back in time and subsequently fucks with everything.]

The Devil You Know by Triangulum

Hell is busy and Peter is understaffed. There are too many evil people being sent down below and there are only so many demons Peter has to torture them with. He needs to reorganize. They don't utilize group torture nearly as much as they should. Stiles probably has some ideas on that.

Or

Peter is King of Hell, Stiles is his second in command, and Talia summons them for a favor.

Call Me Mary Poppins by Triangulum (Stetopher)

Chris pinches the bridge of his nose and says, "You're telling me you want to fuck the nanny?"

"Don't be ridiculous, it's nothing as stereotypical as that, Christopher. This isn't porn. I want to seduce her," Peter says.

Or

A Stetopher nanny AU that wasn't really asked for.

Follow My Lead by Inell (Peter/Laura/Cora/Derek/Stiles)

Peter can’t quite figure out what’s so appealing about the young agent questioning them about his sister’s murder, but he does know that Agent Stilinski is more than he seems.

The Perceptions of You and I by lavenderlotion

“Baby, why did your secretary ask me if I was here under duress?”

Peter looks at him, blinks slowly, and then tilts his head to the side before asking, “She what?”

“She asked if you were forcing me to be here,” Stiles says, eyes flicking across the room to where said assistant is standing at the punch bowl. “She wanted to know if you were blackmailing me or threatening me.”

“She thinks you’re here under duress because Peter is such a terrifying bastard there’s no way a human Omega would be with him otherwise.”

Rent-a-Date by RebaK1tten

If Peter has to spend Christmas with his family, he's going to have a buffer. Even if he has to get him off a website.

Pissing Off The Straights by Therapeutic_Steter

platypusesrneat asked: Peter's family is alive, rich, and complete assholes. Peter can't stand them and is trying to get out of going to their stupid party. Cue Stiles saving the day!

Prayers to a Lesser God by Green

When the Hales are trapped in a house fire, Peter prays to every deity he's ever read about. Miraculously, one answers his call.

this (let's remember) by sinequanon

Peter has always done his pack's dirty work, but it's not until his sister locks him away in Eichen House that he realizes that he has other priorities.

OR

A Romeo and Juliet type story featuring less suicide and more murder.

Don't Come For His Family by lavenderlotion

In the three years Stiles had been with Peter, the man had only talked about his family a handful of times - and as far as Stiles knew had never once spoken to them. So he wasn’t exactly excited to see the mans family, even though that’s exactly what they were about to do.

It does not go to plan.

Beautiful Like Birds by Whispering_Sumire

"Stiles?" he asks, turning on the light, and Stiles looks at him- eyes wide, a flicker of utter devotion and heartbreaking joy passing his features before his whole face crumples and-

"Daddy?"

John has never seen his son like this, or maybe he has, when Claudia died, but it's different somehow, more, and terrifying because he has no idea why. He's closed half the distance between them before he even has time to think it through, but it doesn't matter because Stiles has bridged the rest and flung himself into John's arms.

He falls apart like that, holding onto John so tightly that it's hard to breathe, but he can't care about that right now because his son is sobbing and chanting "Daddy," desperately into his shoulder.

[Or, the one where Stiles goes back in time to save the world, and surprisingly, survives to tell the tale.]

We Three Can Rule The World by Whispering_Sumire (Steterek)

"Hello," he says softly, setting his fiddle down in his lap, not bothering to stand.

"Hi," Derek replies, half-gruff, then, because he should, "that was- that was beautiful but... you know this is private property, right?"

The boy throws his head back and laughs, and laughs, and laughs. The sound of it is overwhelming in its childish joy, and his eyes positively sparkle when they land on Derek again.

"Yes," he says, unashamed "I knew." Then he's standing, fiddle and bow in one hand, the other stretched out toward Derek, friendly and welcoming, "My name is Stiles."

[Or: The one where there's a fiddler, and two werewolves whose eyes flash blue, and a whole fucking world to conquer.]

The Alpha Thief by Triangulum

Something changes around the time Peter turns thirty. His wolf becomes malcontent and angry. His control, impeccable since he was a child, starts to slip, that inner rage leaking out. Talia's iron clad control over the pack chafes him. He can't explain why, but it feels like his world shifts. Pack members he's grown up with suddenly leave with barely an explanation, without a goodbye. His parents' deaths, something that occurred over five years ago, suddenly feel raw, everything after their passing he remembers feeling stilted and wrong.

Or

What if Malia's existence wasn't the memory Talia took from Peter? And what if memories weren't the only thing she stole?

[isingonly4myangel]

You asked for prompts, so here is one: Hilda organizes a dance at the Academy of Unseen Arts to lift people’s spirits. Zelda begrudgingly attends. Everything is fine until a cheeky young warlock asks her to dance, and she has a flashback to being under Faustus’ spell.

Yikes, well this only took me more than a year to answer. Nothing like a mandatory quarantine to force you into working on pieces you haven’t touched in ages! Anyway, this is set after part 2, so we’re still in a sweet spot of potential before part 3 happened. First CAOS story, would love to hear people’s thoughts! 

Also, in case anyone is interested, the piece they dance to is “Melting Waltz” by Abel Korzeniowski. Yes, I like my horror tv shows :) 

Below the line, because Faustus Blackwood is an ass, and- ya know- trauma

The dance had been Hilda’s idea. Since the whole Satan fiasco, morale amongst the remainder of the coven had been low. Very low. Hilda, ever the caretaker, tried everything to lift people’s spirits. Once baked goods had failed, even with enchantment, she began to plan for the dance.

A week or two prior, Zelda had contacted the High Priests of two covens in New York City that had a reputation for being more liberal in their beliefs, to inform them of what had happened in Greendale. Both men had accepted her as the first High Priestess in history with relative ease, and though she was reluctant to show it, Zelda was delighted. So when creating a guest list, Hilda had written to them with a dual invitation for a face-to-face meeting as well as an evening of socialization with the Greendale coven.

Expecting the remaining members of the Greendale coven to be joined by a dozen or so members of the New York covens, Hilda spent days decorating and baking. Two days before the event, she and Zelda stood in the main hall at the Academy, making minor adjustments to decorations.

“What’ll we do about that… thing?” Hilda asked, gesturing to the statue in the centre of the space, now missing its head. It was one of only two tangible marks of Faustus Blackwood’s brief and twisted domain over the Church of Night, the other being his office within the building. Zelda had begun to clear it out the previous week, but had left almost as soon as she entered. She could not stand his lingering scent.

In response to Hilda’s question, the ginger-haired witch merely raised her left hand, palm facing the statue, and Hilda turned to look at Zelda as she felt her sister’s magic surge through the room. Slowly at first, but then with increasing speed, the neck of the statue began to melt. Dark grey droplets formed, dripping from the statue’s throat down to its shoulders. Before long, stone flowed as liquid, the statue becoming misshapen, drooping as it disintegrated.

Once the statue was no more than a large puddle of grey sludge, it suddenly errupted into flames. Zelda took a drag off the cigarette in its holder on her right hand, watching the remains of the statue evaporate.

“Well,” Hilda broke the silence as the last of the puddle burned away. “I suppose that’s that.” She began, somewhat awkwardly, to sneak out of the room around her sister. Zelda methodically exhaled a cloud of smoke before flicking the ashes of her cigarette in the swiftly shrinking puddle. Then the redhead turned on her heel and sauntered out, feeling somewhat lighter.

~~

The evening was lovely. The hall of the Academy was alive with light and sound. Candles on each wall and hovering overhead created a sophisticated and appropriately spooky embiance. Music reverberated softly through the space, somehow smoothly alternating between classical orchestrations, jazz band recordings, and modern pop songs for the younger generation.

Sabrina sat on the staircase surrounded by her schoolmates, the red silken fabric of her skirt draped over the stairs. Her mortal friends had joined the coven for the occasion, mingling with the Academy students around Sabrina. Hilda played hostess as she made her way in cheerful circles around the room to ensure that every guest was contented, the neckline of her blue dress cut just a little lower than previous dresses (at her sister’s encouragement). Zelda was every inch the High Priestess. Her fiery hair was pinned up, her dress a formal black, pointed at her shoulders and at the ends of her long sleeves, partially covering the backs of her hands. Her nails were a deep, blood red matching the jewels of her earrings and the color painting her lips. She stood in a cluster of warlocks, trading ideas on numerology, quietly pleased that things seemed to be going so well. Their guests appeared to be enjoying themselves, and Zelda felt respected, listened to, equal with the men she stood amongst. It made for a very welcome change.

The music shifted into a haunting waltz, a minor-keyed orchestration full of strings. The warlock on Zelda’s left extended an upturned hand to her, the gesture holding a certain air of ceremony. He made quite a picture with his gold suit jacket, along with gold rings on his fingers, eyes lined in the same color, and nails painted to match. So much gold laid against his dark skin created quite a striking effect. “Might I ask you for a dance, High Priestess?” he questioned with a charming smile. Zelda raised an eyebrow, almost as though she were evaluating him before replying.

“Very well,” she murmured after a moment’s pause, placing her hand in his outstretched one. He led her to the centre of the room where other dancing couples had begun to pick up the waltz tempo, and pulled her gracefully into a dance frame with a hand on her back, leaving her free hand to rest on his shoulder. As the music rose, he stepped forward and began to lead.

They were a very elegant pair, and other couples drifted to the outskirts of the dancing space to allow them more room. A number of conversations around the room fell silent as people turned to watch.

“You dance beautifully, High Priestess,” he spoke as she followed his change of direction with ease, flashing her that same lovely smile.

“Thank you, Brother Ethan. It was one of my favorite pastimes a century or two ago, I did quite a lot of it. All those marvelous European parties.”

“Oh I know just the ones, somehow the Europeans always throw superior parties. And so many handsome young men,” he added, a wry smile on his lips. Zelda gave a knowing laugh as he raised their connected arms for her to turn under, but as she spun- once, twice- the room seemed almost to tilt under her feet, and she heard the flutter of a skirt that she was not wearing, felt sharpened fingernails pricking the delicate skin of her waist. She was pulled back against the warlock, and she desperately tried to focus on his tightly curled hair, the feeling of the flat of his palm nearly between her shoulder blades, the gold edging his dark eyes, anything to remind her that this was not Faustus.

Breathe, she thought, forcing herself to keep with the rhythm of the music while everything in her screamed to run. Careful to keep her face frozen in a slight smile, she directed all of her attention to inhaling and exhaling evenly in time with the music, counting waltz time in her head. In 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6. Out 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6. Her feet followed his automatically, and she bit hard on the inside of her lip as he turned her again.

An eternity later, the music came to an end, and she returned his bow with a picture perfect curtsey. “You are truly lovely, Sister Zelda,” spoke her partner as they returned to the side of the room.

Zelda, Blackwood’s voice hissed in her mind, a cruel echo of Ethan’s friendly tone.

“Thank you for the dance, Brother Ethan,” she spoke, digging her fingernails into her palms to stop her hands from shaking. “If you’ll excuse me, I have some-something to attend to.” Without waiting for his response, she turned away from him and started across the room. She managed to keep a sensible- though swift- pace until she stepped into the empty corridor. Her strength disappeared and she broke into a run, undeterred by the height of her heels.

Swinging around the corner, she flung herself at the front doors and stumbled through them, the chilly evening air tearing into her lungs. She flew down the stone steps, no thought to where she was going, only wanting to get as far away as possible. Racing towards the railroad tracks, one foot caught behind her, and suddenly the ground rushed up to meet her, her palms skidding against rough soil and small stones tearing at the knees of her stockings. As she whipped her head around to look behind her, she saw her right shoe standing upright, its heel rooted in the earth. Her breath caught in her chest and a sob ripped from her lips, fingers digging into the dirt in an effort to find something- anything- to hold onto as memories that plagued her nightmares flooded her mind. She sank back on her knees, gasping air into her lungs while her tears left tiny dampened spots on the ground beneath her.

Every thought was disturbingly vivid- the overpowering scent of Faustus’s cologne, the sickly sweet taste of sugared tea, the sharp crack of the cat o’ nine tails against her back, pricks of pain as his sharpened fingernails tore at delicate flesh inside of her until there was blood on the sheets. The maddening knowledge that she was aware of every moment and yet powerless to stop anything.

A hand on her back startled her so that she recoiled from it with a strangled cry, her hip landing hard against the uneven earth. Half-expecting it to be Faustus standing above her, waiting to drag her back to the prison of the music box, she was somewhat bewildered to see Lilith looking down at her, an unfamiliar expression of pity on the face borrowed from Mary Wardwell. Zelda wiped furiously at her cheeks with the back of her hand in a futile attempt to compose herself.

“My Queen,” she spoke, her voice wavering. “What m-”

“I’m not here as your queen,” Lilith cut her off, kneeling beside her despite the dirt. “I could feel you. All the way down in Hell- your body, your magic in distress, your mind practically screaming. Zelda, what’s happened?”

“I-it felt… it felt like F-faustus, when he-he…” A sob bubbled up in her throat and she tried to swallow it, her head dropping in shame at such a display in front of the Queen of Hell. In front of Lilith.

Lilith reached out a gentle hand and placed it lightly against Zelda’s head, brushing fiery hair away from her face. The witch allowed it, leaning in almost imperceptibly to her touch. Wishing to spare her High Priestess any pain she could, the demoness pulsed her magic through her hand and nudged into Zelda’s mind, carefully touching on the recollections at the forefront of her memory. Brushing up against the thoughts, Lilith could see Zelda’s remembrance of the last few minutes in the hall, and of everything she suffered at Faustus’s hand. Her lips parted as she gasped in horror, tears burning in her own eyes to match the redhead’s.

“Oh, Zelda,” she breathed, leaning forward to touch her forehead lightly to the witch’s. “As I am Queen of Hell, I promise that no man will ever hurt you like that again. And when I find Faustus Blackwood, I will drag him screaming into the Pit and I will visit on him pain as he has never known before. He will pay for what he’s done, I promise you.” Lilith tilted her head up to press her lips against Zelda’s brow, sealing her vow with a kiss heated in Hellfire.

Hold me, she heard Zelda’s whispered thought as the witch bit her lip, trying fiercely to hold back tears. Lilith, please. Please hold me. The desperation in the redhead’s mind broke the demoness’s heart as it had not been broken in millennia. She gathered the other woman into an embrace, feeling Zelda’s arms wrap around her waist as she held her tightly. And as the witch sobbed against her chest, finally giving into tears, Lilith began to plot revenge against the man who had brought her High Priestess, trembling, to her knees.

What fun she would have with him. What fun.

[marshmallowprotection]

Calluna

Pairing: Saeran Choi/Reader

Fairytale AU.

Description:

The Prince has been bound to the castle walls, and he’s never been able to leave from it. The only place that he has to escape to are the books that he reads and the garden that he’s allowed to venture into every evening. But, what happens when he encounters someone that has eyes that know a world unlike his own?

Inspired by a drawing by @sensetenou​

Chapter Index

Chapter One: Tumblr | AO3 Chapter Two: Tumblr | AO3 Chapter Three: Tumblr | AO3 Chapter Four: Tumblr | AO3 Chapter Five: Tumblr | AO3 Chapter Six: Tumblr | AO3 Chapter Seven: Tumblr | AO3 Chapter Eight: Here! | AO3

Chapter Eight

The day came before he knew it. 

It was strange to think that the pieces had finally come together for him and that he would be taking the crown after all this time. This seemed more like a dream than anything but the queen assured him that it was time for him to become the man that his father always knew him to be. 

He just had to be prepared to present himself to the rest of the world with a strong face. They thought him to be a sickly boy but he had to prove that murmur wrong. He wasn’t sure about it, but, it was his fate and he had been preparing for years to take this spot in the line of ascension. It was the way that it was meant to be. 

Ray went about his tasks that entire week like clockwork, practicing what he needed to say and touching upon the last of what he needed to prove to the queen he was ready. She deemed him ready that final morning and the rest would be history. The crown would be pulled from its tucked-away place that night and put upon his head. 

Would it be unreasonable to say that he was less excited about that prospect and more about the fact that you would be attending the party? 

He knew what it would feel like to take control of the kingdom, but what he didn’t know was what it would feel like to see you all dressed up at the party, offering your hand to him as he spun you around in a dance that he had been dreaming of ever since that night you stole a kiss from his lips. Speaking of that kiss, his lips still tingled at the memory. 

Ray had wanted more but he didn’t dare ask it of you. He was just happy that you had given such a high gift to him. It had caught him so off-guard that he didn’t even remember to tell you what the party was for. He was so caught up in the idea of inviting you that he didn’t even get to say that he would be able to make everything safe for you. 

He would make everything safe for the people again. 

No one would owe any debts in his kingdom, that would be the first order he would take his the crown touched his brow. It was a surprise, and he couldn’t wait to see your face. It wasn’t an insult to you nor a sentiment that he wanted you to owe him anything. He knew that you were trapped in a contract like one would find themselves in one of the books he read.

It wasn’t your choice and you had been bound to it since you were a child. It wasn’t fair to you to have to pay someone back for being a child who had nothing and no other choice but to take things to get by in this world. He had all this power and he was going to use it so that no one would ever hurt in the way that you were. 

This was a place of honor, and on his pride, he would never let anyone suffer from chains such as those weighing them down. 

He hadn’t told anyone about it. He had a feeling that the queen would enjoy his idea because it came from a place that the former king would have thought of. She had never strayed him wrong in thinking that he should try his best to be a good son who continues to keep the honor of his father on his mind when he ruled over the people.

She would take care of foreign affairs and he would protect the homeland. It would be a time of true prosperity. That all started tonight, Ray thought, as he dressed for the evening and watched as the many guests arrived from the homeland and from the surrounding kingdoms to celebrate him and his new spot on the throne. 

There was a puddle of nerves in the pit of his gut, but he did his best to swallow it down and put on the friendly face that had been drilled into him. He had to be everything that one expected a prince to be and more. The thought lay heavy on him as he pulled the mask over his face and nodded, knowing that it was time to greet the world sooner rather than later. 

And, it was time to see you once more. 

The party was in full swing when he joined the guests, the people chatting and enjoying themselves to their heart’s content. There were so many people, so many people flooding in the castle that had been barren save for the safe for such a long time. He was amazed, frankly, as the families of high status were mingling with those of common birth. 

The world may not have been a perfect place as he had idealized, but it felt like for just a single moment on the floor of the ballroom, it could be everything that his father wanted. He wanted the people to be happy and to feel as though the entire kingdom was united no matter what status you were born into or what your circumstances were. 

Ray was going to make good on that idea. 

It was another thing entirely to watch amongst this sea of people without a single one of them knowing that he was the prince. He was afforded this luxury by the queen, she wanted him to enjoy some fun before he introduced himself and this was the perfect way to do so. It was also an excuse for you to be on the castle grounds without anyone bothering you. 

It was a benefit not only to him but to you as well. 

He took his time wading through the people and smiling at the people. He really did feel like he was free at that moment, able to exist without anyone knowing who he was, or the fact that he had a big curse on his head. He wondered if this was what it felt like or you to be someone who no one knew and someone who had nothing to fear but the vastness of the open world in front of them. The beat of the music around him made the world come alive in a way that he couldn’t piece into words. 

The only thing that was missing was his guest of honor.

He did try to enjoy himself, for the time being, just letting the freedom that washed over him until he felt something tap against his shoulder. 

He turned around to see a familiar mask gracing your face in front of him. It was a mint-colored mask with gems etched onto the right side, and a gold floral pattern etched into the fabric. A brown feather gently tucked into your hair told him enough, it was the long-awaited sparrow of his dreams. A smile came to him fast. 

This mask may have obscured your features to him, but he knew, he knew that it was you because he had given you this mask to wear for him. You didn’t say a word, but he offered you his hand, “Would you care to join me for a dance?” 

You took his hand and he whisked you away. 

Spinning around and around the dance floor, he could feel his pulse race as your aura surrounded all of his senses. He had long imagined what it would be like to enjoy a dance with you in a crowded room, but as it turned out, it was like the rest of the world didn’t exist when you were with him. 

You were the only one that mattered. Ray could almost chuckle at that fact. Of course, after spending so much time with you, existing where no one could see the secrets that danced between your lips and your longing smiles, of course, he could only focus on you when the rest of the world was with him. It was all that he wanted. 

More than the crown, more than all the power in the world, more than all the money he could own, more than anything he had ever imagined. He was being presented an honor tonight that most people could only dream of and yet, the only thing that he wanted was more time with you. He wanted to be able to exist in this moment of freedom with you. 

He almost didn’t need words to convey that. 

Ray somehow felt that you understood his longing because your hand gripped his just a bit tighter when he met your gaze. Perhaps, this longing that he felt was much stronger than a crush. He didn’t know what it felt like to be in love with someone, other than what he had read in books but when it came to you, something made of flesh and bone? 

Everything he knew was thrown out the window when you came into the picture. 

He wasn't upset about that, he welcomed this confusion with open arms and a smile. You may have been a thief, but the only thing that you truly stole was his heart. That wasn't a crime, though, and he would gladly let you steal his heart from him over and over if it meant that he had a chance to be in your company. This was everything that he wanted and at that moment, it felt like he was truly this blessed prince instead of one cursed to forever stay in the castle he was born to. 

He hoped that the dance would never end, but the music did come to a halt and you stared at him for the longest moment, something at the corner of your lips as if there was something that you had wanted to tell them. "I'm happy you came," he said. 

"Thank you for inviting me," you said, automatically. "I've never seen you look happier, my prince." 

"And I've never seen you so dazzling," he returned. There was a faint blush on his cheek that he couldn't hide away, not from you. There was a smile on your lips but it didn't seem to meet your eyes as it normally did. "I mean it. Everyone in the room hasn't taken their eyes off of you. You've managed to enchant the entire kingdom just by being yourself with me. If I didn't know any better, I would dare say that they think you're royalty while I'm merely a commoner vying for your attention." 

The laugh on your lips was weak for some reason. 

"No," you said. "They're all looking at you, Ray. You're to be our king and they know a kind soul when they see one. You're going to be amazing." 

Oh, so you knew the truth. 

Ray tucked a strand of stray hair behind your ear with a smile. "Thank you, [Y/N]. You've always believed in me and seen me for someone more than that. I want to be a great king so you'll be proud of me." 

You looked away from him, your hand slowly removing itself from his grasp. "I am proud of you, Ray," you whispered. "I always will be. I hope that you'll never forget just how much you mean to me, and I hope that no matter what happens, you'll always think of me fondly." 

Why were you saying such things? It wasn't like you were going away forever. He knew that you would always come to visit him, even if he was the king. He leaned over and gently brushed his lips to your own in a gentle peck. You didn't push him away. You accepted that kiss as if your life depended on it. His heart raced and his knees felt weak, but it confirmed everything that he had been long thinking about. He was in love with you and he wanted to be by your side forever. He wanted you to want to be by his side. The future could be something amazing once this evening was over, but he could say the same of you. 

He hoped that you would forgive him for setting you free from your chains. 

"I can say the same," he murmured, his forehead pressed against your own. "I hope you'll always keep me deep inside your heart." 

Silence overtook the two of you for a single moment, a solitary moment where the world didn't matter, just the feeling that the two of you felt for each other. The moment was broken when a hand brushed against his shoulder, Yoosung come to grab his attention, of course. 

"I hate to interrupt, my prince, but your presence has been requested by King Han," he smiled, rather apologetically to Ray and you. "It's a pressing matter that needs to be discussed. I hope your friend won't mind if I cut in?" 

"..."

"It's alright," your voice came from his side. You pressed your hand against his shoulder for a long second and squeezed. "Go on, my prince. You've got matters of state to attend to. I'll be here when you return, okay?" 

Ray smiled at you. "I promise I won't be long." 

"Take your time," you said. 

He spared you one more look as Yoosung lead him away from you, and he felt like something was amiss in those eyes of yours that he loved so very much. He didn't want to press you about anything that may be bothering you. 

He imagined that perhaps your nerves were a bit out of sorts from being in the castle. He knew that you were safe, though, as long as you wore the mask that he had given to you, nothing would come to harm you. 

Right?

[thelightofthingshopedfor]

OKAY THERE I FUCKING FINISHED SOMETHING, FOR THE FIRST TIME IN GODDAMN MONTHS, IT’S SHORT AND POINTLESS AND IT DOESN’T HAVE A TITLE YET BUT IT EXISTS AND THAT’S WHAT MATTERS

basically this happened because @veliseraptor was doing the three-sentence-fic meme and I sent a prompt about Loki showing up at the final battle in Endgame and then decided I also wanted to write it because just maybe I could make it short if I kind of pretended it was a prompt fill for me also? not that I even tried to stick to three sentences. clearly. also her prompt fill did a lot more with a lot fewer words but more cakes etc., anyway it’s after midnight because I’m an idiot so I’m gonna throw this at the internet, go the fuck to bed, and make it look better tomorrow.

When the portals spiral to life out of nothing on the battlefield, Thor realizes he has utterly forgotten what hope feels like. The lurching sensation in his chest, the sudden heart-deep knowledge that just maybe things will come out right in the end, the first glimpse of light when the dark seemed to stretch forever—

           Actually, all of it is new, because if he’s learned one thing over the past few years (and then drowned himself in alcohol to forget it), it’s that he never knew true despair until he watched his little brother die, failed to avenge him, and lost half the tiny remnant of Asgard in the process. The other times he’s known loss—at least then something else was left, some comfort or purpose, not the howling nothingness that dogs his every step in New Asgard. But he’d forgotten, too, that there could be reason to hope.

           He feels it now, his chest expanding with the first full breath since his ribs cracked under Thanos’s fists, and still more portals open to reveal armies of the lost, alive as if they’d never crumbled to dust—

           And there is a tiny, foolish part of him that hopes just for an instant that at least one of his dead will come back to him somehow, that this miracle is for him too, even as he knows there are no more miracles for the dying house of Odin. It shouldn’t hurt, knowing it again, and it does anyway, in that tiny foolish part of himself that cherished its own hopes for less than a second. It hurts, like a weight on his chest, like Stormbreaker carving him open, and he crushes the rest of it before it can cripple him.

           He is glad for everyone who has now regained those they love. He is. He…will be. As always, the only thing left for Thor is the battle, and it’s enough because it has to be. He is not going to hurt himself further by searching the crowds for a dead man.

           So he almost misses it at first when a small new portal spins into existence just a few paces to his left, a portal with green light sparking at its edges, backed by the vastness of space and the rough surface of some barren moon or asteroid. A single figure steps through it—staggers, really, there’s almost no grace to his movements at all, and his face is too shadowed to make out, but—

           Thor wants to make himself look away, knowing it can’t be real. The longer he looks, the more he will allow himself again to hope, and this time it will destroy him when reality asserts itself.

           The portal winks out. Loki raises his head, ice crystals glittering in his hair and across his battered leathers, the deep blue of his Jotun heritage fading to a nearly gray pallor. He is cradling his left wrist, there is dried blood on his face, his neck is so dark with bruising the skin is almost black, and he is breathing and alive.

           He should go, Thor thinks distantly. Throw himself at Thanos and die fighting so he can wake in Valhalla and embrace his true brother there and never have to deal with the fact that this apparition cannot be real. It won’t matter anyway if he dies, not really, not anymore, and if Loki’s here to guide him home, that’s…well, that’s really not so bad after all.

           Loki takes an unsteady step toward him, then another, his eyes fixed on Thor. “I know, I know,” he says, his voice so rough Thor reflexively winces to hear it, “I’m late again. You don’t have to tell me.” He pauses. “You…got a new eye.”

           Thor swallows hard and decides, abruptly, to Hel with it. This isn’t real but he can pretend. “Gift from a friend,” he says, and then, voice cracking, “You are late.”

           “In my defense,” Loki says, “I came as soon as I could. I was a bit busy being dead. You know how it is.”

           “I really don’t,” Thor says. He is aching to grab his brother and never let go, but then the illusion will break, and he just wants to pretend as long as he can. “You look terrible.”

Loki actually grins at that—an exhausted and bloody smile but still a defiant one, and it hurts Thor to look at. “I’d say it takes one to know one, but all things considered I think we’re both doing pretty well.” He glances around the battlefield, expression tightening. “I suspect you have rather more to contribute than I do, at this point, but let it never be said that I didn’t try.”

           That sounds horribly like a farewell and Thor almost starts begging, no, I’m not ready, I can’t do this if you go, just stay a little bit longer so I can die well, but instead Loki flicks his good hand out to summon a knife. It’s slower to appear than normal, popping into existence with a flare of sickly green light, and he stumbles, swaying forward. Thor lurches forward to catch him, acting on sheer instinct, his mind a crucial half-second too slow to stop him from breaking the illusion for good—

           —and then his hands are gripping Loki’s elbows, his solid and pointy and very real elbows, and Thor’s whole brain seems to short-circuit. Loki’s head drops forward a little with a huff of something like laughter, and he lets Thor take his weight for a moment, breathing hard. “As I said. I don’t suppose you happen to have a healing stone?”

Thor shakes his head, wordless, and feels Loki shrug. He feels it. He feels the muscles shift under his hands, the chill of not-quite-Jotun flesh under charred leather. Loki is close enough now that Thor can smell him, blood and sweat and ice, the hot stink of fuel and scorched metal, alive. Alive.

           “No,” Loki says a little breathlessly, “I imagine you haven’t been able to make very many without me there to supervise, hm? No matter. I’ll manage.”

           “We didn’t expect a battle today,” Thor says hoarsely. “Brother…” Words fail him again. He can’t think of anything to ask that will tell him this is real, not just his shattered mind scrambling for a little comfort before the end.

           Loki raises his head, his eyes meeting Thor’s—red-streaked, an awful mix of natural Jotun coloring and the bloody results of burst blood vessels, but present and living, nothing of the dead blank emptiness that haunts Thor’s nightmares. “I’m here,” he says, and it’s exactly what Thor wants to hear, which is why he can’t bring himself to trust it.

           “Right,” Loki says after a moment, rolling his shoulders back with a wince he almost manages to hide and starting to pull away. “Shall we?”

           Thor tightens his grip convulsively on a surge of fresh terror, knowing Loki will disappear again the moment he lets go, and then abruptly realizes Dr. Strange is looking in his direction.

           More specifically, he is looking at Loki.

           Loki glances aside, following Thor’s gaze, and his expression sours at the speed of light. He smooths it out a little when Dr. Strange nods to him, and Loki dips his chin in return, but he still looks so disgruntled that Thor has to bite his tongue to prevent a burst of (probably hysterical) laughter. It’s the grimace that does it, the inimitably Loki way his whole face screws up in  displeasure, bringing to mind nothing more than a cat who’s just been forced through an unwanted bath, and it’s all real. It has to be real.

           Thor lets go then, hefting Stormbreaker. Loki does not disappear. His hand curls more securely around his knife and he steps into position next to his brother, natural as breathing. As they face Thanos side by side, Thor feels something inside him begin to mend, something he thought irreparably broken. Whatever happens next, for this one moment the universe has been set right again.

[lloydskywalkers]

Ahhh thank you so much!! 💕sO the lack of season 5 aftermath is possibly one of my biggest issues with Ninjago because like...there was no way. There was no way Lloyd just walked all that off, Morro had him pretty much the whole season and we saw what five minutes did to Ronin. I think it took a fair amount of time for him to bounce back, and it likely left long-lasting effects, but because this is season 5 angst u get a fic explaining my thoughts instead :’’D

(Also answering this in it’s own post because guess who spiraled out of control again! It’s s5 angst u guys i’m weak)

The aftermath of the battle is, as it usually goes, incredibly underwhelming. And by that, Cole means incredibly slow, because the Preeminent ripped the motor off their steamboat, and even with Nya pitching in every now and then, their pace across the seawater is glacial. By the time the nearest Ninjago shore comes into view, everyone on the boat’s on their last legs of sanity — some for…slightly different reasons than others.

The thing about being stuck on a crammed steamboat for hours on end, is that you can’t really hide. There’s only so far you can get, unless you take a dip in the ocean, which is a hard pass for Cole — not that he was trying to hide, anyways.

No, the only one who looks like they’re actually considering jumping off the side of the boat is Lloyd, and that’s because instead of vanishing off to who-knows-where to have his inevitable breakdown, he’s stuck smack in the middle of his very protective family, who get an up close and personal view of the exact moment the color starts to leech from his face.

Lloyd’s making a valiant effort. He’s been making a valiant effort, ever since they pulled him from the Caves of Despair. He and Kai had cornered Sensei in what turned into a near-shouting match alone at letting him fight in the battle against Morro in the first place, because Lloyd had looked two degrees from dead when they’d gotten him back. He’d only looked moderately alive when he’d stepped out with them, hoodie hanging too loose from his shoulders as he’d handed off the green gi to Nya, and it had burned Cole to let him take the brunt of the fight as he did.

Not that Cole feels much heat now anyway, but — metaphorically.

Either way, Lloyd holds up valiantly until the combined toll of Morro’s possession and the battle with the Preeminent finally hits, at which point he goes a sickly shade of white and keels straight over into Kai with a migraine so bad Cole can’t even manage to pull his fingers free from where they dig into his skull.

“What happened?! Did Morro hurt him?”

“Did Morro hurt him, where have you been this last month—”

“I meant right now, don’t snap at me—”

“Would you keep your voices down, you’re only causing him more pain.”

This quiets the commotion that’s sprung up in their corner of the boat, all of them hovering anxiously over Lloyd, their salt-water hair and wind-swept clothes and already-forming bruises leaving the entire team a vivid mess. Kai’s left holding a lapful of whimpering brother, looking two seconds from crying himself as he tries to soothe Lloyd before he tears hair out, so Cole takes a shuddering breath, pulls himself together, and takes the lead.

It’s easier than he’d thought it would be, allowing himself to fall into the removed sort of autopilot. Shoulders back, emotions locked up tight, put on a brave face and make the calls. Leading has never been an easy position, but it teaches you to compartmentalize, to suppress, and to delay.

That delay is what Lloyd is paying for now, Cole thinks soberly, as Zane and Kai carry Lloyd up the steps of the Bounty, Sensei already darting inside to brew up whatever tea’s supposed to help this time. It’d be easier if Cole took him — he knows that. He’s the strongest of the team, even in this state.

But he can’t bring his ghostly fingers to touch him. Not with the flinch that had run through his younger brother earlier.

Cole swallows thickly. Lloyd hadn’t meant it, he knows that. He wouldn’t even hold it against him if he had.

The turnaround from regaining Lloyd to the battle with the Preeminent was terribly quick, and it only takes a look or two to gain an understanding of the damage wrought on their youngest brother. Lloyd is bruised and gaunt and horribly thin, and the normal shine in his eyes is hollowed-out and haunted. There’s an unspoken dread among them all, a heavy weight that sits on their shoulders, that Morro has actually managed to break Lloyd with his possession — that the longs weeks spent trapped in his own mind, beaten and neglected and alone — have snapped the unfathomably strong willpower Lloyd’s always had.

And Morro, for all that Cole hates him for that, was a ghost. Cole isn’t stupid enough to miss that. And he’s certainly not stupid enough to ignore what the repercussions of that might be on Lloyd, toward anyone else who might be a ghost.

Cole feels his chest tighten as he watches Nya run a hand through Lloyd’s tangled hair, her eyes a million miles away as she sits beside where he lies on their couch, tucked firmly into the layers of blankets he recognizes as Kai and Zane’s.

He bites his cheek. It’d be better if they used his. It’s not like Cole needs them anymore.

“He’s overtired,” Sensei Wu says quietly, his hand drifting briefly across his nephew’s forehead. “He pushed it too far in battle, and he has yet to fully recover from the toll both the possession and his injuries took on him. He will be fine, with rest.”

There’s a quiet exhale of relief at his words, but it’s a weary one. Kai doesn’t look at him, his stare only growing hot where he sits at Lloyd’s side, refusing to move even to change from his battle-stained gi.

Cole’s eyes flick to Sensei Wu, then back to Lloyd. There’s a bleeding kind of pain in Sensei’s words, his voice shot through with loss. There’s a crippling edge of guilt in it too, though. Cole knows Sensei is mourning Morro — he knows their relationship was different. But as much as Cole prides himself of being sympathetic, it’s really, really difficult to feel any sort of grief for Morro, when his baby brother’s curled in on himself in pain on the couch, eyebrows furrowed tightly in stress and exhaustion.

Lloyd murmurs something inaudible, shifting in his sleep before settling again, his expression still pinched in weariness. He somehow looks both years older and so very young at the same time, and it makes Cole’s heart hurt.

He’s yanked from his staring as Jay’s head suddenly presses against his shoulder. Cole starts, almost forgetting to remain solid before Jay yanks his head back up, eyelids fluttering from where they’d drifted off to sleep.

“Sorry,” he yawns, rubbing at a bloodshot eye. “Didn’ mean to fall asleep on you.”

Cole blinks at him, then glances at the rest of their team. Lloyd isn’t the only one succumbing to exhaustion — the entire team is barely hanging on, all dark-circled and hazy eyes. Beside Jay, Zane looks like he wants to shut down for a month, Nya looks like she’s close to tears for some reason, and Kai looks like he’s steadily burning through the last reserves of his energy just by staring at the floor.

Something weird shifts in Cole’s gut. He feels exhausted, stripped raw and worn, but he doesn’t feel tired, not like the others look. He just feels that same, cold kind of numbness that has yet to leave him since Yang’s temple.

He swallows again, and tries to ignore how useless the gesture is.

“You should head to bed,” he tells Jay gently instead. His lifts his head, addressing the others. “We all should.”

Kai opens his mouth to protest instantly, then shuts it. He glances at Nya, who’s practically asleep where she sits on the couch, seconds from tipping over. He looks at Lloyd. “I’m sleeping out here,” he finally says, firmly.

Cole guesses that’s the best he can ask for from him, right now. He nods to Zane, who gently helps Nya up, knocking Kai lightly on the shoulder as he does. “At least change,” he orders, and it’s a sign to how tired Kai is that he complies without arguing.

Cole tugs Jay up by his arm, patting him on the back. “C’mon, zaptrap,” he murmurs. “I’m not your pillow.”

Jay grumbles inaudibly at him, but he staggers to his feet, yawning as he plods toward the bedroom. Cole looks to Sensei Wu, who is still hovering by Lloyd, staring at his nephew with a look Cole can’t quite figure out.

“Sensei?” he finally dares, hesitantly. “It’s been a long day, so…”

“Ah, of course.” Sensei Wu blinks, shaking his head. “I would let him rest here for the night,” he says, nodding to Lloyd. His voice is quiet, and Cole can easily find the pain in it this time. “Better to let him rest.”

That doesn’t exactly settle well with Cole, because the idea of leaving any of his brothers apart for the night, even if it’s just in another room, turns his stomach. Especially when one of them is the brother they’d lost, and only just barely got back, so—

Well. Cole doesn’t need to sleep anymore, does he. He can keep an eye out.

“Of course,” he says instead, dipping his head as Sensei Wu heads off after the others. “Goodnight, Sensei.”

Cole moves to follow him, figuring he can at least change his clothes, but he hesitates over Lloyd, footsteps faltering. For a brief second, he lets his hand hovers over the top of his brother’s sleeping head, barely ghosting the pale blond strands. He swallows, then pulls his hand away.

Lloyd had told him once, when he was younger, that he was scared people would hate him for what he was. Never who — just what. Cole had never understood the phrasing, but now…

Now, Cole desperately, painfully hopes Lloyd doesn’t hate him for what he’s become.

***********

It’s the third nightmare that finally manages to pull Lloyd from sleep, because somehow the first two weren’t exciting enough to warrant waking up for.

At least he hasn’t woken up Kai with it, he thinks miserably, still trying to catch his breath, his heart racing from the nightmare. He exhales shakily, glancing over to where Kai’s sprawled out on the couch across from him, snoring quietly and dead to the world. Kai looks exhausted, even in sleep, and Lloyd feels guilt digging its claws into his chest again.

Your fault, a voice in the back of his head reminds him. You hurt him, you hurt them all, Green Ninja—

Lloyd swallows, wincing as he shifts, sitting up quietly. He won’t wake Kai up for this. His older brother has suffered enough for him already.

Besides, his throat feels like he’s been swallowing sandpaper, and he doesn’t; really trust his voice, anyway. Lloyd sighs, swinging his legs over the side of the couch and tugging his blanket over his shoulders like a cape.

In all honesty, he’d like nothing more than to stay on this couch for the rest of his life, because Kai let him have his really warm blanket — which, granted, says a lot more about the state Lloyd’s in right now than he’d like, but still. Lloyd is comfortable, tucked in the corner of the couch like he is. And comfortable isn’t something he’s been in the last few weeks, at all.

But he’s not — he’s not supposed to be thinking about that, he reminds himself, furiously shoving the memories back into their little Do-Not-Touch box in the corner of his mind, as he gingerly tests his legs out. His right leg shudders precariously when he stands, and Lloyd bites his lip, frowning. He could’ve sworn it was his left that was hurt, since that was the one the Preeminent had nearly ripped off pulling him into the Cursed Realm, and Morr—

Aha, nope, Lloyd reminds himself. Back in the box. He can think about that — about him — later.

Much, much later. Right now, he just wants a glass of water, then he wants to go back to sleep for another twenty hours straight. He’d like to just go back to bed as it is, because his limbs feel as sluggish as melting butter, but the water’s important, because he’s ‘severely dehydrated’ or something. Whatever Zane had declared as Lloyd tried to stop his brain from imploding on him earlier.

So glass of water, then back to bed. Lloyd just has to make it to the kitchen, which should — should be easy. His leg isn’t shaking that badly, and it’s not like his ribs are actually broken. Just bruised, and Lloyd can walk off bruises, easy.

He just needs to remember how, he thinks, as he takes a shuddering breath where he stands frozen. He blows it out, closing his eyes to steady himself. He immediately snaps them back open, trying not to keel over to the side. Oh, mistake. Every time Lloyd closes his eyes he’s falling through realms again, the world spinning and leaving him loose and shaky, which is only moderately better than the alternative thing he’d see, which is…

Well, he left Lloyd with a lot of things he could see that would keep him up.

Back in the box! Lloyd scolds himself, frantically tearing his mind elsewhere before he can slip down that particular slope, one that he knows is only going to send him spiraling into icy fear and panic.

Lloyd shakes his head furiously, bare feet padding quietly as he makes his way to the kitchen. His skin crawls at the darkness that presses in from all sides, and he feels his power press against his fingertips, begging to light his way. Lloyd presses his lips together and shoves it down. His control over his powers is tentative at best right now — he’d learned that the hard way earlier, when he’d exploded all the police floodlights that were just trying to get them safely to shore.

The reminder causes his cheeks to heat, and Lloyd bites his lip. He doesn’t want to think about how much he’s lost, how far behind he’s fallen, because of…this. His powers feel wild and fragile now, like they did when he was just beginning to train, and Lloyd hates that. How is he supposed to make up everything to his team when he can barely even—

A cold chill of air suddenly licks against the back of his neck, rustling his clothes and blanket and tugging at his hair, and the chill that slides down his spine is all the warning he gets. The whistling sound from the broken kitchen window should have warned him, but Lloyd’s still unprepared.

It’s just — it’s the wind.

That’s all, just a little breeze, and Lloyd’s slammed so hard by a dizzying vertigo of terror that he falls right to his knees on the spot, his vision going hazy as a dull roaring echoes in his ears.

He’d scream, but his lungs have suddenly quit on him, sputtering uselessly in his chest as he wheezes, panic blotting out every other rational thought. The phantom fingers of the wind are still grasping at him, still pulling at his hair and wrapping around his neck, forcing into his mind and tearing him apart form the inside and no, no no no, he can’t do this again, he can’t—

Some part of Lloyd’s mind knows perfectly well what’s happening to him. It’s not like he hasn’t had panic attacks before. But the rest of his mind—

Lloyd’s teeth press together so hard his jaw aches, and his eyes burn as he forces shaky breaths to rattle from his chest. The hot shame of how pathetic he has to look right now is only drowned out the absolute sense of terror rooting him on his knees.

Kai, he thinks desperately, his hands shaking so violently that his fingernails clack against the floor. Kai is here, Kai will save him from Morro, he won’t leave him to spiral back into that darkness. His whole family is here, just in the other room, if he can only—

A muffled voice forces its way through the roaring in his ears, echoing oddly against his brain. Before Lloyd can place it, there’s a touch on his shoulder, gentle but cold, like a wisp of freezing air, just like his touch.

Lloyd looks up, and through blurring vision sees that same unearthly shade of green, flickering and translucent, and his entire being slams into panic.

All he’s able to get out is a rasping croak, but he’s still able to snap at the figure.

“Get away from me!”

He tears his arm from their grasp, stumbling back. He’s not going to be taken again, he’s not going back in the darkness, he’s never letting someone touch him like that again—

Lloyd wipes at his eyes, his vision clearing, and he freezes dead.

— oh. Lloyd’s eyes go wide in horror. Oh no, oh no, it’s not him. It’s not any of his ghosts.

It’s Cole, his hand pulled back to his chest, staring at him with the most heartbroken, hurt expression on his face Lloyd has ever seen in his life.

Lloyd’s heart drops all the through his stomach to his feet, and he goes cold.

“I-I—” Cole’s eyes are wide with hurt, but that hurt quickly melts into a horrified kind of despair. He pulls back further, swallowing thickly. “Sorry,” he mutters, looking away. Shutting down. “I’m sorry, I should have realized—”

“No—” Lloyd croaks.

“Obviously you’d — I’m sorry, just being stupid Cole as always—”

“—no, no Cole—”

“—just making things worse, I’ll leave.”

“N-no, Cole, I didn’t mean — Cole, I’m so sorry—”

Cole isn’t even looking at him, his shoulders hitching tightly as he turns away. “I’ll get Kai. Or anyone else.”

He moves to his feet, leaving Lloyd where he’s still sprawled uselessly on the floor, and Lloyd’s stomach turns.

No, no, no! he thinks frantically, fumbling to find feeling where his legs have gone numb. Cole can’t leave, not with that look still on his face, not before Lloyd can fix this—

“Cole wait, stop—!”

Lloyd moves to rush after him, to grab him, to pull him back and apologize — but his ankle is still weak and his balance is still shaky and the panic’s left him wobbly, and he gets one step before his foot twists in his blanket, the ground’s yanked out from under him, and he slams front-first into the floor with a muffled grunt, knocking his chin against the floor and biting straight through his lip.

“Ow,” he manages into the floor, somewhat stunned, his voice muffled as his face throbs.

“Lloyd!”

Oh good, Lloyd thinks hazily, as his mouth fills with tangy, metallic blood. It worked. Cole came back.

Hands wrap around his shoulders, hauling him up and setting him upright before quickly pulling back. Before Lloyd can protest, Cole’s back, all up in his face where he’s now sitting on the floor next to him.

“Aw, Lloyd, why’d you do that,” Cole’s voice is pained as his hand ghosts over the blood dripping down his chin, thick eyebrows tense in worry.

Lloyd shakes his head, wiping a hand over his mouth and grimacing. His lip stings something horrible, and he’s appalled to find that his eyes are tearing up from the pain.

“I wan’ed to match the rest’a my face,” he manages out though his busted lip, before cringing.

Cole gives him a look. Lloyd doesn’t feel bad at all. It’s better than the look he’d had on a second ago.

Cole sighs, sounding weary. “I’ll get Zane. He can help you ice it, and I’ll—”

“No!” Lloyd yelps, grabbing for his arm. He latches around Cole’s wrist just before he manages to escape, and Cole snaps his eyes to him, looking panicked.

“Lloyd, I-I…I get it,” he says, gently prying at his fingers. “What you went through — it’s…it’s okay, just—”

Lloyd doesn’t let him get any further, because he finally gets past the giant chunk of completely irrational fear in his chest and manages to throw his arms around Cole’s middle, hugging him tightly until Cole’s forced back down with an oof.

For a second, Cole’s about as receptive as a rock, sitting all stiff and rigid. But he finally, finally relaxes, breath whooshing shakily out of his chest as he slowly, carefully returns the embrace, wrapping his arms around him.

Lloyd’s prepared for the unusually cold touch this time. He focuses instead on how gentle it is, how it feels like family and home and safety. He’s an idiot for mistaking Cole for anyone else, Lloyd thinks hotly to himself, his eyes stinging with tears.

“It’s not,” he whispers. “It’s not okay, you’re not— you’re not Morro, and I shouldn’t—”

Lloyd’s breath hitches. Oh no, he’s opened the box. He’s opened the box and now he’s thinking about it, his mind is reaching in and pulling out every memory of what Morro did to him, every action he took that Lloyd couldn’t stop, all the words he’d forced from his mouth, all the awful things—

A dizzying rush of fury smashes into him. How could he, how could he, it wasn’t enough that he took Lloyd’s body and his mind and his strength and left him a hollow shell, no, he had to dig his fingers far enough in his brain that Lloyd’s scared of his own family now—

“—hate him, I hate him, I hate him—”

“I know, buddy, I know—”

Though Cole’s holding him tight, he shifts him slightly to the side with a quiet hiss of breath, and Lloyd belatedly remembers — tears. Water and ghosts do not get along. And here Lloyd’s crying enough for a river on top of him.

He jerks back with a gasp. “Oh, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—” he blabbers, wiping frantically at his eyes. “I didn’t mean to—”

It’s Cole’s turn to grab his arm before he pulls away, his gaze firm. “Don’t,” he says, sounding pained. “Don’t apologize for that. I’m fine, you didn’t hurt me.”

Lloyd shakes his head. “I’m so sorry,” he chokes out. “I’m so sorry, you’re a ghost and it’s all my fault.”

Cole stills. “What?” he finally says, his voice incredulous.

Lloyd doesn’t reply, crying harder as he tries to absorb himself into his blanket, maybe to suffocate, because at least then he won’t be weeping all over the kitchen floor like a child, and — and—

“Lloyd,” Cole sounds agonized now. “Lloyd, this wasn’t your fault. None of this was. You can’t blame yourself for it, you can’t. Please don’t.”

Lloyd gives a keening whine in reply, burying his face in his blanket. Yes, he can. He can, just watch him. Lloyd can blame himself for the whole sorry thing, because he went to that museum alone when he knew full well he was still a mess, and now?

Cole’s a ghost, his family’s hurt, Lloyd’s a worse mess, and his dad is dead, for real dead now, and none of it would’ve happened if Lloyd could’ve just—could’ve just—

Lloyd feels a bit like he’s exploding, except it’s all coming out in the tidal wave of tears he’s been stockpiling somewhere, and darn it, he’s supposed to be dehydrated now, where’s it all coming from—

Cole gently lifts his blanket, folding it up as a barrier between him and Lloyd’s running eyes, and pulls him back in, holding him tightly. Lloyd unashamedly clings back, because he’s got no dignity left at this point anyways, and he’s lived with the idea that he’d never see his family again now, and it hurt so much worse than anything Morro could do to him.

“It’s not your fault,” Cole tells him again, his voice thick. “We’ll fix it. We’ll figure it out, Lloyd, we’ll work through it, all of us together this time. You’re going to be okay. I promise, I promise.”

Lloyd just folds in on himself further, burying his face against Cole as he tries to choke back sobs.

Going to be okay. He wants to laugh. His dad’s gone. Lloyd’s entire being feels like a bruise. He could get past that before, maybe. Probably. But—

Cole’s dead.  

How on earth are they supposed to fix that?

[ussgallifrey]

Show Yourself

✦ Summary:The healing process takes time. With memories surging in and out of focus, Bucky still has one piece missing from the puzzle of his past. ✦ Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader ✦ Warnings: Light angst ✦ Word Count: 1.8k ✦ Notes: Yup, still listening to the Frozen 2 soundtrack.

The brownstone stands tall and unassuming beyond a veil of rain. The address had been checked and doubled checked with the torn-off piece of paper in his pocket, dotted by a rough scratch of letters and numbers in a blaringly familiar penmanship. The bustle of the street is lessened by the weather but still remains strong for a Saturday afternoon.

Heavy droplets bead up on the rim of his hat, the cold seeps through the secondhand jacket and soaks the hoodie underneath. His joints ache and his body is chilled, but not by the late November rain.

Just there, across the street and up a small flight of steps lies a future. A future that had been frozen by a failed mission in Austria - one that he can only hazily recall. A name had been underlined twice above the given address. It felt… familiar, but not enough to invoke a memory. Bucky just knew that this was important, a missing puzzle piece in the story.

With hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans - both for warmth and to keep the metal hand from view - he stares up at the sweet-red bricks and large black-framed windows. Tries to imagine a life inside, a story to be told.

He doesn't know why that name, so soft on the tip of his tongue, calls to him. A light on the stormy sea. A beacon through unbelievable turmoil. It's the remnants of a hazy dream, one that he found himself reaching for before facing the harsh reality of another day alone. But there's something there, calling out to his heart.

Steve had given him the address with the promise that it might spark some memories. It was all a process right now, slowly regaining a lifetime that had been forcefully repressed for so long. Sometimes it felt familiar, like riding a bike after a long winter spell. Other times, it was like trying on another person's clothes - nothing fit right and nothing sparked a proper reaction. It would take time, he knew that.

And yet…

Looking up at the apartment with the soft-glow of yellow lamps and an autumn wreath attached to the front door, he thinks this one might bust the floodgates.

"We knew her," Steve had said, hands folded carefully on the table in front of him, gauging his reaction.

There was a break to his voice, a tiny quiver of something that made Bucky think there was more to that story than what was being fully presented to him at the time.

So, with nothing more than a piece of paper and a trembling amount of curious energy, he finds himself standing in the middle of a downpour - unable to move from his spot by the small Ash tree. Something deep inside, unknown and severely underused, is singing. He wants to stride across the street, knock on the door with confidence. But that's not him, not anymore.

"I can call her, if you want - "

That thought had made Bucky's stomach turn with a sickly sweet lurch of creeping anxiety.

Instead, he pocketed the address and set off in search of it on his own. Traveling down streets he hadn't seen in over seventy years. Some things sparked a sense of recognition, others had changed with the decades and were completely foreign to him.

This here though, while unrecognizable seems… safe. And he hasn't even had the courage to walk up the gray stone steps yet.

With the streak and flash of a passing delivery truck, Bucky's gaze is drawn up to the second-floor window. A face, blurred by the rain, stares out into the dreary street. Down at him, the only person standing out in the weather.

A curtain quickly covers the window and he makes his move. A sense of building tension grows tight in his belly as he reaches the stoop. He's come this far. Something calling out to him in the distance. Right as he's about to step up, the front door opens.

Haloed by the glow of a hallway light, a figure comes into view. Pinched brows and concern dotting her eyes as she presses her fist tight against her mouth, slouching back against the doorframe.

A worn memory, well-practiced from a life long lost, has him pulling his hat off and tucking it under his arm. The rain beats down on his head and he can't find it in himself to care. Slowly, one step and then another. And then he's in front of the open door. That's when it hits him - when he can finally see you clearly under the awning, safe from the ongoing storm.

Red lips and high curls, a stiff green dress and a broken heel. A dark wool coat that smelled like vanilla, blushed cheeks, excited whispers hushed by the snow. A laugh, sweet as honey cake and just as warm. A kiss, a hand held in his, a ring. 

But… but it's not right. You… you look almost the same. Same eyes, same tears threatening to spill over.

You push off from the frame, staggering towards him with wide eyes and a sense of wonder, "Bucky?"

Your voice filters through the noise of disjointed memories - through the false planted ideas and the barely-there whispers of a past - coats them all with molasses with just one simple word.

His movements are predetermined by his past self. A hand steadies you, the right one, gripping your forearm, pulling you closer.

Vanilla fills his senses, drowns him in a world lost to time. Soothes the burn, the chill, the ache. Had you always had that power over him? 

Your hands startle him as they slowly cup his face. Not a sign of trepidation as you study him. The first willing touch he's experienced in a very long time. On instinct alone, he would have pulled away - fearing a blow. But with your eyes trained on him and that voice, he just melts into it. Craving something deep in his bones. It sings of something he can't yet name.

The fortress crumbles. The stoic broken man shatters by a single embrace. Decades of forced control and containment has nothing on you. The iron gates shatter and you flood to his very core. Light waves surge across his skin, illuminate his heart and break the dam.

Cradling his face, as though he's a precious gem - a thing to behold. His stubble scratches against your fingers. He should have shaved, should have prepared. If he knew what was waiting for him here today, he would have done so much more. But instead, he's soaked to the bone and the words are bottled up with a heavy cork.

"I," your voice cracks with the weight of the situation. His hands find your waist and it all seems so natural, a body on autopilot.

With a shaky breath, you try again. 

"I thought I would never see you again," your eyes glisten with unshed tears.

Moving in slow motion, Bucky pulls you to him. Hands wrapping around your back as you collapse against his chest with a heavy sob.

A moment passes, lost in the patter of raindrops and the chill wind rustling down the street. And then you pull back, wiping helplessly at the tears that had fallen.

"Do you, uh, do you know who I am?"

He takes you in. Hair styled differently - more modern than he can recall. Clothes simple and equally modern. And then there, on your finger, a slim gold band.

His voice is rough as he manages out, "I think I'm starting to."

You envelop him in an instant, hands wrapped tight around his neck. And he accepts it, your weight against him comforting more than anything.

Memories ebb and flow as you snuggle into his neck with a shuddering breath. You look the same as you did then, barely aged a day since… 

How long had you waited? Never knowing he was alive all this time. Had Steve told you or had you recognized him by that horrible news coverage from DC?

"I always hoped that you were," you trail off, words held tight in your throat as your lips ghost the bare patch of skin on his neck.

Pulling back, your gaze is steady and well-worn.

"I couldn't believe that you had died. Because you promised me, do you remember?"

Your eyes shine with hopeful pleading.

Warmth seeps through his veins as he takes your left hand in his. Water droplets bead up on the smooth skin there as he turns your hand palm down. Eyes trained on the golden band gleaming against your finger.

"How… how are you still…?" He draws his gaze up to your face.

You leave your hand in his, a sign of trust, perhaps? 

"I know you have a lot of questions - I do too. But I have secrets, Buck. Cold secrets deep inside me. I'm not that girl you left behind on the docks."

His eyes don't waver as he licks his lips. "That's good, I'm not exactly the same person either."

Your breath hitches as another wave threatens to spill. "There was never anyone else, James Barnes. Just you."

His heart soars and aches all at once.

"You could've had the pick of them, sweetheart," it comes out easy and distantly familiar. 

A shy smile grazes your plump lips, "Never would've compared to you."

It all comes surging up at once. Moments running through his head of you - only you. He didn't even know he was waiting for you all this time. But now that he's here on your doorstep with your hand in his, it feels like a lifetime of waiting has cultivated into this single instance. The answer he didn't know he was looking for. The final key to the locked memory door.

And then your lips brush against his cheek, just chaste and faint. Your heated gaze shines like the sun, chasing the dark clouds from view and stilling the rain.

He thinks of lazy summer days on a fire escape, trading kisses and tempting caresses. Of a girl with candy-sweet rose-petal lips and a playful gleam in her eyes.

"Will you come in? Think we have some catching up to do."

And he feels it, that first true smile on his face in what feels like a century. It's a little out of practice, but he thinks he'll get there now. 

Bucky lets you lead him inside, promises on your lips and a story begging to come tumbling out.

And somehow, he thinks this is what he's truly been waiting for. He just didn't know it at the time, couldn't have imagined it to begin with. But you opened the door, showed yourself and all that you had left to give - to him, of all people. This, this is home. He is found.

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[ofmenoetius]

✖ ▒ OH, WHAT A COINCIDENCE! i was just thinking of [ PATROCLUS SON OF MENOETIUS ]. most swear their resemblance to [ SEAN TEALE ] is unmistakable, but he has / they have been around since the [ BRONZE AGE ]. it is rumoured that the [ DEMIBOY ] was born in [ OPUS ] in the year [ 1205 BC ], even though they don’t look a day over [ THIRTY ]. what a shame, though: they were once famed for being [ HONEST ] and [ PASSIONATE ] ; yet now, they seem more and more [ RESERVED ] and [ MERCURIAL ]. but while [ PATROCLUS ] spends their days working as a [ HARPIST FOR THE LONDINIUM SYMPHONY ORCHESTRA ], they are already notorious around town for [ UNSENT LOVE LETTERS ADDRESSED TO NO ONE ; BANDAGED FINGERS AND CALLOUSED HANDS ; A BEAT UP OLD FLIP PHONE ; THE FAINT SCENT OF COFFEE AND CARDAMOM ]. when you live forever, you might as well make the most of it. 

hi, hello –– i’m bella + also the worst !! this is my baby patroclus who’s one part powerpuff girl, two parts physical embodiment of the eyeroll, and generally just has really bad frown lines from being in a Bad Mood for like thousands of years or whatever. ( will not get botox sadly, someone convince him ) anyway –– i am here for every single plot of every single kind !! just like this and / or hmu on discord @ halaldaddy#3725 !!

TASK ONE : THE RUNDOWN

▼ STATISTICS.

full name: patroclus, son of menoetius.

moniker / nickname: officially goes by patrick in 2020, and he has the fake ids to prove it. generally isn’t the biggest fan of nicknames. 

titles: tbd.

gender && pronouns: demi-boy && he / him + they / them. 

dob && age: april 24th, 1205 BC && really old –– about 3224 years old, give or take, but he’s been thirty for a really long time. 

place of birth: opus, greece. 

previous residences: opus, athens, larissa, cape town, cardiff, inverness, paris, milan, caracas, && londinium –– in that order. 

zodiac sign: taurus. 

ethnicity: white && venezuelan. 

sexual orientation: demisexual. 

romantic orientation: homoromantic. 

occupational history: perpetual soldier, squire, orange farmer, lutist, revolutionary, boxer, harpist. among others. 

▼ PHYSICAL APPEARANCE.

face claim: sean teale.

height: 185 cm && 6′2. 

physical build: mesomorph && visibly muscular && painfully straight back from years of his father’s voice still stuck in his head. ( it’s 2020, maybe he really should go to therapy for his daddy issues, but how do you tell a therapist your dad died before the trojan war ?? asking for a friend. )

eye colour and shape: dark brown && hooded, really long lashes which he does oil at night && also lines his eyes with kohl. it’s habit. 

hair colour and style: dark, cropped, usually trimmed neatly. 

usual expression: bored, reluctant smile.

accent and speech style: heavily accented english, but it’s impossible to pin down where he might be from. speaks spanish and greek with more ease than he does english.

distinguishing marks / characteristics: both ear lobes pierced, gold studs in both. a shield tattooed on his left flank. plenty of scars –– one across his right eyebrow, scarred && calloused hands, a very large scar that refused to heal right on his left shoulder. 

clothing style: anything he can find, really ; athletic for the most part, but smart button-downs ( always button-downs, never button ups ) for work. 

jewellery and accessories: a thin, gold chain around his neck ; his an engraved ring hangs from it, tucked away. a deliberate collection of rings on his fingers: a curved edge, yellow gold signet ring from a third-generation foundry in greece ; a classic medusa ring picked up in florence during the renaissance ; a turquoise inlaid silver signet ring ; a silver plated band, worn on his left thumb.

▼ FAMILY.

father: menoetius, deceased ( thank fuck ). 

mother: philomela, deceased. 

siblings, if any: myrto, his sister. 

extended relations: none that he knows. 

significant other(s): achilles && only achilles. it could only ever be achilles.

children: none, except his –– 

household pet(s): he has two tabby cats named menelaus and ajax ( just a little fun joke for himself, okay –– don’t @ him. ) 

▼ FAVOURITES.

colour: gold ; every shade. 

weather: storms –– it reminds him of mornings spent inside, the air sticky and humid, sweat on his upper lip and a laugh on his tongue. 

food item: he’s a vegetarian –– he always has been, especially since he didn’t always have food, especially during the 1100s. so yeah, patroclus isn’t exactly picky –– anything veg and vaguely edible’s fine –– but he does love a vegan burger ( normal cheese, please ). the perks of the 21st century. okay, and he loves green olives. 

beverage: he’s a stereotype, he loves red wine. ( fine, he hates wine –– he likes tequila. )

time of day: late at night, late enough that the streets are quiet and the air feels thin and he can breathe deeply. 

television genre: not that patroclus has time to watch tv –– plus he’s got one of those old picture tube tvs from the dinosaur era –– but he loves a good underwater documentary. and shark week. and the history channel –– he likes to catch what they got wrong. 

favourite era lived: he’d do anything to go back to the day before he died –– anything. to say a proper goodbye, to say all the very many things he’d never said because he thought he had all the time in the world. but also, he really loved the ‘70s in londinium.

▼ PERSONALITY.

hobbies: boxing && reading && falling asleep in the sun. 

pet peeves: people talking in circles && liars. 

phobias: patroclus doesn’t like drowning. he’s died of drowning once && come back from it, but he absolutely hated it. he’ll take anything over it. 

allergies: coffee. which is fine, because patroclus likes green tea anyway. ( well, green tea with like three whole spoonfuls of honey. )

mbti type: isfj – t.

enneagram type: 

35% the challenger.

48% the skeptic.

22% the peacemaker.

positive traits: passionate && honest && loyal && dependable.

negative traits: reserved && mercurial && blunt && pessimistic && headstrong && forlorn.

morning routine: goes for a run every morning before dawn, goes to a boxing class, has breakfast at the bookshop on the way home, and gets to work at least an hour early. it’s boring and it’s too familiar and patroclus wouldn’t change it –– he’d rather have predictable than the alternative. he’s tired of losing people and places and old routines, so he’s holding on to this one until he has to move again in another twenty years.

beauty routine: nothing really ; patroclus keeps his beard neat and his hair trimmed. he oils and curls his lashes, oils his beard. he misses baths –– big baths that you could sit in and just stay in until you pruned. but he only has a shower in his apartment now. 

sleeping habits: patroclus hasn’t slept through the night since before his first death ; nowadays, it’s a few hours of sleep at a time, and plenty of nightmares to keep him company. the good thing is, he’s very used to waking up early –– rather than tossing and turning or watching his ceiling until dawn, he’s up and out of bed. 

oldest belonging: he doesn’t have anything –– nothing. patroclus always leaves things behind, always. it’s easier that way. and sure, he regrets it sometimes. but there’s no use crying over the past, right? not when he has an endless future. 

living space && home: it’s small –– it’s really small. but it has bay windows, a shitty little terrace with doors that the wind knocks open, and plants everywhere. there’s a kingsize mattress on the ground, one set of sheets total and they’re made of cotton-silk. orange, of course.  

INTRODUCTION : tw death ; tw war .

his childhood wasn’t pretty. patroclus was born too skinny, too weak –– maybe not sickly, but he wasn’t wanted. he wasn’t loved. he was born into a war, and his war was his father. his war was his father’s shame. so when he killed another by accident –– in anger, in frustration, by mistake –– his father was more than happy to ship him off ; and somehow, that was the greatest gift his father could have ever given him. thanks, dad. 

it’s been so long, everything feels like a dream. it feels too sunlit and too warm to the touch. it feels too easy. and sure, he can’t remember all that much about it. but he remembers achilles. he remembers being so happy that he felt sick to his stomach. but he doesn’t remember hector’s knife in his stomach or dying that very first time. but he remembers waking up to hades in the underworld, and he remembers the sickening realisation that he could never go back ever again –– he was here, and he was alive, and he still had to leave everything he once knew behind. 

patroclus didn’t want money or fame ; he’d only ever wanted a love to call his own and a place to call his home. and since he’d lost both already, he was tired. so he went off to work on an orange farm, right at the edge of the world –– or well, the edge of his world. he was still in greece, news travelling to them every few months or years, and it was alright. he was away from the rest of the world, labouring under the cruel sun and sleeping into the cool night, and waking up to do it all over again. he smiled at the kids on his way into town and gave them an armful of oranges each. and then when people began to wonder whywhywhy he wasn’t aging, patroclus moved on to the next village –– and then the next, and then the next. 

it was 1465 + he was in florence when he saw a lute again –– a laugh escaping him before he could start to remember when he last laughed out loud. it reminded him of home, of a long time ago. so he began to play for money and food and a place to stay. and it took him all over the world –– meeting people who’d die before he’d reach his next destination and learning things he’d never be able to forget. 

going to war became a habit. the crusades, the gallic wars, the jacobite rising, the war of the roses, the french revolution, the seven weeks war, world war i, the russian revolution, world war ii, and so very many more –– patroclus wasn’t really fighting, but he was trying. he was trying to make sure some good came out of them, that there was some death that he could stop, some blows he could take if it meant another lived. but at some point, he just couldn’t keep doing it anymore. his heart hurt and his nightmares followed him in the daylight. 

now, well –– he’s a harpist for the londinium symphony. patroclus has been her for all of about 12 years now ; he doesn’t want to move, not yet. but throughout his many, many lifetimes, he’s perfected and loved the harp –– it’s the only thing he recognises in this brave new world, and he’s going to hang onto it for as long as he can. 

WANTED CONNECTIONS.

survival of the stubborn: a mentor, someone patroclus met after a long, long time of being immortal, but someone who taught him to stop being completely miserable and enjoy the time they have. if it wasn’t for this person, patroclus probably wouldn’t have lasted all that long.

death becomes you: immortal friends ; the gang, the squad. the ride or dies –– so to speak. they can go decades without talking or meeting, but they get together again every fifty years and know they can rely on each other. plus, they can literally whatsapp each other now –– like, what. 

orange you glad to see me: he worked on an orange farm in greece after their first death in about 1200 BC, and met this person there. maybe this person owned the farm, maybe this person was just a guest of the owners, maybe they also worked on the farm, or maybe they just met each other in the village nearby –– but they met again years and years and years later and it was a lowkey lightbulb moment of oh, so i’m not alone out here for patroclus !! 

please turn the music off: musician friends + members of the orchestra ( mortal or immortal ) + anyone who’s into music and they might have met each other over the years !! perhaps a mentor or maybe they even totally hate each other, but just about any type of music relation !!

encore, encore: patroclus worked / played in a few different courts over the years –– always the lute or harp –– so this might be someone he might have played for !! 

tequila’s my best friend: drinking buddies !! what it says on the tin. patroclus is a miserable drinker, usually ends up spilling all of his secrets, sometimes ends up breaking things. 

the war followed me back home: patroclus served in plenty of wars until 1950 –– far too many, with new names and new titles and new ranks every time. to do some good in the world. or maybe they were just chasing their first death at hector’s hands. either way –– this is someone they might have served with !! could be a commanding officer ; a fellow soldier ; or even a doctor / nurse !!

old enemies, new friends: people he just doesn’t get along with. at all. ever. they’re always hated each other, maybe they even killed each other a few times, but just some sort of enemies !!

more to be added !!

[blueberryraindrops]

Blueberry’s Ultimate T-Rated TUA Masterlist

KEY

Fics are organised alphabetically (articles e.g. ‘the’ will not count)

Download links are EPUB files only

authors can feel free to send me a msg if they want their fics’ download link taken down

Regular updates can be expected as long as I remain in the fandom

Last Update: 14/10/2020

Other Masterlists: All Fics; G-Rated; M-Rated; E-Rated

FANFICTION

☁︎ another cog in the murder machine by Ford_Ye_Fiji { T }

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Five finally gets the breakdown he deserves

☁︎ Blood like Lemonade by Ford_Ye_Fiji { T }

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Hunting high and low to seek revenge, Brand new moral code, got made reluctant renegade. Leaving empty souls when he avenged, Evil spirits flowed he drank the blood like lemonade.

Five's sordid past comes to light in, quite possibly, the most unpleasant way

☁︎ Details [Series] by VeteranKlaus { T }

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The last time Klaus saw his siblings was at Allison and Patrick's wedding. A lot had changed since then; including the not-so-accidental, irreversible loss of his sight.

There's no time to tell them that, though. Not with the return of their long-presumed-dead brother and the impending apocalypse. Plus, it doesn't matter. He's got Ben as a good seeing-eye ghost.

☁︎ do androids dream of electric sheep? by the_crownless_queen { T }

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Number Four is crying, and Grace was made to care for those children.

In which Grace was created to protect the children of the Academy. Even, as it turns out, from their father.

☁︎ don't waste your time (or time will waste you) by rosewitchx { T }

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He was an old man. He is sixteen. Ben dies next week. How does he know that? “I think I broke it,” Five stutters, and for the first time in her short life Vanya sees absolute terror in his eyes.

Or, Five travels back again. Something goes wrong.

☁︎ Fighting (Pre)Determinism by chibi_tantei { T / WIP }

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They go back in time, determined to rewrite their own family history. Only problem is, only one of them looks the proper age to get near their younger selves.

Or, six months after Five stormed out, determined to time travel, he returns home. His siblings are happy to have him back, but he's acting differently...

(Or, Five goes undercover as himself. Twice the siblings should make saving the world easier, right? Yet somehow, he's only now realizing how many issues his family has to fix.)

☁︎ Five and Dave's Life Changing (Life Saving) Field Trip by neuronary { T }

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The little boy, who Dave could now see was not as little as he’d first thought, shoved a tin mug at him. “Drink this.”

Dave drank. It tasted sickly sweet and slightly citrus-y. “Who are you?”

“Five.” The boy’s scowl deepened at Dave’s confusion. “Klaus’ brother.”

Or, Five saves Dave's life to stop Klaus from moping. From Dave's perspective, a very grouchy, sleep-deprived twelve-year-old kidnaps him and he finds it much more entertaining than he should.

☁︎ haven't you heard of meditation? by rosesareredvioletsareblue { T }

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"Klaus, you have a piece of glass sticking out of your neck!"

Klaus felt for the glass, wincing as he found it.

"Oh yeah. Fun." It took all of Five's willpower not to throttle him.

☁︎ Hidden Variables Theory, The by siriuspiggyback { T }

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Something has disturbed the space-time continuum, and it's up to Five to figure out what it is.

With a bit of luck, and a lot of alcohol, he might even manage to do it before he snaps and murders his siblings.

☁︎ haven't you heard of meditation? by rosesareredvioletsareblue { T }

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"Klaus, you have a piece of glass sticking out of your neck!"

Klaus felt for the glass, wincing as he found it.

"Oh yeah. Fun." It took all of Five's willpower not to throttle him.

☁︎ Hidden Variables Theory, The by siriuspiggyback { T }

→ Download Here

Something has disturbed the space-time continuum, and it's up to Five to figure out what it is.

With a bit of luck, and a lot of alcohol, he might even manage to do it before he snaps and murders his siblings.

☁︎ i'm gonna be here til i'm nothing (but bones in the ground) by iguessyouregonnamissthepantyraid { T }

→ Download Here

Someone definitely just punched him in the chest, right? That’s the reason for that feeling? Or that last batch of pills had something seriously off-label mixed into them. Because there’s no way. There’s no fucking way.

He squeezes his eyes shut until dots burst behind his eyelids, but when he opens them, the hallucination doesn’t go away.

“… Five?”

☁︎ if the sky comes falling down by synchronicities { T }

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The equations are still wrong.

In 2002, Number Seven wonders why her siblings are acting odd.

(Or, the post-finale “Vanya doesn’t remember the time travel” fic)

☁︎ If You're Different And You Know It (you're not alone) by M3zzaTh3M3z { T }

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Five was different. He’d always known. Different from most people, what with his freakish birth, powers and unconventional upbringing, all that old news. And different from his siblings. He was smarter. His powers were stronger. And he’d never picked a name. All that was old news too. But there was something else that separated him from the rest, something he didn’t know how to put a finger on, how to categorize, analyse, understand. Five didn’t like not understanding. It was probably Klaus that made him first notice something was off.

☁︎ Is the sadness everlasting? (love, I think it is) by ArmedWithMyComputer { T }

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A look into what Klaus' newly discovered ability could mean for the siblings.

Diego could feel his whole body trembling as he faced the ghosts, only able to take shallow breaths as he struggled to process the true horror of what he was seeing.

And then they started howling.

The sound pierced though his stupor and forced him to his knees instantly. It was like nothing Diego had ever experienced before, and he was consumed with the intensity and overwhelmed by a deep chilling fear. It felt as though his mind had been taken over and all he could hear was the shrieks of grief, more intense than any emotion he had ever felt.

☁︎ It Does(n't) Matter by MYSTERYstew { T }

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It’s a familiar feeling, being lifted up by Luther and tossed around like he weighs nothing (to Luther he certainly does), it was a favorite move of Luther’s as a child. Nostalgia is not what Five feels, he’s too busy flailing as Luther throws him over the railing.

or, Five fails a jump

☁︎ Just One Minute by willowhisperer { T }

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Five holds up his end of the deal, soaked in blood. The Handler decides to toy with him a little while longer.

Maybe it's revenge, maybe she's riding the high of her shiny new position as head of the Commission.

Really, she just wants to win, once and for all.

☁︎ Lessons 'verse [Series] by Soulykins { T }

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Five was maybe four years old when he figured out that he was pretty much ride or die for his siblings. He was also four when he figured out that in the Umbrella Academy, you could never let Reginald Hargreeves figure out what you loved lest he use it against you. There was safety in aloof indifference, more than could be found anywhere else under their roof.

Five times Five Hargreeves protected his siblings the best ways he could, and the one time he failed.

☁︎ Lethe by shoelaces { T / WIP }

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Le·the | A river in Hades whose waters cause drinkers to forget their past.

Or: Five loses his memories instead of Vanya, and it falls to his siblings to raise a superpowered teenager in the 1960s, all whilst preserving their own new lives and preventing yet another apocalypse.

☁︎ Like an abyss by fridayyy { T }

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For the second time, Five has to (gets to?) grow up.

☁︎ Like Oxygen by sevansa { T }

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Klaus's powers may be a bit more extensive than just seeing the dead, he's not sure what to do about that.

OR

The one where Klaus's power is not ghosts, but souls and that makes a hell of a difference.

☁︎ Mellow Rays of a Departing Sun [Series] by Emotionally_Detached (Yeah_Toast) { T }

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He makes it. He time travels and makes it through another apocalypse. He makes it, but his siblings don't.

His siblings don't make it, except he's in his own childhood and they're still here, alive and thirteen and he can fix things.

He will fix things

☁︎ most dangerous place in the world, the [Series] by Princess_Sarcastia { T }

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"Grace is the third model in a series created by and for Sir Reginald.  She has access to the knowledge obtained by her predecessors in their time assisting Sir Reginald in his many endeavors.

All three of them were primarily designed as protectors.  Do no harm, just as Mr. Asimov said!

But Grace is slightly different."

[priority one: protect the children]

☁︎ New Life, A by BirdInTheCave { T }

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Allison had convinced Ray to come back to 2019 with her and her family and after a month of being cooped up in the house with the other Hargreeves plus their own unconventional guests, Ray suggests they spend some time alone. He's still struggling to fully comprehend the new world he's stepped into but he's determined that with Allison at his side he can get used to anything. Allison can't find a reason to say no. She should have said no.

Luckily for her, Five will always be there for his family, now that he's back.

☁︎ Not with me by ClaraCivry (Kat_Of_Dresden) { T }

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They never asked if any of that blood was his. Five is bleeding, and he is also giving up.

AU to 2X07, with hurt Five because after all that boy has been through...

☁︎ Number Five | And The Things that Make Him Tick [Series] by Kraeyola { T }

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It's only been two weeks for him.

AKA: Five succumbs to two weeks worth of badly cared for (physical and emotional) injuries, and ends up extremely feverish.

☁︎ On My Terms by CivilBores { T }

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“I did what you asked,” he tells her. “Now, the briefcase.”

Her eyebrows raise in mock-surprise, red lips curling up her face in a sadistic smile.

“You didn’t think that was all, did you?” she asks.

AU: The Handler gives Five a slightly different deal.

☁︎ Partners, Parents, or None of the Above by DarkFairytale { T }

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Kenny's mom assuming that Diego and Klaus were A) a couple and B) Number Five’s parents was both bemusing and amusing at the time. But that was because it was the only time it had ever happened. Now though? Now they just can't understand why these misunderstandings keep happening.

☁︎ rude awakening by Soulykins { T / WIP }

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When Five wakes up, he just knows someone is in the room with him. Of course, even he didn't except to come face to face with the Handler who he'd thought to be very very dead. And he especially didn't expect her to break into his room and watch him sleep while waiting for him to wake up.

It's very fortunate that Diego and Klaus show up to wake him up and take offense to some random lady in the same room as their very uncomfortable, very thirteen-year-old brother.

☁︎ Screaming in the Face of Communication by papayaromantic { T }

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It's not that he doesn't want to pay attention to Five, just that he seriously can't hear what the boy is saying past the wailing of the torn apart woman in front of him.

☁︎ shaking like I shook before by Anonymous { T }

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Five tries to deal with it alone, until he learns that he doesn’t have to.

☁︎ skirts and sweaters by slightlyworriedhuman { T }

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"I don't want to be a ‘cute little schoolboy’ anymore, alright?” Five snapped. For some reason, the thought of himself as a schoolboy was enough to make his skin prickle. Was it the implication that he was younger than the rest of them, less mature despite his life?

...Yeah, it was definitely that. Absolutely.Five wants a change in wardrobe. His siblings are more than happy to help.

☁︎ small changes by calypso42 { T }

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“I need to ask you something.” He set down the large stack of books he was carrying beside him. Klaus glanced at a few of the titles - Consciousness in the Brain - Memory & the Role of the Hippocampus - Soul vs. Matter: A Comprehensive Look at the Origins of Sentience - and grimaced.

“Are you… having an existential crisis, or something? Because I am possibly the worst person you could go to for that.”

...

When Five goes to Klaus to ask him something about his powers, Klaus doesn’t think much of it. At least, until he realizes that what he thought was simple curiosity was actually deeper than that, leading to a revelation about Five himself.

☁︎ take shelter by aloneintherain { T }

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AU where the apocalypse doesn’t follow the Hargreeves to the 1960s. Without the threat of nuclear annihilation hanging over their heads, the siblings can take the time to be a family again.

Until they find out that the Handler has been blackmailing Five.

☁︎ this is a bad town (for such a pretty face) by luciimariiellii { T }

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Five’s gone. (How the Hargreeves cope, and how they reunite.)

☁︎ to unexplain the unforgivable by darkviverna { T }

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Ability to see the dead and having a temporal assassin for a brother don’t mix well.

☁︎ Too Much Too Little by 1spideyson { T }

→ Download Here

Five says nothing on the ride back, just gently presses the tips of thin fingers to his eyes and temples like his head is a new instrument he’s learning to play. Like he’s searching for the right notes.

Diego tries not to cast too many worried glances the boy’s way, but when Five crawls into Diego’s bed, shaking and grey, he can’t stop himself from speaking up.

A look at Five and Diego's relationship through a h/c lens.

☁︎ Too Old To Be So Young by KaseyBeth { T }

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Five winced loudly, pushing his head off the floor to see bright red smeared across his chest and stomach; crimson soaked into his shorts, running down his leg. His head fell back against the ground dizzyingly, and he groaned as someone touched the wound, biting his bottom lip as he tried to stay conscious. The end of life, of everything, was in three days; they didn’t have time for this, he didn’t have time for this. A bullet wound, a stupid bullet wound and all that stupid concern and worry, was just going to slow them down. There wasn’t time for mistakes, or hiccups, or rest and recovery. It was the end of the fucking world.

☁︎ traumaversary by WeWalkADifferentPath { T }

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It follows him like an unscratched itch. Under his skin, over his body, around his energy, like a mosquito that won’t leave him the fuck alone.

April 1st. April 1st. April 1st.

(A character study of Five, with some inevitable family feels, in honour of March 24th).

☁︎ Unexpected Future, An by aseies { T / WIP }

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“I’m sure you’re looking forward to finding a way back to your own time as soon as possible,” Nedzu said. “I want you to know that U.A. will do everything in its power to help you achieve that goal. Time travel is a complicated equation to solve, but I’m sure if we put our heads together we’ll come up with something!”

Five raised a skeptical eyebrow. “And you’re just going to do that out of the goodness of your heart? I’m not even old enough for high school yet.”

“Well, we’re all heroes for a reason, no? What good are we if we can’t help a single child in need?” Nedzu pointed out with a pleasantly neutral smile as he sipped his tea.

OR: Instead of time traveling into the apocalypse, thirteen-year-old Five Hargreeves teleports in the middle of the USJ fight.

He gets a couple of new dads out of it.

☁︎ walls kept tumbling down, the by Ingu { T }

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It started small.

There was a nagging ache in his chest, phantom pain from where the bullets had pierced his flesh, in the overwritten timeline that never will be.

(the one where rewinding time doesn't miraculously resolve mortal gunshot wounds)

☁︎ We All Deserve Second Chances (but don't repeat your mistakes) by justarandomword, wolvesandnovas { T }

→ Download Here

Time-travelling gave Ben a second chance at life. He's not about to let Reginald Hargreeves ruin that for him and Klaus.

(a.k.a. Reginald takes Klaus' dog tags and the aftermath.)

☁︎ we didn't choose this life, we're just (kind of) living it [Series] by noodlerdoodler { T / Partially WIP }

→ Download Here

Five couldn’t move, standing by and watching complacently, as his younger brother grabbed him roughly by the front of his sweater. It was like he was watching a play he wasn't apart of, yet that was definitely his small body being tossed over the balcony. No doubt, Luther thought that he would just jump out of the way. He'd always jumped out of the way, sometimes without even meaning to, but now visions of a world on fire flashed through his head as his body plummeted towards the ground. Seemingly, he was tumbling through the air in slow motion and absentmindedly, Five wondered if this was his life flashing before his eyes. All he saw was the desolate world he’d left behind weeks ago.

When Five hit the ground, it was with a sickening cracking noise.

“Oh my god, Luther, what have you done?”

☁︎ with two arms by karcheri { T }

→ Download Here

What it comes down to, really, is that Five had been too eager for results. Once it became clear to him that there was a connection between his powers and his energy level the obvious course of action, as he saw it, was to test this information. The hypothesis was this: higher energy levels = stronger powers and the easiest way to get more energy is to eat more. Pretty simple stuff. Too simple.

or Five times that Five starves himself and one time that he gets called out on it.

☁︎ you from yesterday by questors (sieges) { T }

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The difference between who his siblings once were and who they are now.

[dearlazerbunny]

Lie to Me (Ch. 18 of 28)

Pairings: Loki x Reader

Genre/Ratings: M eventually (aiming for a slow burn here); warnings for kidnapping and subsequent anxiety/PTSD (will be marked before every chapter)

Words: 1500

Summary: If you had to guess what the captured, traitor, trickster god Loki Laufeyson wanted or needed at this moment, a babysitter would be far, far down on the list. (Set after the events of Avengers 1.)

SHOUTOUT TO @molmcb and @jessiejunebug, who fair warning are def laughing at everyone freaking out because they know exactly where the story is going

Requested Tags: @deraniel, @iamverity,  @yasnooshka24, @wegingerangelica, @themusingsofmany, @dark-night-sky-99, @tarynkauai, @stuffandstuff-stuff, @angelicshinigami, @my-current-fandom-is, @geekysimmerthings, @lokis-butter-knife

WARNING: Loki is M A D and thus HYDRA agents die sickly deaths

[[Bold+Italics = Y/N’s thoughts, Italics = Loki’s thoughts]]

Um. Loki?

Loki’s head snaps up, eyes blazing, fists curled in green magic. “I have her.”

“You have found her?” Thor demands. “How?”

“She is…” his voice breaks, words spiraling off into an abyss of bittersweet terror. “She is praying. To me.”

Thor’s eyes soften just for an instant, before his resolution returns in spades. “Then I believe you would do well to answer her, yes?”

Loki looks at his brother, standing by his side, matched in fury and determination. Ready to charge headfirst into battle for nothing but the sake of himself and yours. And he wonders how he has called himself intelligent for millennia while still being so oblivious to who he truly has had poised in his corner all this time. “Brace yourself,” he says, and puts a hand laced with green magic on Thor’s arm.

In a shimmer and haze they reappear in some sort of compound. Based on the chill emanating from the concrete walls, underground. Though he does not know their precise location, Loki can tell they have travelled hundreds of miles from where they began- how had they managed to move you so quickly?

He shakes his head. Questions for another time. Both warriors are silent as they take in their surroundings, noting the echoing of footsteps- a hallway, through the door to their right- and low chatter all around.

“This is the HYDRA they spoke of?” Thor’s voice is a low rumble; Mjolnir seems to crackle impatiently in his grasp.

“Yes.”

“Can you sense her?”

Loki reaches out through every means he has, trying to strengthen your thoughts in his mind. “Faintly. She has little time.”

“Time enough.” Without warning, he arcs Mjolnir into the ground below him, crumbling the floor to dust and landing on a lower level. The screams start scarcely before the rubble settles, and despite the circumstances, Loki spares a moment to roll his eyes. And they call him dramatic.

With Thor providing a sufficient distraction, he summons his daggers to him and slips through the nearest door, every footstep bring him closer to wherever you hide.

He comes upon his first opponent the next time he hears your voice. Do I need to, like, invoke your full name or something? Startled, he falters, and the lackey dressed in military gear almost lands a blow before Loki’s reflexes kick in and efficiently pin the man to the wall. He is dead in mere seconds, when green energy overwhelms him and seizes his heart. The body slumps to the floor, and Loki tries to regain his balance. He can still hear you. And that means you’re still alive. For now. Leave it to you to ponder the proper protocols of summoning a god whilst bleeding out in a corner somewhere. Something in his heart pangs. Keep talking to me, love. You can do it. I’m coming. By the stars, I’m coming.

Loki Laufeyson, son of Odin

When you speak his name, your connection grows stronger. He makes a hairpin turn down a corridor to his left, and bangs open a door so hard spiderweb cracks are left in the steel. It leads to a staircase

rightful king of Jotunheim

Steps are cleared ten at a time, each leap pushing him further underground

God of Mischief and Lies

When two stocky guards appear at the bottom of the steps, Loki doesn’t hesitate before putting a dagger through one’s throat, and smashing the other’s head into a concrete block, leaving a sickly trail of blood leaking from the back of his skull

Royal pain in my ass for the past year

Had any HYDRA personnel glanced at the god’s face in that moment, they would have seen a ruthless, wolffish grin overtake his features, his smile as sharp as the daggers aimed at their hearts

Um, hi. It’s me.

Loki huffs as he retrieves his weapons from yet another pair of unfortunate victims. As though it could be anyone else. As if anyone else could have worked their way into his head so quickly, wrapped their fingers around his heart so thoroughly, had their laugh running through his veins like morphine when the nights proved too dark for him to handle on his own

You’d laugh if you were here, trust me

“My sense of humor only goes so far, Witling,” he growls, “and at the moment you are severely pushing its boundaries.” His next target only has time to give him a confused glance before their eyes roll back into their head

So, I know you’re kinda in a cell

Once again, his smile turns dark, and he lets a little extra energy crackle and spiral up his arms, enjoying the feeling of pure power he’s been missing in his imprisonment. Not anymore. Would there be consequences waiting for him? Yes. But he’ll gladly take them and more if it means getting you out of here alive-

I mean, I’m gonna die either way

With a roar, he rips more pathetic beings out of his way and descends another level. You. Are. Not. Dying. Stop saying that.

Sorry, that was a joke. You know I like you better.

And I adore nothing in the world so much as you. Is that not strange?

More hallways that lead to dead ends, more rooms with no treasure to be had but the thrill of seeing the light leave another’s eyes

I don’t know if you can hear me

My love, I would wager all of Asgard that I could still hear your voice if I was frozen in the heart of Ginnungagap itself.

a prince is still a prince, no matter where he comes from

And with his shoulders steady, his aim quick and true, his feet lithe and dancing over the destruction that lay in his wake, Loki Laufeyson looks every inch a fearsome prince no one in the nine realms would dare deny

Thor loves you, even if you don’t believe it

Somewhere above him, thunder rumbles, and the building shakes with heaven-sent lightning. The telltale smell of ozone lingers in the air. Loki has seen enough battles to picture his brother now, glowing with energy as he searches for the next soul that stands in his way

try not to dagger him unless he really deserves it

A smile touches his lips. Ah, Witling. Always so forgiving.

So does Frigga

Frigga. Something low in his gut twists. All-Mother, may you hear her pleas as well as mine. Watch over us both.

Trust me, I know these things

Indeed you do, darling. Somehow you seem to know more of the world than I ever shall, and you have only seen a pinprick of what it has to offer. The thought makes him angry, makes him curl his fists harder and slam it into someone’s jaw even more ruthlessly. I will show you the cosmos, my love. I swear it.

You’re close now, he can tell, because your anguish is starting to feel like a tangible thing he could reach out and rip from the air. Your pain becomes his, his terror becomes yours. He isn’t sure if the blood lingering on his tongue is yours, his, or a mingling of both

You aren’t anything like I expected

A smirk quirks his features. I have never, ever been what they expected. I have always been far more.

Closer, closer. He is closer but your voice grows dimmer, further away. He abandons stealth for an all out run, recklessly wrenching open doors as he passes in desperate hope that you might lie behind them

but I’m glad you’re not

You’d be the first.

I don’t think I’d love you nearly as much if you were

I don’t think I’d love you

love you

An unassuming hatch cracked the slightest bit open gets ripped off its hinges so forcefully it is thrown down the hall. Light floods the abandoned space, highlighting old equipment and stray bullet casings

and you.

You, curled up in the corner, clutching an old weapon to your chest like the cold metal might keep your heart from stopping. From here, he can see jagged edges of bone, glowing white against pale skin. Your hair sticks to your scalp in a mess of blood, and drops of it trickle down your cheek, marring your face. What isn’t white is red, and what isn’t red is black and purple and blue.

Keep yourself out of trouble, Trickster. For me.

“Never,” he breathes. It is trouble that led me to you, darling, and for that I shall consecrate myself at its feet for the rest of my days.

Your eyes open, blearily, his whispered words having stirred something inside you. Though you look right at him, your gaze goes through him, seeing nothing but a shadow haloed in green light. Some minuscule part of your brain wakes up enough to say point, aim, trigger

You manage to fire off three shots before everything in you goes slack.

Some notes:

- So @christ-on-a-fucking-stick-tm decided to go and WRITE ME A FUCKIN FICLET and it’s amazing and go read it: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20631224/chapters/48990377. In honor of their utter perfection, have a chapter <3

- Ginnungagap = “gaping abyss”. It’s basically the primordial void of Norse mythos.

- Spot the Shakespeare quote! ‘Tis one of my favorite quotes, and I feel like Loki would have a (grudging) respect for the Bard.

[tocxmply-archive]

O Hero: I will write about my character mourning yours. --- @hakune​ ---

как Вас зовут? what is your name? James Buchanan Barnes. sergeant. 32557038.

как Вас зовут? what is your name? James Buchanan Barnes. sergeant. 32557038.

          he’s lost count of the days. how long did he stay in that cocoon of snow and blood? how long till a foreign voice found him, accompanied by a glare colder even than the hard rock around him? eyes fluttered shut, then, and, next time he reopened them, he was here --- in this cell. stripped of guns and clothes and dignity, bandages wrapped around the ruins of his left arm. of course, the FREIGHT CAR... the fall, Steve’s hand that he couldn’t hold, the sound of metal whining and breaking, Steve’s eyes wide in horror and shock, the cold that swallowed him whole, a scream lost in the blizzard and the snowy alpine mountains. and, now, this cell.

как Вас зовут? what is your name? James Buchanan Barnes. sergeant. 32557038.

          he’s cold, so cold that it’s like he’ll never again feel warm and comfortable; it’s like winter has settled in his bones to stay. he’s tired too, so tired, and he’s sore and hurting and feverish and numb and scared. of course he’s scared, he’d be a fool not to be... this doesn’t look like the factory, but it doesn’t look much better, either. the factory had stale bread and moldy chunks of something or the other but, here, he’s offered a thick glass of whatever brown goo that is. he doesn’t touch it, he remembers not touching it for a long, long while --- till his mouth is forced open and the brown goo is forced down his throat. it tastes like shit, probably worse than shit. there was one time, he remembers, when Steve was knocked on his face and ended up with a bloody nose and a mouthful of dirty sand... that bully eventually suffered the same fate and went running home to his Ma, crying about how terrible it tasted. somehow, the brown goo seems to taste even worse.

как Вас зовут? what is your name? James Buchanan Barnes. sergeant. 32557038.

          the guards leave the cell, along with the man in a white lab coat who was supervising everything. as soon as they do, he forces himself to retch that liquid death; no way he’ll ever accept any of what they want to force into him, even if it means being hungry and cold and miserable. not even three minutes later, the guards are back along with a new man, all decked in his Soviet military uniform --- if the ranks are the same everywhere, and if the uniforms reflect the same rank, he’s a colonel. Актив не может голодать. мы не можем потерять актив. he’s got no idea what it means, and isn’t allowed time to wonder, either. this is the day he feels the kiss of the metal cane for the first time, the day he meets the Asset’s first handler for the first time. it is also the day he realizes the cell is under constant camera surveillance.

как Вас зовут? what is your name? James Barnes. sergeant. 32557038.

          it could have been a week, it could have been five years. it’s hard to tell, when there’s no mean to mark time with and every day is the same. in this cell, there is no night time. there is no DAYBREAK. the brown goo has come to stay, and so did the kiss of the metal cane. the feeling of broken bones slowly becomes familiar, as does the feeling of bones healing incredibly fast, thanks to whatever Arnim Zola has once injected him with. at least, Arnim Zola isn’t here. even the colonel is slightly better than Arnim Zola. the brown goo is the only form of sustenance he’ll be getting, this much is now obvious, and he made himself retch two more times after the first one. now, the guards only release him when enough time has passed for it to be absorbed. your don’t want it, your own body betrays you. you pray to God, but God is silent.

как Вас зовут? what is your name? James Barnes. sergeant. 32557038.

          the question is ever the same, and so is the answer --- or so he believes. every answer is wrong, if judged by the outcome. maybe the kiss of the metal cane will slowly grow familiar, as well. anything that only stings, without breaking bone, has already grown familiar. they expect him to answer in Russian, and half of him wants to learn what they are teaching --- so that he can make sense out of their chats, so that he can find a way to break free and escape and return home. Steve must be worried sick... it is never good to leave Steve on his own for too long, it always ends up with something reckless being done. for some reason, they want him to stay in top physical shape --- which is incredibly stupid when it comes to a prisoner, he thinks, but may yet work in his favor. if he’s to break free and escape, being in top physical shape will be essential. even if the training routine stings almost as much as the kiss of the metal cane, and is near impossible to achieve with one arm only. but he endures it, and dreams of the day of HOMECOMING. if he doesn’t try to retch the brown goo, he’s come to realize, they allow him a couple hours of non-interrupted sleep. he hates the brown goo, but it is worth enduring if it means seeing Steve for a bit, every night. this night, he dreams of a silly dance with Steve in the kitchen.

как Вас зовут? what is your name? James Barnes. sergeant. 32557038.

          THE HERO THAT SACRIFICED EVERYTHING. the newspaper is on the cell’s floor, right in front of him, but not really. PLANE SUNK IN THE ARCTIC SEA. it’s not really here, it has to be a fake. it has to be a lie. it has to be a hallucination. it has to be a nightmare. CAPTAIN AMERICA IS DEAD. you pray to God, but the heavens are empty.

как Вас зовут? what is your name? James Barnes. sergeant. 32550738.

как Вас зовут? what is your name? James Barnes. sergeant. 3257038.

          it could have been a year, it could have been a decade. there is a little part of him who refuses to believe. it’s a fake, it has to be a fake. Steve is too stubborn to stay idle at the bottom of an ocean. Steve is too stubborn to die. even if the plane did crash, he will break free and escape no less --- he’ll go to the Arctic and find the plane and find Steve inside and kick him back alive if he must. feverish thoughts make sense, sometimes. as of late, the kiss of the metal cane doesn’t come alone --- there’s bullets, as well. maybe gunshots will eventually grow familiar, as the broken bones have. he never again tried to retch the brown goo. he’s almost fluent in Russian, by now. enough to understand orders, enough to know when he’s told he’s to execute enemies of HYDRA that are brought in. whenever he refuses, and he always refuses, there’s a bullet for the prisoner’s head and one for himself, in different body parts. the prisoner dies, he heals. they whisper Hail HYDRA, every time. 

как Вас зовут? what is your name? Barnes. sergeant. 3257038.

как Вас зовут? what is your name? Barnes. sergeant. 325038.

          it could have been a decade. the first time he does not refuse to execute the prisoner, he wishes he was bold enough to pull the trigger on his own head, instead. but, if he dies, he cannot break free and escape and go find Steve. he answers in Russian now when they ask, but the answer has not changed --- he hopes it hasn’t. it’s hard to remember, sometimes. it’s hard to remember that anything else exists out of this cell. he never retches the brown goo anymore, he stopped defying during the training sessions, the kiss of the bullets is almost bearable. sometimes, they reward him with going out of the cell, well guarded and supervised. зрение актива важно. the Asset’s eyesight is important --- he understands them, now. it’s important, of course... he’s a sniper. a long, long time ago, he was in the military. as a sniper. one day, he’ll have his sniper rifle back, and then he’ll be able to break free and escape. for the time being, there’s solace to be found in staring at the snowy fields and forest. he’s not their Asset, not while he remembers his name. his home. his birthday. ONE NINE SEVENTEEN.

как Вас зовут? what is your name? Barnes. 325038.

          one day, he has his measurements taken. he can’t remember the last time he wore clothes, and the thought of having some that will fit him is almost hilarious. maybe they’ll make him look like the handler the colonel. Sergeant Barnes used to be so good looking, if he can remember right. more and more, he feels like he can’t remember right. the brown goo is almost acceptable, because it has become tasteless. the broken bones and gunshots have grown infrequent, though they still happen after every wrong answer. a few days later, or it could have been a century, they show him a piece of metal shaped like an arm. it looks a lot like his own lost arm, in both size and contour. there is a red star there. Hail HYDRA.

как Вас зовут? what is your name? Barnes. 325038.

          he’s tested for the arm. it’s heavy, so heavy that he almost topples over when trying to get up with it. this arm probably weighs more than Steve’s entire body. no, Steve isn’t frail and sickly anymore... Steve is Captain America. Captain America is dead --- that’s all right. he can accept Captain America being dead, so long as Steve is alive. the arm is heavy and doesn’t move, just hangs limp at his side. he has no idea what he’s supposed to do with it. maybe it’s RUSTED. the handler the colonel seems pleased, nonetheless, and today he’s allowed an extra hour of sleep. Steve is in his dreams, frail and sickly and begging him to come home. he wakes up confused, because Siberia is home.

как Вас зовут? what is your name? Barnes. 325038.

          this is a room he never saw before. he’s lying down, strapped to a bench. there are many guards, many men in white lab coats. the handler the colonel is here. there is a face he did not expect to see, a face that fills him with dread, but the name escapes him... he can’t remember the name, only the smile. only the wreckage of a factory somewhere, floor cracking open and turned to a FURNACE of lava. Sergeant Barnes, the procedure is about to start. this man does not speak in Russian, and this is wrong. the man’s smile is wrong. Sergeant Barnes is wrong. there’s a bit of plastic slipped in between his teeth. there’s the electrical sound of a saw being turned on, the saw comes near, the saw touches bone--- ...oh God. you pray to God, but God has forsaken you. you scream, you scream so loud and so much that your voice is gone. everyone is very pleased. you get extra hours of sleep. somehow, healing from the procedure takes far longer than the kiss of the metal cane or the kiss of bullets. you dream of Steve. you both sit outside in the snowy fields, and speak in Russian. something is wrong... Steve can’t sit outside in the snow, he’s frail and sickly.

как Вас зовут? what is your name? Barnes. 3258.

как Вас зовут? what is your name? 32038.

          this is a room he never saw before. in the middle, there’s a strange sort of chair he never saw before. he’s commanded to sit, and he sits. he can’t remember the last time he defied an order. the arm with the red star is brought back. there are many guards, many men in white lab coats. the handler is here, so is the doctor. the arm is placed, metal contraptions are placed around his head, too. there is no bit of plastic to bite on. there’s electricity, and a terrible sting of pain in your arm. it’s like every nerve is being pulled at, at the same time. you swear nothing will ever hurt like this arm hurts. at the end, you don’t remember what happened but the arm moves. you have two arms again. everyone is very pleased. you’re allowed more hours of sleep, they give you clothes to wear. you don’t know what to do with them, so they’re put on for you. it’s black leather. there’s so much black. this night, you dream of Steve waiting at the train station, wondering why you stopped writing letters. one day, you’ll bring him here. you’ll bring him home.

как Вас зовут? what is your name? Barnes. 328.

как Вас зовут? what is your name? Barnes.  

          the arm becomes part of the body. it feels strange, so strange, like the body isn’t his own anymore. the body now belongs to the red star. the body now belongs to them. it’s all right, because he doesn’t need the body. he only needs the mind, where Steve is. the kiss of the metal cane has stopped. it’s not effective anymore. it’s not felt anymore. bullets are kept whenever he answers wrong. sometimes, they are not felt, either. it depends where they hit. training the arm has become the priority. today, you killed an enemy of HYDRA with the arm for the first time. it’s a lot faster than bullets, and doesn’t leave a mess behind. you are given a sniper rifle as reward, and you begin being trained with it as well. the arm must learn how to move and how to hold guns. a strange feeling at the back of your head tells you that, once, you wanted to do something with a sniper rifle. you can’t remember what. remembering is so hard, sometimes. whenever you’re allowed outside, to train your eyes, only one guard is needed. you see no motive to break free and escape.

как Вас зовут? what is your name? Barnes.  

          this room isn’t entirely new. it’s the room with the chair. it’s strange, because the arm is in place. everyone is very pleased with the arm. nonetheless, the metal contraption is placed around his head. the doctor talks to the handler, but you can’t hear it well over the sounds of metal. they talk about the first experiment, about taking notes, about comparing progress, about having to be careful to not erase what is needed for the Asset to still perform at excellence. you’re scared, because they are talking about you. you don’t want to be their Asset. you don’t move. the bit of plastic is slipped in between your teeth. the electricity comes, and you scream like you never screamed before. the chair hurts more than the saw, hurts more than the arm.

как Вас зовут? what is your name? i don’t know.  

          the electricity stops, and they ask your name. you don’t know. you can’t remember. you don’t know who these men are, till you slowly remember. the doctor and the handler are very pleased. there is a terrible ache in your arm and you fail training for the first time. you expect the kiss of a bullet, but instead you’re allowed extra hours of sleep. this is wrong, they shouldn’t reward their Asset for failing. you lie in your cell, aching and sore and feverish and exhausted, unable to fall asleep. you realize what they have done and you’ve never felt so scared before. they’re making you forget... they’re taking everything away. they have already taken your name away. you squeeze your eyes shut and try to commit to memory every single detail in Steve’s face, body, expressions, clothes. please, don’t take him away. you dream of meeting Steve at the ice cream store behind his house, but you can’t find him because you forgot his name.

как Вас зовут? what is your name? i don’t know.  

          they put you on the chair again. and again. nothing hurts like the chair. you forgot your name. they hold a mirror to your face, and it’s as though you haven’t seen it in a long, long time. the red star is familiar. the doctor is the doctor, the handler is the handler --- they make you repeat this much, till you remember or learn again. somehow, you did not forget how to speak Russian. how to hold the guns. how to use your arm. but your head is empty, and it’s filled with so much static. you lie in your cell at night, and you try to remember a name that you know is important. you can’t remember the name... you remember the face, the clothes, the piercing blue eyes, the strands of golden blond hair kissed by the sun --- but you can’t remember the name. God, i beg you. don’t take him away, not him. you can take everything, but not him. please, God...

как Вас зовут? what is your name? i don’t know.  

как Вас зовут? what is your name? i don’t have a name.

          nothing burns like the chair. the doctor and the handler are very pleased. you don’t need guards to go outside, anymore. you don’t ever need guards anymore, unless in the room with the chair. the body now moves perfectly along with the arm. they’re one and the same. the body and the arm belong to then, and your mind does too. your LONGING is gone. Hail HYDRA. you lie in your cell at night, and there are flashes of blond hair and blue eyes. you don’t remember the name, you don’t remember the face... but you know this person is important. thinking about this person makes you feel a little bit less tired, less numb, less sore, less aching, less empty, less filled with static. please, God... don’t take him away. i will find him again, even if you take him away.

как Вас зовут? what is your name? i don’t have a name.

          nothing burns like the chair. you hear talk about your new room. about starting missions. the doctor and the handler are very pleased. please, God... don’t take him away. you don’t know what you are praying about, you can’t remember. but you pray. God doesn’t answer you. He never did.

как Вас зовут? what is your name? i don’t have a name.

          nothing burns like the chair. you stop praying.

как Вас зовут? what is your name? the Asset has no name.

          nothing burns like the chair. the Asset’s new room is ready. the Asset is brought inside, the doctor wishes a good night. suddenly, it’s cold again. so cold. this cold burns almost as much as the chair, for a moment, before it becomes completely BENIGN. completely peaceful. it’s so peaceful, it’s impossible not to want to sleep. you close your eyes, with the image of a reflection staring back at you from your new room’s door. you never saw this face before. and you go to sleep, with the dreadful sensation that you’re forgetting about something very important.

HYDRA was founded on the belief that humanity could not be trusted with its own freedom. what we did not realize was that, if you try to take that freedom, they resist. the war taught us much. humanity needed to surrender its freedom willingly. after the war, SHIELD was founded and i was recruited. the new HYDRA grew. a beautiful parasite inside SHIELD. for seventy years, HYDRA has been secretly feeding crisis, reaping war. and, when history did not cooperate, history was changed.

[iamalivenow]

“Well.” The man takes his glasses off of his nose and slides them into his front shirt pocket. “Nice to finally meet you.” Martin blinks, more shocked than anything, when Peter exists in front of him- between him and the man. “And you are? The secretary didn't call ahead.” “Rude of her.” The man looks between Peter and Martin as best he can. Peter's certainly not making it easy for him. “You gossip about me so much, and you don't even know my name? I'd feel hurt, but.” He's thin, hair graying at the roots, biggest circles under his eyes that Martin's ever seen. “Extinction.” He whispers, and Peter sighs.

“I suppose. Though I'm still shopping around for proper names.” He smiles and Martin thinks it would be a rather charming smile if it wasn't for all the smoke- no, smog pouring out of his mouth. “You've Done This feels right but a bit on the nose.” “They're all on the nose,” Peter says and takes a step back as the smog begins to settle on the floor, the smell of chlorine and paint thinner and gasoline sinking into their clothes. “Blackened Earth is interesting. Watcher's Crown too.” Martin chances another look just as the man scratches his neck, sickly pale. “Where are they, by the way? Watcher and Archivist.” “Jail,” Peter says, and takes another step back forcing Martin up and against the door. “And where's Basira, Martin?” “Don't know.” “Doesn't know. Travesty.” Martin chances a look out the windows of the office. The hallway is empty but not the wrong kind of empty. It's still here. Peter can't leave- this man won't let them leave. Well. At least Peter's come back for him. It's more then he expected. “Yes.” The man says and sighs. The smell of burning plastic coming off of him makes Martin nearly gag. “Travesty.” He pulls his phone out, not a model Martin recognizes at a glance, and taps away at it. “Martin you need to-” Peter shakes his shoulder and Martin catches his eyes. “You need to go.” “Where- I-” He makes a hand movement, fingers twitching. “Fixed your CCTV for you.” The man says, not bothering to look up. “Did you know that was off? What a lark. This place and no CCTV?” “If you get to the street, they'll be a car- my nephew will get you away-” “Oh, black sedan?” The man looks up, flips his screen around. “You know most new cars are so- what is it- convenient? All electronic now, don't even need real keys anymore.” Martin doesn't need to look to know that it's a photo, several photos even, of a car wreck. Peter swallows, audibly. Not a good sign, generally, Martin's found. “So where does that leave us now then?” His voice doesn't waver, and that's fairly impressive, circumstances considering. “Barely even born and you try and sweep our legs out from under us? The rest of you had chances, where are ours? You understand, don't you, Peter Lukas? Whispering about things like that, it's nice to know you're scared.” “We've had bigger concerns,” Martin says, over Peter's shoulder. “Have you? Worms, I suppose. Very frightening. And dolls.” He walks around the desk and sits in Elias' chair. “Aren't you tired of it all? Aren't you always tired?” He rests his hands in his hands. “I was. I still am, really. But I suppose that never leaves anymore. Aren't you exhausted? Hm-” He stops, looking back at his phone. The click of the phone camera goes off before anyone has a chance to do anything. “Martin Blackwood. Still, have a facebook? Really?” “I meant to... delete it.” Peter looks at him with the sort of disdain he's so much more used to, and the slip of normalcy almost grounds him. “Not a lot of friends. No wonder you're with him.” He almost looks bored now, sliding through his account. “Oh you write poetry- that's sweet. Not particularly good, though.” “That's just-” Rude, he wants to say as another wave of nausea rolls over him. The man smiles again, and more of that smog rolls out, like nitrogen, rolling slowly across the desk and down the floor. “I friended you.” Martin looks at Peter who's not really paying attention anymore, thinking of ways to get away or at least get Martin away. He didn't think the Lonely was as weak as the Beholding was. The man's name is Jon Sims. He only has three- now four friends. One of them is a pet account. “Thanks?” “Anytime, Martin.” The man- Jon closes his eyes for a moment. “It was nice meeting you both.” And just like that, he's gone. “Well.” Peter opens the door, finally, and the smog pools out into the hallway. “That's enough excitement for one day, don't you think? You should take the rest of the day off.” “Right. Are- are you okay? I mean- Your nephew-” But Peter's gone too. Martin's head hurts.

…

There's a rash on his forearms, almost down to the wrist, that he notices when he's lying in bed and scrolling through his phone. It's sore and blistering, and when he prods at it lightly it bruises almost instantly, and when he touches the spot again, his finger comes away bloody. He considers calling Peter, but then, Jon's not Corruption. This could just be a spider bite that he didn't notice in all of the commotion. There's been so many of them at the office lately anyway. It's not getting any worse really, and with the way he's been existing lately, he really doesn't want to bother medical staff and ruin their lives, somehow. He bandages his arm and lies in bed, staring at Jon's facebook. He's doing research, obviously. There's not a lot on there, just some pictures of the man when he was obviously younger, mostly tagged by other accounts. His university days. If he wasn't a monster he'd be cute, Martin thinks with some sense of embarrassment. The two other accounts are of some girl who runs a podcast and uses her page as a business advertisement, and the other one is of a deceased page of some angry looking goth. Jon's account is the only one to leave a farewell message. That's kind of sad, almost, but again, scary smog monster. The nausea still hasn't gone away, not really. The pet account is of some massive orange thing that could be a cat or could be a fox in certain angles. It seems pretty popular. Jon likes most of the photos. It is pretty cute. The Admiral, it's called. Jon leaves comments under the videos and the account actually reply to him. It's shockingly simple. He expected something worse. He wakes up late for work the next day, still tired. A lot of hair on his pillow, but otherwise, fine. The rash hasn't gotten any worse. Hasn't gotten any better, but. He's fine.

…

Martin gets lunch at the Deli he used to visit with Sasha and Jon sits in the corner, reading his phone. The building is oddly empty, aside from them and two workers who look rather under the weather. Maybe something's going around. “Martin.” “Jon.” Smooth. Smooth and respectable. “How have you been?” He doesn't make a habit of looking up from his phone, glasses still down, thin curls of smoke twisting up towards the ceiling, darker than the smog. That same burning plastic smell is back, with undertones of exhaust and maybe just a hint of aerosol again. “Fine, I guess. Considering.” “Right. Stressful. I understand. Everyone's tired these days. Have you noticed? Tired and sad.” “I suppose that's a sign for you? End times?” “Maybe,” Jon says. “I'm still figuring things out. It was a lot of nothing, and then everything accelerated so quickly, I don't have teachers like everyone else does. But people want to rest. Talk to anyone our age.” “Oh so- you're what? Thirty?” “Twenty-nine.” A year younger than Martin- but then he knew that, from the facebook page. “It's just-” He shrugs. “Just the zeitgeist.” “Well, maybe you'd know better than me.” He says. “You're the one jumping from power to power.” There's an implication that makes Martin frown, He should leave. Get lunch elsewhere. If he could eat at all really. He coughs, to try and clear his throat before hacking harder. An allergic reaction, maybe. To the spider bite. Jon waves as he leaves.

…

Peter has the same rash, up and down his arms, and around his neck and when he coughs he draws blood, and it does little other than turn Martin's stomach. “At least Corruption has the decency to be quick about it,” Peter says bitterly while Martin pours their third cup of tea. “And you?” “No blood yet.” “From your throat you mean.” And he points at the bandage that's turning pink. Martin didn't even notice when the skin must have broken. “I guess.” Peter coughs again.

…

He finally throws up. There's blood, and Martin can't bring himself to be surprised. He drinks water and lays in bed and tries not to cough his throat anymore raw. The angry goth's name is Gerard Keay. Martin is only familiar with his mother because his mother skinned herself alive. The woman is Georgie Barker, and her podcast is called What The Ghost and the Admiral is her cat. They went to university together, her and Jon. They used to date, for a year. There's a few pictures of them together, one of Jon holding a much smaller Admiral and trying to hide a smile. The only picture of Jon and Gerard together is on vacation. Jon's wearing a tacky bar shirt. It's a selfie. They look horrifically mismatched, but Jon looks happy. He messages Georgie, more out of curiosity than anything and unsurprisingly doesn't get an answer back. He wakes up twice to throw up again, and when he gets back in bed, he's certain its a fever now. In the morning, when he showers and washes his hair, it comes out in clumps.

…

A young woman talks to Rosie when he gets in for work, and she takes one look at him and sighs. Georgie looks like what he expected her to. Prettier, in real life. Photos really didn't do her justice. “He applied here, I think? When we were still together.” She says. “Someone turned him down though.” “And now he's-” Martin trails off. He's not going to be the one to say- “And now he's a monster. Who's given you radiation poisoning, by the way. That's what that is.” She reaches into her massive bag and pulls out a slim well-worn box, and after turning a dial, an obnoxious loud clicking sound goes off. Even louder when she points it at him. “Do you just carry that around?” Because that's a good first question. “He does this a lot.” “Oh. Are you... also...” “No. I'm not involved in whatever this place is. Or any of the others.” He coughs, off to the side, and wipes the blood on his jeans. “Yeah. If it's that bad, I'd say go to a doctor but, I doubt any hospital will actually admit you. You're a walking biohazard.” “Oh.” “If I were you I'd get your affairs in order. Or ask him to take it back.” She shrugs. “He might.” “Oh.” He says again, like an idiot. “You know the fire people?” “Desolation?” Blackened Earth, he had mentioned. “He hangs out with them sometimes. Or the weird murder band.” Georgie pauses for a moment. “Actually, they're not that bad, now that I think about it. Ethically, horrific, but musically? Anyway.” She stands up and packs her counter with her. “Good luck.” “Right.” Later, when there are people running all of a sudden, down to the office, and Martin doesn't have to run after them to know Peter died.

…

He finds Jon surrounded by Lightless Flame members, smoking. Jon either doesn't see him or pretends not to see him so Martin inches around the hot bodies of the cultists until he's right next to him. Jon startles when Martin tugs on his sleeve, a large plume of dark smoke pouring out of Jon's mouth at once before he coughs. “Sorry,” Martin mumbles while a woman laughs beside them. “Really.” Of to the worst start, maybe. The smog makes him cough, and he doesn't bother cleaning the blood from his mouth. Maybe with his teeth covered in it, he'll look more pitiful, and that might be the only thing going for him. “Martin.” Jon blinks, pulling his glasses off his face. The woman whistles and he doesn't spare her a glance. “Peter died.” “Did he?” The woman whistles again, and claps Jon on the back. Martin swallows and nods, and the woman laughs, leaning on Jon's back, arms over his shoulders, before she ruffles his hair and Jon looks shockingly self-satisfied. She practically hangs off of him, her fingers dripping onto the floor. “Look at you.” She says, proud, and presses a singeing kiss into the side of his head. “Jude.” He sounds like an embarrassed child who's clingy mother won't leave him alone. “Agnes would be proud too.” She says, and he softens with that. “Could you-” Martin tries to clear his throat which only turns to more pathetic hacking. “Sorry to- to interrupt. Could you fix me?” That sends Jude cackling again, and Jon turns his head to try and hide a smile. “How do you imagine I do that?” “I don't know-” He feels very small. Tired. “Jump ship, kid.” Jude leans forward over Jon again. He can feel the heat that rolls off of her even through his fever. “Don't you want an little helper, Jon? An assistant?” “Not really.” Of course not. He doesn't know what he was hoping for- what he thought any part of this would even accomplish, really. “Aw. He looks like a kicked puppy.” “I have that effect on people.” Martin turns to leave, Jude's cackling following him all the way on to the street. He tastes blood in his mouth. It drips down his nose too.

…

The angry goth shows up in his dreams. Martin thinks it's odd at first, until Gerard “Call me Gerry” Keay tells him that he's bound, literally, to an End book, and then it's just more business as usual. “Just appeal to his better nature. Or get a cat.” “A cat?” In the dream, his skin doesn't feel like its dipped in acid, and his lungs don't ache. He can't taste iron anymore. He has a full head of hair. “Massive soft spots for cats. I think he had one, before? Or his ex had one. It's his phone background at least.” They sit in front of the Trevi fountain which Martin was sure he'd never see in real life, where Jon and Gerry took that one picture together. It's a gorgeous sunny day, and if he doesn't focus on the fact that the other tourists don't have faces, he thinks he could really learn to like this. “Why are you helping?” “He needs more friends who aren't dead.” Gerry pulls out a crumpled pack of cigarettes and lights one with a cheap looking lighter that looks a lot like Jon's. “I don't think he likes me.” “You'll grow on him. Probably. You seem friendly.” “Do you give this pep-talk to everyone he poisons?” “No.” Gerry blows a thin line of smoke through his nose. It smells of nicotine, faintly. “He doesn't bother keeping most people alive this long.” “Ah. Does he- Does he know?” Gerry shrugs. “He does, or he doesn't. I only found you cause you're irradiated the way you are.” Through Jon, Martin thinks he means. “I spend most of my time in his pocket,” Gerry explains like that's a normal thing to say casually. “Right.” “Oh-” Gerry puts a finger up, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a cheap looking felt tip marker. “Before you go.” He grabs Martin's hand and scribbles an address on Martin's palm. “He'll be there tomorrow, sevenish, if you want to try again.” “He didn't seem- interested last time.” He says again, starring at the address. “Well, look at it this way.” Gerry gets up, cigarette already down to nothing in what feels like a few seconds, and he tosses it into the fountain. Some people shriek in objection, but Gerry walks back to him, pulling his long hair up and out of his face. Same deep circles under his eyes, made even more obvious by the eyeliner. “Either you make nice, or you die trying to vomit your lungs up alone in your apartment.” “Well, when you put it like that.” Gerry shrugs. “Tell Jon I like you, maybe it'll net you some favor.” “Do you?” Gerry pulls on a pair of glasses- Jon's glasses, and turns to walk away, almost disappearing into the faceless crowds. “Why not?”

…

He can barely move his legs, can barely keep his eyes open by the time he stumbles into the dive bar. There are some people setting up on stage, or unsetting up, Martin can't tell, and Jon sits at furthest bar seat, talking to- no- talking at one of the musicians. A cellist, leaning against his seat while Jon whispers about Peter Lukas' death. “Jon.” The monster turns around and gives him a glance before finishing his one-sided conversation. “Please.” “Please what, Martin?” “Please- Please anything-” A flutist clears his throat and taps the microphone before giving Jon a wink and playing the first notes. Martin doesn't pay attention to the mountain frenzy around them. Barely can with the blood pounding in his ears. And out of his ears. “Jon.” “I can't undo this.” He says, and the lighter smog pours out of his mouth. “Best I could do is speed it up. And that is something, isn't it?” “I'm-” Martin leans against the barstool, almost slides off of it. He doesn't want to die. Not after the worms and Not Them and the Unknowing. Not after Sasha and Tim and his mother. He's not going to- He doesn't want to yet. Not yet. He's suffered too much to just throw it all away because some cute abomination had a fight with his stand-in boss. “You're?” Jon's obviously not listening, too enraptured by the senseless violence in the rest of the place, glass flying and bones shattering. Georgie was right though, the music's nice. “I'm useful.” He says, hands shaking, dripping red on to the floor. “And sturdy. A- A really quick study.” “But aren't you tired, Martin?” There's the tiniest smile on his face. “Don't you want to rest, Martin?” “Why do you keep saying that-” He cuts himself off with a miserable cough, deep and red. “Because things don't hurt when you sleep.” He says. He reaches into his pocket, and there's the flesh page, just like Gerry said it would be. “There's nothing to worry about. Real life is a nightmare. Wouldn't it be better to just- rest.” Jon runs delicate fingers over the pale skin, flipping it over in his fingers. So Martin does what he does- well no, not best, Basira is way better at on the fly choices likes this- but he does- he does something. “What if I could get him back?” Another cough. “Corporeal.” And another. “The Archives- The Archives are-” “Very big, yes I know.” He sighs, and maybe the fever finally starts melting his brain, but there's a look of hopefulness, maybe. “Georgie likes you.” “Oh.” That's nice of her. “I'm. Fairly demanding.” “But you need help- all of them need help-” Even if it seems like Jon might be the exception to the rule. “Tell me where the Archivist is. And then I'll- I'll fix you.” “I-” Peter's kept him in such isolation that even if he wanted to, he had no idea. But- But he knew where Daisy was- and that's- that's almost like knowing where the Archivist is- where Basira is. “Martin?” Yes, he supposes, it's only polite to inquire about one's health when one faints at a concert.

…

He wakes up in a hospital room- no. In a hospital bed in a room made out of plastic, with iv's and monitors, thirsty and delirious. “What happened?” He asks no one in particular. “You died.” That's Jon's voice, unmistakably, even if muffled by the bubble Martin's in. “Oh.” Martin tries to turn his head, and it's harder then he imagined it would be. Jon's holding a big ball of- “Is that a cat?” “I'm babysitting.” It's hard to see through the plastic, but Jon scratches behind its ears, and it purrs so loudly, Martin thinks he's losing his mind again. “Georgie had to go to a convention.” “Oh.” Again. The- the normalcy of it all just really threw him. “I've thought about what you offered. I wouldn't mind if you did.” “That was on offer before I died.” He says without thinking because really, the nerve. “Oh, my mistake.” Jon stands, and The Admiral jumps up onto his shoulders, and then they're both in Martin's bubble. “And if I reintroduced the same circumstances again, would the offer return?” The smell of disease and fire and metal might as well drown him. “Didn't realize you were such a glutton for punishment.” Well obviously. Martin takes a deep breath, and smog pours out of Jon's mouth. It's in him again. He can feel the slow creep of it, the rancid smell of burning plastic sticking to his hair as his skin begins to burn itself from the inside out. The cat seems entirely unphased.   Like it's used to this. “Wait-” The smog gets pulled back into his mouth like a smoke trick. “I'll- I'll start research tomorrow.” “My very own assistant.” Jon smiles at him, the dark wisps rising and fading like regular cigarette smoke. “Really moving up in the world, aren't we?” The Admiral purrs when Jon scratches under his chin.

"So-"

"I'll come collect you soon. Once my friends flush the rest of it out of your uh-"

"Irradiated corpse." He should ask who Jon's friends are- who does hospitals? Or places that look like hospitals? Rich people? Maybe? For someone power that doesn't even know what it's going to call itself Jon sure has a lot of friends. Martin can't help but wonder where he finds them.

"That's the one."

And then Martin is alone.

Again.