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goliath-de-senfina-sango · 3 years

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Stars

Dannymay, 12,021 Human Era

Danny floated lazily on his back, a bag full of white and grey rocks orbiting him while he admired the lunar surface. It was going to be hard for anything short of crafting the rocks into something to top Wulf’s teachings letting him portal up to the moon whenever he wanted, barely tethered by its weak gravity and able to traverse it without disturbing the dust unless he picked up a rock. From his vantage point, the stars above and about were uncountable, and if he didn’t know better he’d say there was no end to them. His appearance had changed, even, from the silk-lined, spike studded, leather jacket that Sam and Tuck all but shoved onto him when it became clear that he’d be fighting ghosts regularly to a suit resembling the uniforms of NASA astronauts, black, white, green, and covered in silver stars.

Grinning to himself, Danny took off toward the Oceanus Procellarum, a camera he and Tuck had built recording the longest video he’d ever taken when a chill that dwarfed the cold of space ran down his spine and rose from his lungs and throat to his lips, blue vapor drifting in front of his face. There was a ghost, on the moon, and the idea of a hostile ghost following him up to space was so beyond aggravating that Danny’s hair ignited, his fangs sharp, the knuckles of his gloves sharpening into hardpoints, and his aura flaring up like a beacon of green and blue. Opening a portal to deposit his bag of moon rocks in his closet, Danny launched himself where he felt the other ghost’s presence, the logic that a ghost whose aura he couldn’t see but still feel on the moon’s surface, in one of her craters even, abandoned at the moment. That thought process is, of course, slammed into him the moment Danny sees exactly what it is that he’s sensed.

Their body was a slowly slithering mass of the purest darkness that could not be called something so bright as black, with violets and blues and colors that could not be seen, only experienced, dancing within them like ink within water, blue and red and green stars twinkling between the stretches of void, moving fast enough for Danny to know there even was movement of them, but slow enough to be mesmerized by the sight of it. Their face was a theatrical mask, bone white with red behind the eyes and a curve of a smile to mark the mouth, and from the void behind the mask curled horns of dark and beautiful amethyst and sapphire and onyx, somehow occupying the same space and curving in every which way. It was, frankly, impossible to make out all the details or to measure quite how massive the form of Nocturne was as he relaxed upon the surface of the moon’s ocean of storms. In all his conflicts, no ghost had ever made him feel quite so small simply by laying back, impossibly huge.

“My, my, ” he said, voice coming from the back of Danny’s head rather than the lack of air around him, even if their lips still moved to shape the words. “ Is that Danny Phantom in the flesh, not simply dreaming so big that you’ve learned to astral project without my guidance? Have you decided to make your fantasy reality and join me here?” They lifted part of their body and when Danny focused he saw the silhouette of a hand.

Danny had many questions, but the first one that came out of his gawking mouth as he rose to meet the giant’s face was, ”How did you get so big? Been munching on the muses of artists? Oh stars, are artistic muses actual spirits? Can you eat them?” While Danny usually appreciated a good laugh, that was when he said something as a joke, not asked a very good question. Nocturne’s laughter swept over him like a tidal wave of endearment and amusement.

“Ah, that’s right, you met me through a smaller emanation, didn’t you? I assure you, child, I’ve been this size for ages. Also, I do not consume muses, though whether that is because they do not exist in such a form that I could or because that would be an unsustainable form of sustenance, I shall leave you to consider. While the dreams of artists like you are rather vivid, the occasional idealist and average joe is good for diversity in palette. After all, each mind has such capacity for imaginative dreams.”

“Emanation?”

“A thin slice of myself sent down to help you sleep at my brother’s request. ” Danny scratched his head at that and Nocturne laughed again. “ The little game of hero and villain was delightful fun, though… you didn’t think that the ghost Master of Dreams needed helmets and machinery to harvest the energy of good dreams, did you?” Danny folded his arms with a pout that Nocturne couldn’t possibly have been able to make out when he was so small comparatively, and yet they chuckled anyway, shifting into what Danny was going to call a sitting position.

“So you aren’t going to leave everyone asleep forever?”

They frowned. “Of course not, you can’t dream forever. It isn’t healthy and leads to stagnation and, eugh, nightmares. Those the Fright Knight can have, whensoever he gets himself free from his imprisonment. ” Danny sighed, relaxing all over, and did his best not to flinch when Nocturne scooped him up in a claw talon tendril wing fin hand. “ Come to listen?”

Danny looked around and spread his arms slowly. “In the silent vacuum of space? To what?”

“My dear boy, can you not hear the star song? ” Nocturne tilted his head and their eyes locked for a long, headache inducing minute. “ No one has taught you how to percieve the spaces that layer upon themselves to form the world you know, have they?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about but I do have a headcahe now, so that’s great. What, the world is like origami and everything is singing underneath the top layer?”

“An apt comparison, yes, ” Nocturne said. “ Your liminal state of being considered, perhaps it would be simpler to show you, than to make you work your way through new senses. After all, what’s a dream without a bit of fantastical ease?”

Danny flew back a few paces, though he was still in Nocturne’s palm. “Is it safe for you to do that? I don’t wanna go forgetting how to be a living human being just to hear a song.” Nocturne huffed, puffing up like a bird in mild offense.

“Child, the mind is my domain, I know perfectly well what I am doing. You are not the first liminal whose mind I have touched, nor I imagine shall you be the last. But, if you do not care to hear the song that the earth, the moon and the stars sing…”

“I never said I don’t! I just, wanted to be sure.” Danny rubbed the back of his head before floating a bit higher. “Alright, alright what do I do?”

“Relax, little one. Imagine a door, it can be any door you like, between your mind and those minds around you. ” Danny closed his eyes, taking a superfluous breath that came up empty, his body relaxing slowly with each breath. He pictured a door, a hexagonal door to a space station. “ Very good, ” Nocturne said, and Danny felt his chest puff up with something like pride before he felt and heard a knock knock on the door in his mind. “ Now all you have to do is let me in.”

There was a moment where in Danny considered simply not letting Nocturne into his mind. After all, Danny would probably figure this out himself if he tried. It was a tempting idea, probably even the smartest idea when dealing with a being who had attacked him, even if they claimed it was a game. Still, the opportunity to experience space in a way that no one else could was a far bigger temptation, and so Danny turned the knob on the door to his mind and opened it up slowly.

There is the brush of Nocturne against the door and Danny both has himself drawn out and the universe slipped in and when he opens his eyes and his ears he cannot help but to let his mouth fall open as well. He can hear the voices of the endless universe singing under his feet. The hearts of stars singing deep beneath the lunar soil. Lost to the blooming nebulas staining the dark sky with color, miles upon miles of light and rivers of fire and the promise of something new. Danny can almost hear the words and language they speak; something so close, so distant, something he has never known -- but they ring with such magnificent, terrible truth that he thinks, maybe he has always known them. Maybe they have always lived inside him, alongside the bones. These melodies, these words, that burn with such ferocious clarity that if he just spoke them aloud then the far would become near and he could reach out and pluck the stars from the sky and cradle them in his hands or be cradled in their stellar flares.

The heavy elements known to those dull terrestrial creatures he began life as could only enter the universe with the death of a star, a fact that Danny knew very well, but it was one thing to know something on an academic level, and another to see and hear the voices of the ghosts left behind by those ancient stars, their magnificent fire shining from within every atom of the earth and the moon and the planets around him, harmonizing and rising into something yet more in the song of the Earth and her seas and forests and sky. Danny listens to the moon, and he knows that if he were to sing that song he could reach out to any body of water on Earth and pull it to him and him to it, and his call would be answered. That if he simply moved his lips and sang the words of the stars, he could call upon their fire, their gravity, could reach out to them and leave the chains of gravity rooting him to the Earth. It would be so easy to explore the universe, to leave and join the chorus of the stars and see all that one with an eternity at their hands could see.

Yet there was another song, this one smaller, softer, but no less wonderful song that wove around and within him, and listening to it brought to his mind yet more little songs, faint as the step of an ant against the dirt but still beautiful in all their own ways. He couldn’t go, not yet. Not without them. And so, Danny turned back to Nocturne and beamed up at him. “Thank you.”

“Of course, child. We may stop whenever you wish.” Danny nodded and rose up to circle around Nocturne, drinking in the sight of the universe, so that he could attempt - and fail and attempt again and again - to show his friends what he now experienced with paint and brush and pen. He had to return to Earth, but for now, he had the stars.

#Danny Phantom #Dannymay 2021 #Danny Fenton #Nocturne #Stars #Rexy Writes #fanfiction #fanfic

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greenninjagal-blog · 4 years

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Fool Me Thrice

Hey guys! My three day spoiler free band is up so now you guys get to see what I did immediately after that new video (FwSA) came out!

Summary: The aftermath of FwSA but Virgil was actually Janus in disguise the whole time. (featuring: Janus breaking down to tears and Roman being really confused.)

Word Count: 4734

Quick Taglist:@alias290 @chelsvans @coyboi300 @dwbh888 @glitchybina @faithfulcat111 @felicianoromano @harrypotternerdprincess @holliberries @jemthebookworm @killerfangirl3 @mrbubbajones @musical-nerd18 @nonasficcollection @stricken-with-clairvoyancy @the-sunshine-dims @themagicheartmailman @thenaiads @treasureofpriam @vianadraws @welovelogansanders

Read on Ao3 || My General Writing Masterlist

“DON’T TELL ME TO RELAX!” Janus yells, but the incessant bubbling in his stomach causes the edges of his lips to quirk up anyway. It’s a ridiculous, intoxicating feeling, and it’s curling around his insides like a snake coiling around its prey. He wants to smile. He wants to jump. He wants to sing.

But Virgil doesn’t do any of those things unless under threat and pressure and Janus has to keep-- he’s still pretending-- Janus is impersonating Virgil.

He’s not doing a very good job of it, and he knows. Ever since that stranger at the food court, that stranger who might be gay, that stranger whose name is Nico Flores and happens to write songs-- Ever since Nico uttered those silly, little words, and Thomas’s Heart and Creativity had swamped the controls, the more….intellectual sides were finding it hard to….think.

Everything’s fuzzy and blurry and Janus keeps trying to hit back that buzzing between his ears that comes every time that Roman and Patton team up and get lost in their contagious excitement. Virgil, certainly, is probably docile by now, flooded with the warm feelings that make it hard to panic over anything for at least another hour because he’s too busy riding that high of the “honeymoon” phase of dating-- before he remembers that it's possible that Nico might be a Serial Killer who lures his victims into relationships before slicing their throats and hiding their bodies in the woods.

He doubts that Logan’s having fun either: he hadn’t even bothered to show up when they had first spotted Nico across the cafeteria, not even to throw out that suggestion of saying “I see from your stickers we have similar interests. Let us discuss the possibility of future copulation now.” Which, of course, spells all sorts of troubles that Janus is going to have to fix later.

Later which seems to be now, because Thomas is jittery from the excitement flowing off of Roman and Patton and he is going to text Joan all about it which requires none of Janus-Virgil’s help.

It’s a flawless escape. Janus smiles inwardly, at the gooey feeling of pride in his stomach. He did it! One whole video, completely undercover!

It figures that Virgil would be the key.

Of all of them...well, Janus has always known Virgil the best. Anxiety and Self Preservation have gone hand in hand since Thomas was in diapers still. Janus grew up watching the curve of Virgil’s tense shoulders, watching the flickering of his eyes watching the entry points of the room, watching Virgil’s smirk curl and his eyeshadow bloom and--

And Janus knows Virgil hates him right now, even underneath the gooey layer of good feelings Patton is pumping through all of the Thomasphere. Janus even thinks that if he pops in to check on the little ball of nerves, Virgil will come back to his senses and start a murderous rampage on his way to stop Janus from ever impersonating any of them ever again. Which is definitely what Thomas needs right now.

Whatever. He can celebrate his victory privately.

Thomas is happy. That’s all that matters right now. The rest can wait until the good emotions in Thomas calm down and Janus can think clearly again: he’ll get out his fermented grape juice and pour it in a glass so he can feel fancy and then he’ll figure out how to deal with Logan, listen to Patton’s emotional-gushing-that-ends-in-overwhelmed-tears, entertain the Duke’s R rated fantasies with a polite smile, congratulate the Prince for his victory, and then after all that he’ll send Virgil a card via messenger dove to thank him for his...bravery.

And then he’ll go to sleep for two hours, and hopefully when he wakes back up Thomas will not be on fire.

That’s… that’s a reasonable hope, right? He’s not asking too much of the other idiot sides, right?

The buzz between his eyes sharpens for a second, as Thomas shakes his hands some more, with a grin that Janus would absolutely die for. It's almost regrettable because if anyone took a moment to look at him, to look at the way he looks at Thomas, they would see immediately what his weakness is: Janus is Self Preservation, Self Importance, Self, self, self.

He’s weak for Thomas’s smile. The gut force that drives Virgil to do things is protection, so he tries to make Thomas recognize everything as a threat; for Roman its creation, so he tries to push Thomas to achieve all of his dreams. For Janus it's Thomas’s id wants, so he does whatever it takes to keep him happy.

A smile on Thomas’s face means that Janus is doing good, that he’s doing right by Thomas. Who cares if in the end he’s the villain of the story? Who cares about him when there’s Thomas?

Thomas thanks him again-- actually he thanks Virgil, but Janus' face flushes anyway. The feeling in his stomach washes over him, leaving his knees weak and his lips smiling. Is this what being giddy is? He suddenly understands, suddenly, why Patton subscribes to that whole “Thomas is morally and objectively the best” philosophy; It’s a nice feeling, even if it makes it hard for Janus to concentrate on keeping Virgil’s eyeshadow the right color.

Thomas rushes by him-- almost close enough to touch again and wow Janus’ hands were still tingling from that; He forgot that Virgil was always able to touch their host-- and runs up the stairs to go scream in a pillow and text Joan the brilliant news and Janus takes that as his cue.

Time to wrap it up and go. (to sleep. Oh god, he can hear his bed calling for him already.)

But when he turns back to the last side in the room, Roman is pressing his knuckles to his lips and staring at the blinds in Thomas’s living room like he can set them on fire with his mind.

“Princey?” Janus asks, his own smile slipping. “What’s up?”

Roman snaps over to look at him-- to look at Virgil, whom he trusts and likes and appreciates and who is definitely not Janus at all. Despite that, the way that Roman is looking at him with furrowed eyebrows that would sing of a scowl if Patton had been doing his job just slightly not as well as he is currently, forces Janus to check to make sure he’s still wearing Virgil’s appearance.

“I can’t figure it out,” Roman says, looking like he just caught his best friends in the middle of decorating for his surprise birthday party. “Why?”

Janus squeezes his eyes closed trying to focus on what Roman was talking about. He knows that he missed at least one thing that was said in the hullabaloo all day, but he didn’t think it was something that Roman of all sides would be upset about. Why, what? Roman got the guy. What was so complicated about that?

Actually asking why is more on brand for Virgil.

For a ridiculous second Janus wonders if that was Virgil wearing Roman’s outfit and pretending to be him the way that Janus was pretending to be Virgil. But Janus is decently sure that Virgil can’t resist insulting Janus for more than five seconds at a time, and they’ve been side by side for hours now.

(And hadn’t that been nice? If Janus had just closed his eyes, he could have imagined the grateful smile Roman had given Virgil had been meant for him.)

“I don’t know what you’re on about, Ro,” Janus shrugs. “But I’m gonna go. All these good emotions are like...disgusting.” He sticks out his tongue that way that he’s seen Virgil do every time that Thomas has to eat the carrots his mom put on his plate just to sell the act, but Roman’s jaw sets.

“Why did you do that?” Roman bursts out before Janus can get all the way out, “Why? Janus!”

Janus should have run then, should have pretended that Virgil hadn’t heard him at all and let the other sides argue with each other, but his name is so new and shiny and no one ever uses it. The words vibrate through the air like needles and the next thing he knows is that he’s pinned in place, frozen, and Roman is looking very not-happy anymore.

Ha, so he knew. Looks like Janus can’t get through a video without being outed.

“I know it's you, you slimy snake,” Roman says. “Will you stop wearing Virgil’s face already! I want an answer!”

Janus’s tongue flicks in his mouth, rolling over the back of his teeth as he tries to think of the best way to handle this when all of his thoughts have to process through the molasses that is the gooey happiness Thomas is feeling and his own exhaustion.

“I have no idea what you mean,” Janus says, as blase as he can make it.

Which is….maybe not his best idea. The buzzing in his head makes the rest of the room go blurry for a second, in and out of focus and it’s so very helpful.

Roman’s face goes red, stuck somewhere between being angry and being insulted. He reaches out and Janus’ legs do that thing where they don’t work so when he throws his weight back, away, out of reach, his body goes plummeting to the foot of the stairs as well.

Roman yelps, leaning forward for a moment maybe with the intent to help him back up but Janus throws up a hand to stop him before he knows for sure. His eyelids are heavy, he realizes, and he’s tired and he really doesn’t want to have a fight with Roman right now.

“I had fun, Roman. Thank you for the... entertainment this evening.” He says, dropping the last of his stellar Virgil impression. He wonders how long he had Roman fooled, if he had him fooled at all for any point. Does he dare wonder how many of those smiles were given knowing that it was Deceit in disguise?

(He doesn’t and he resents the implication that he cares what the others think of him.)

“Congrats on wooing the boy or whatever.” Janus climbs back up to his feet and brushes imaginary dust off his tunic. Or it could be real. He’s not sure considering that he’s so tired he can’t see anything in front of him.

“You fiend!” Roman snarls, “What did you do to our Stormcloud?”

“Why don’t you go find out?”Janus suggests, with a half-assed flourish, even by his own standards, “Or better yet, don’t. In the meantime, I’ll be in my room.”

But Roman snags his arm and holds him up and Janus is acutely aware that sinking out with another side is troublesome and takes so, so much focus and energy. (And Romans touch is scalding. It’s burning. It’s white hot and Janus wasn’t aware he had been freezing before.)

“I’m tired of this game, Snakes and Ladders!” Roman says. “Tired of not knowing what you’re up to! Tired of not knowing what Thomas wants! Tired of getting backseat to self care and morality and-- and I’m Tired, Janus! Why do you keep doing this to me?!”

And hooooooo, does that strike something in Janus! The soft feelings in his chest burn right up in an anger he hadn’t even known he had been feeling. But it must have been there for a while because it boils right through him, leaving his chest smoldering and his mouth tasting like ashes.

“You think you’re tired?” He snaps, burns, blazes. There’s something in this throat, and it makes every word catch fire when it comes out of his mouth. And even Roman has enough sense to know that fire is dangerous and that he’s going to be cremated if he doesn’t step back.

“You think you’re tired,” Janus repeats, taking a step forward so that they’re nearly toe-to-toe and he can see the way that Roman’s Adam's apple bobs. “What about me, Roman? Don’t you think I’m tired? That I’m exhausted? That I know I’m going to have to sink back down and figure out what is wrong with Logan and listen to Patton and keep Remus busy and make sure that none of you morons overpower the others and drive Thomas directly into the ground? That I haven’t slept a full night since the whole start of these videos and moral dilemmas and whatever else? Every time I turn around Thomas is making another lie: to his friends, to his family, to himself! Don’t you think that I… that I…”

Roman is staring at him.

Janus’s head pounds. The room around him sways and he thinks that maybe...maybe the reason he can’t think straight right now doesn’t actually have anything to do with Patton’s elation keeping Thomas busy.

“Oh,” Janus says because he blinked and now he’s on the floor.

He blinks again and Roman is right next to him, looking concerned-- how ridiculous. Roman being concerned for him. Ha.

“Janus…” Roman’s voice is low, which makes Janus aware suddenly that everything else had been so loud all this time. He grits his teeth when Roman waves a hand and magics up… what are those, tissues? Why would he--

Oh.

Janus is crying. He reaches a hand up tentatively rubbing away the tears, and has to swallow a laugh. Oh, he's crying. When was the last time he cried? When was the last time he cried in front of someone else?

He's so, so tired. And that's the reason-- the only reason, mind you-- that when Roman scooches closer, a centimeter, an inch, a foot, and then rests his hand on Janus' shoulder, Janus doesn't push him off and immediately sink out to his room. It takes too much energy to lock a room, even his, from the others and Roman would surely follow after him and demand answers.

Roman’s touch is a shaky, changing warmth. Janus noticed it earlier when Roman had said the word “Bravery” and Janus hadn’t been able to form an actual response because he was so busy wondering if this was how all touch was supposed to feel. But now he thinks he can count every single atom that is touching him and the awareness hums in his veins in a way that shouldn’t be possible.

He sucks in an equally shaky breath and tries not to look like he’s leaning into the feeling. His stomach rolls around, twisting and churning to the point where it hurts. He might be able to blame this on a stomach bug. The other sides probably wouldn’t look farther than that. They don’t like him enough to look farther than that.

“Janus,” Roman says again, calling him by name and Janus wants to tell him to stop. He sounds like he cares and Janus knows it’s a lie. He thinks it’s a lie. He’s pretty sure it’s a lie.

It’s hard to tell right now, especially when his own inner desire is yearning for it not to be. He can’t trust himself when he’s like this. He always ends up doing something stupid.

Like sitting at the foot of Thomas’s stairs crying in front of Roman.

“Fuck,” Janus says, and laughs, like this was part of his grand master plan that definitely exists. He ignores the tissues Roman places at their knees and uses the back of his palms to get rid of those pesky, unprofessional tears. “My most humble apologies, my dear prince. Too much fun today I suppose--”

“Janus,” Roman cuts him off, and Janus wishes his sharp inhale was a little less noticeable. “Are you… Did….”

Janus can feel how Roman’s thumb is rubbing his shoulder, slow circles like a loading screen while he tries to weave together a sentence that makes coherent sense.

“Why?” Roman decides. “Why are you...why did you help Thomas meet Nico? Why did you force him to do it naturally without any lies? I thought you liked when Thomas tells lies!”

Janus snorts, which is a bad decision because his nose is runny and, god, now there’s snot all over his face, which just makes the lump in the back of his throat grow larger. He snatches up the stupid tissues and tears open the pack.

“I don’t--” Janus wipes away the snot, and tosses the tissue into oblivion. “I don’t want Thomas to lie all the time. Do you think I’m crazy, Roman? I have to manage every lie Thomas tells himself! It’s… It’s… imagine if you had to make a new video script every single day.”

Janus can see Roman’s confused look. It's adorable really, like a puppy that just got told to “Stay.” He recognizes that Janus is saying something, that Janus is talking to him, but the full meaning of the words is lost on him.

“If it's so taxing, why do you do it, then?” He asks, like it's some sort of choice and not his job.

“Why do you make video scripts? Why do you help Thomas practice his lines? Why do you take him on daydreams when he’s bored?”

“Because he asks me to,” Roman answers without a single hesitation. “Wait….”

Janus leans forward pressing his chin to his knees. His eyes close for a moment, two, three while Roman struggles to understand what Janus isn’t blatantly saying.

“Imagine if Thomas asked you to make a new video script every single day. Do you think you could say no to that?”

Roman makes a wounded noise from deep in the bottom of his soul. It resonates in the air between them, like an elephant neither of them wants to admit is there. Janus breathes in deeply, and wards off the fresh round of lovely wonderful tears that come from his lovely wonderful headache.

“I’m sorry about the court case, Roman,” Janus says. The words feel dangerous, like throwing knives and Roman flinches back, leaving the spot on Janus’s shoulder painfully freezing. “I wanted-- I wanted Thomas to do what he loved. I wanted him to stop lying about wanting to go to the callback and I thought that if I just made it so that only you could make the decision it would be easier! I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Janus breathes in, but somehow it seems that all the oxygen in the room had dissipated without their knowledge. He gasps a few times, trying to get a steady rhythm back but the white noise in his head and the itch behind his eyes keep throwing him off.

There’s laughter-- it takes him a moment to realize it's his own. Which is just great, just fantastic, just what he needed. He finally got the sordid apology out and now he’s laughing.

But Roman is looking at him not with a scowl, but with some other emotion Janus can’t quite name through his blurry vision. For a second he thinks it might be fear-- which is even more funny than the idea that Virgil had been pretending to be Roman this whole time. In the safety of Thomas’s apartment, when Thomas had just gotten the boy of his dreams, when Janus was on the ground out of secret agendas to hide, what is there for Roman to fear?

“I just--” Janus gasps one more time, ignoring the sharp pain in his chest. “Thomas deserves a win. You deserve a win. That's why I wanted to help with Nico.” He feels like his head is going to pop right off. Maybe if he asks nicely Roman will get out his sword and do it free of charge and relatively painlessly.

“So I...ha, so I spent all day playing dress up,” Janus hates the wobble in his voice. “And now I’m a day behind on managing all my work and now Patton’s going to want to talk about what happened today, and someone needs to listen to Remus and Logan is obviously not doing too well so I have to check on him-- and Virgil too even though Virgil will probably throw something at me but I have to….And then Thomas is going to need me and I have…. I have to…”

“You really… you really do all that?” Roman says in a small voice that doesn’t suit him at all. “All by yourself?”

“Well, it’s not like there’s anyone else to help, Roman.” Janus says before he can stop himself.

“I’ll help you!”

Janus freezes. Because, well.

He’s heard those words before, hasn’t he? Not all that too long ago. When the divide between dark and light was more defined and Thomas hadn’t started posting videos with them in it and Janus wasn’t afraid of the purple door in the middle of the hall.

He knows how this conversation goes all too well.

But Janus apparently can’t learn any new tricks because he still says, “No, I can do this myself.”

(“You’ll kill yourself from stress, Jan!” Virgil had yelled. “Then where will we be?”

“I have everything under control, Virgil! I don’t need any help! Just drop it, okay?”

“Thomas and the Light sides are running you ragged and you want me to pretend like it isn’t hurting you? Are you crazy? They need to stop lying so much!”

“No! I can handle this!”

“Janus!”

“Virgil!”

“I can’t let you keep doing this,” Virgil had said, “If you won’t do something I will.”

“Don’t you dare!”

But he had. And now he was a light side, an accepted side, everyone’s favorite side. And he was slowly convincing Thomas to stop lying by turning Janus into something to be feared and avoided. How quaint. How trademark.)

Roman is staring at him. Janus can feel the weight of his eyes on him, and somehow that's worse than his hand on Janus’ shoulder. It’s heavier. It’s harder to just shrug off. It means something more.

Because Roman isn’t talking. And Janus isn’t hiding.

And if the words weren’t so hard to say, he thinks that maybe Virgil was right, and he should apologize.

“Huh,” Roman says after the silence threatens to swallow them both. He clears his throat and mercifully looks away, staring at that painting over Thomas’s couch. “I didn’t think you were stupid.”

Janus hisses at him, at the idea of him. But Roman flicks his fingers.

“Oh come on, Ouroboros,” Roman says. “You handle all of Thomas’s lies, and then you’re out there looking after each of us sides as well? I think after 31 videos we can all agree that one side being entire in control of Thomas is a bad thing! So why are you still trying to do everything?”

Janus has a very good answer. The best answer.

But Roman’s elbow reaches out and nudges him and all his thoughts scatter into the air. Maybe that was intentional, but Janus can’t find the energy in himself to really be angry about it.

“I…” Janus says, “I just want Thomas to be happy.”

“So do the rest of us too, Snakecrates!-- Get it? Like Socrates?-- Not gonna lie, your way to make him happy is truly… the foulest of methods, but at the end of the day we’re all a part of him.” Roman says. “Maybe instead of trying to puppet master this you could...try working with us? Like showing up as yourself instead of using Virgil’s or Logan’s face again?”

Janus snorts again. The backs of his eyelids shoot bright red stars across his vision. “As if. None of you would listen if I did things that way.”

Roman nudges him again. “It's just a suggestion, Slitherous Snape.”

“How many of those do you have?”

“Nicknames?” Roman pauses, and Janus guesses that he’s counting on his hand. “Dunno. A lot. I never get to use them because you show up in someone else’s clothes and I don’t realize it’s you. All the more reason you should listen to me and just show up as your usual self!”

Janus must have made a noise, but his brain is too preoccupied with the fact that the carpet in Thomas’s apartment is actually really comfy and if he buries his head in his knees the room is actually dark. His headache is a dull repetitive thob, like a drum beat that if he doesn’t focus too much on becomes a noise he can fall asleep to.

“I thought you hated me.” He admits, in a quiet tone and only partially hopes that it was too low for Roman to hear.

“Fool me once,” Roman says in a soft tone, humming like it's a melody. “Shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. Fool me thrice…”

He sighs deeply.

“And I think that means we need to actually think about talking out things like adults.” Roman nudges him again, and then places his arm around Janus’s shoulders. “But not right now, when you’re half dead from exhaustion. Let’s get you to your room, Jan.”

There’s a cold feeling around both of them, washing over Janus’s muscles like a flood, as they sink down. His eyes open briefly just in time to make out his own room surroundings before Roman drops him on his bed.

Oh, it’s really comfortable. Has his body always sunk into his mattress like this?

“Get some sleep, Deceit,” Roman says.

“Wait... Logan…” Janus definitely does not whine.

“I’ll handle the nerd.”

There are so many reasons why that’s a bad idea-- Janus knows there are a bunch of reasons because he wrote them down on flashcards to study in between grieving Virgil leaving the dark sides and managing the lies Thomas tells day to day and the ones he had going on forever and the ones that sides told each other and--.

But before he can say any of that, Roman sifts a gentle hand through his hair and Janus loses the ability to think again.

(Janus really doesn’t remember when Roman gained that power.)

He curls up almost unintentionally on his bed, and Roman makes a noise that could have been a laugh, if Janus cared enough to check.

“Sweet dreams,” Roman says softly.

“W…wait!” Janus gathers the last bit of his energy, the residue from the gooey feelings Thomas was harboring, and surges after Roman before he can leave all the way. “How did you... know it was me? And not…”

“Virgil?” Roman offered. “You kept messing with the eyeshadow, Janus. He has that angsty charcoal color on twenty-four-seven. You kept changing it to purple. I mean I liked it, but that’s not his style.”

Janus frowns. “No….he has the purple when he’s happy. I know he has the purple… He only started wearing the black...when he was trying to freak out Thomas.” He sighs and settles back into his pillow. “It glows...when he’s happy…”

Janus has plenty of memories about that, too. They were some of his favorites: Virgil on Christmas morning when the prospect of presents was more scary than the idea of all Thomas’s relatives coming over, Virgil on late nights watching cryptid history shows with Remus and talking about marrying Mothman when Thomas got older, Virgil right after he first appeared to Thomas, glowing in all senses of the word because their host knew who he was.

Janus remembers being a little upset when Virgil covered it up, because it was another lie then: Virgil was hiding part of who he was and the three of them had always agreed on no lies between them.

Besides Virgil had always looked younger with the purple, looked more happy, looked more approachable. He looked like he was excited to see Janus and not like he would rip out his throat if they ended up in a room alone together.

Virgil was purple long before he had been black, and Janus thinks he might have been in love with him even before that too.

Who had he been talking to, again?

Janus gets the distinct feeling something is wrong, but his pillows are comfy, and his mattress is soft and he’s been running on fumes for far too long. He’s fast asleep before he realizes that Roman is still in his room, frowning, and wondering if that meant Virgil had never actually been happy around the Light Sides at all.

#sanders sides #Au #Janus Sanders #Roman Sanders #virgil sanders #crying #sleep deprivation #Oh god Janus is so tired guys #touch starvation #TS Spoilers #fwsa spoilers #Roman has no clue what he's doing here #anxceit #angst/comfort #then angst again #I'm only kinda sorry about it #Hey have you guys heard my new hc #for why Virgil and Janus can't stand each other #Janus is a workaholic

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onwesterlywinds · 4 years

Text

In Marble Halls

All her life, -̴̠̘̎-̶̮̬̽̕-̴͙̀̕͜-̴̧̘͐͒-̶̘̰̒̈́-̴̩̏͛-̶̮̬̽̕-̴͙̀̕͜-̴̧̘͐͒-̶̘̰̒̈́-̴̩̏͛ͅ- had dreamt of a storm fit for the end of the world. The rain would fall and the lake would rise, such that the water would drown out the last vestiges of the only home she had ever known until only Gruenes Licht yet stood. The thunder would crash and the clouds would roll and the great castle would weather it all, not as a beacon of hope but as an empty warning, a testament unearned.

She ran now through that dream made manifest.

The cobbled streets below were already flooded with a fulm of water as far as she could see. The houses around her sat dark, many of them with their doors flung open to the tempest in their residents' haste to flee in the exodus; the chapel's rear steeple had given way, and dark water gushed out from under the tall oak doors as if from a backed-up drain. With one hand she clasped at her star globe; with the other, she tore free her stifling wet bodice, hiked up the hem of her sodden petticoats and hurried onward to the great castle stairs.

She was the last of them all. Her parents had abandoned their post; her brother's transformation into a sin eater was surely all but complete. Her fellow ladies-in-waiting had been taken by the darkness, one by one. Tadric had usurped Pauldia, destroyed Sauldia-

But he had not taken her.

And of all the court, only she had realized Branden's greatest failure: the archmage was not dead.

And she would bring him to justice, but not alone.

And there was hope - not for Voeburt, perhaps, but for another to find in some far-flung future.

She ascended the marble steps to the palace as hail began to pelt her skin. Her legs burned with fatigue from the distance they had run, and still the worst of the climb stretched up ahead of her. Worse yet, the marble would be hazardous at a run: a single misplaced step could cause a painful slip at best and a deadly fall at worst, but her feet were all she had to avail her now.

Once ascended, she paused for only a moment by the overrunning fountain to catch her breath, and to stare out from the castle's heights at her swiftly submerging homeland. Deep in her heart she knew the godsforsaken visage would be the last she ever saw of it. At first the sight was nearly too much to bear, given the weight of an entire kingdom broken below her. Yet even then, the knowledge that she would be the sole witness to Voeburt's destruction provided comfort and purpose. She alone would shoulder this memory, lock it deep in her heart, and guard it so fiercely that no others would need endure it in her stead.

A heartening chorus, as if of tiny bells, resounded encouragingly in her ear. With that sound accompanying her final steps, she shook out her skirts and readied the pendant she kept on her person at all times: the last remaining key to the palace's doors.

Despite the Light raging outside, the grand hall within sat utterly dark and still. The arched stone ceiling high above remained blessedly intact, granting her a reprieve from the endless torrent of rain for the first time since she'd begun her trek. Even the pattering upon the darkened stained glass sounded to be of a much greater distance away, rather than the same tempest that had consumed the rest of Voeburt.

Then there came the heavy clap of a man's hands, and with it, a single flicker of light illuminated a ghostly figure at the far end of the hall.

"There you are, my dear." His words echoed throughout the chamber as if from an age apart, or else from within a far corner of her own mind. "I knew you would not keep me waiting long."

"TADRIC!" she screamed. The noise echoed back at her amid the oppressive darkness, and her star globe sprang to readiness with the merest flick of her wrist.

He stepped forward, again and again, and his voice grew ever stronger. "Oh, how pleased I am you've come. Your soul will make for such excellent company."

"How dare you, fiend!" she retorted. "By rights you should be dead!"

"Indeed so," he agreed. "I certainly had not anticipated any part of me lingering here. I regret only that I have Beq Lugg and their work on the mortal soul to credit for this... turn of events, but it is a welcome development nonetheless. Overcoming one's mortality grants the most splendid boons - though I imagine you would struggle to relate."

At that, she could only seethe.

He gave a quiet little tut. "That's right, darling. You know I've had the measure of you for years." His smile had always been unsettling in life; on his ghost, it was terrifying. "All that time, and yet it's taken nothing less than the end of the world for you to confront me."

"Enough!"

"Oh, yes. I trust you'll remain so beautifully fierce when I bind your exquisite soul to mine." Tadric was halfway across the hall now, and his outline appeared to grow more and more opaque in the darkness. Even now she could make out the shine of his boots, the meticulous detailing on his robes, the glimmer of a reflection across his sharpened teeth. "I've no doubt you'll last longer than Pauldia did - nor that you'll be far more pleasing to the eye than she was at the end. Or do you truly think yourself enough to hinder me? Alone as you are, with only your little cards for guidance, and none of your kin to aid you?"

It would have to be enough. She would have to be enough. There could be no more Sauldias, no more Pauldias, no matter the sacrifice it would take.

"No," Tadric continued, as if the conclusion had only just struck him. "You cannot harm me. Not now, and certainly not here, in this castle you usurped for so long. You forget I know the way of your wretched kind."

She was undoubtedly within range of his magicks, but he was not yet in range of hers. Only a little further, only a single step more, and she could fall as long as she liked-

"'To take back as much as is taken. To create as much as is destroyed. To give as much as is received...'"

The words she had once sought as a reprieve were poison from his lips, rotten to their very core.

"...And you, my dearest, have a heavy debt to repay."

Far better to repay that debt here, in the service of her kingdom, no matter the cost. "And repay it I shall," she whispered.

"Hm?"

She spoke then the words her friend had taught her - the words she had carried deep in her heart throughout all her years.

"Acht-la ormh inn."

The castle doors burst open at her invitation, showering her in droplets of rain and sleet that glimmered against the light from her star globe and refracted like stained glass upon the walls. Her friend flew in at her back, little more than a diminutive flash of crystalline hair and bright blue petals; yet as they circled the chamber, faster and faster, they dazzled the hall in a shower of fae dust and grew to their full height, where their wings unfurled like pennants in the wind.

"Ready yourself, dear flower!" they shouted.

Upon herself she cast a shield; for her friend, she drew forth the card she had kept in reserve all through her trek: The Spire. In the same instant, they unleashed bursts of pure energy, stellar explosions and fae quickenings in tandem.

Tadric's ghost recoiled, his face contorting in rage or pain. Bathed in the full majesty of the King of the Faeries and trapped by patterns of stars, his form took on an harshness of its own as the Light gathered from the storm without needled its way into his soul, splinter by splinter, and corrupted him from within.

"This- isn't- over!" Tadric spat at her, through the waves of raw Light that bubbled up from behind his lips. "You stupid girl. You worthless bloody changeling!"

Titania cried, "Now!"

And when she stretched out her hand, she called upon the might of the heavens to bind the castle and everything in it - Tadric, the king, herself - into the space of a singular moment.

That moment stretched out across the foreseeable future, across endless possible endings, and ignited in a burst of color.

When the spell faded, Tadric's ghost was gone. The world around her was utterly, impossibly still. The sound of the rains had ceased; the distant echo of Light rang out no more. Only Tadric's memory remained, his laughter echoing within her ears - a nightmare from which she could only hope to find reprieve. The palace doors were shut tight and would not open ever again.

And then Titania spoke into the silence.

"Lyhe Il. Oh, dear, brave flower. It is over at last."

She was weeping, she realized; the king had drawn her into an embrace as soft as a field of clover and as gentle as a warm midsummer's day. She collapsed against their touch, impossibly weak and weary and wanting.

"Hush now," they whispered, and pressed their lips to her forehead. "Sleep, and dream of rainbows and meadows and northerly winds, for you have more than earned your name."

"N-No!" she sobbed, clutching at the fae king's shoulder. "I h-have to stay with you, I-I must ensure-"

"He is gone, my flower, in all the ways that matter. All that yet remains is to expel the last traces of him - and there is time enough for such a task in the years to come. Until then, I would not risk your safety while you abide here."

Years. Such a gentle word for the surety of their imprisonment. "But-" Her tears overtook her again, and Titania cradled her ever more tightly. "I couldn't possibly leave you on your own, and with so much Light! Who will you play with; who will you dance with?!"

Titania traced one of their thin fingers along the curve of her nose, liberating a stray tear. "I entered this castle on your invitation and my own intentions - and here I shall stay, on behalf of our people. It will be comfort enough to know that my flower has found the peace she has sought for so long - and that she rests as a hero to Voeburt and the fae alike."

Yet peace still seemed so nebulous a prospect, as remote as the stars themselves. Peace could not grant her a retroactive belonging among Voeburt's people and court; it could not suppress the abject ache for understanding with which she had come of age in her awkward Galdjent skin. She had given all of herself for both her peoples, her past and her present and her future, and still she could not unmake the years of her own solitude. Only Titania had ever granted her such a reprieve.

If the King of the Pixies wished her to dream, then dream she would.

"Be with me," she whispered. "I know I will wake up without you-" She did not dare wonder what travesties the Light would wreak upon the king during their solitude. "-but until then... do not ask me to fall asleep alone."

Titania acquiesced to this final wish with a single kiss goodnight, and began to sing.

Never harm, Nor spell nor charm, Come our lovely lady nigh; So, good night, with lullaby.

As her eyes closed, she stared up at the kaleidoscopic light streaming in from the stained glass windows far above.

The sight was so lovely as to push all thoughts of the storm from her mind.

#Lyhe Il

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yezielmoore · 3 years

Text

Day 24: Illustrious

Set when we reach the First so Shadowbringer spoilers. Also, do viera have fangs? idk, but that would be very sexy of them so here they do.

Kaito: I'm so sick of vague non-answer, tell me wtf is going on. Exarch: I'm deeply sorry for being the cause of your troubles but also lol nope.

~.~.~

adj. well known and very distinguished; eminent

"Well, if it isn't our illustrious host calling upon little ol' me," Kaito drawled in a faux polite tone, making the viera, sorry, the viis next to him bristle in offense. The hooded Exarch twitched, but that didn't tell him much, sadly. "You have a nice city, I grant you, filled with lovely people, but I'm more interested in the fate of my friends, you know, the ones you kidnapped."

That got a reaction.

The Captain whirled around, sharpened fangs bared at him and snarled: "Watch your mouth! The Exarch would never do such a thing!"

Kaito raised an eyebrow at the irate viis who looked ready to spit fire in her superior defense. Interesting. Even so… he cocked his head at the Exarch, knowing full well that the man had, in fact, soulnapped his friends and gave him a Look.

This time the twitch was more pronounced and, under the cerulean glow of the tower, Kaito could see the muddle of his colors shrink and his strangely innocuous flavor turn slightly sour. It didn't clear up the slight familiarity he felt nor was it much to go on, but it was a genuine show of contrition so Kaito would take it.

"It was an… unfortunate miscalculation," he confessed, not like a man caught in a lie but like a man embarrassed at mixing the salt and the sugar for the nth time. "Mine intent was ever to call upon you, Warrior, and only you, but my aim was… less than stellar, shall we say, and instead my spell latched onto those closest to you."

Kaito considered those words plus the previously offered knowledge that his friends were in good health, if scattered through this world, wandering or following their own interests, and were neither trapped nor beholden to this Exarch in some sinister manner. Well, besides the obvious fact that the man didn't possess a way to counteract the spell that brought the Scions here, of course. Because that would make Kaito's life easier and we couldn't have that.

"Very well," Kaito breathed deeply and forced the animosity he felt to fade. It wouldn't do anything but hinder him from now on and he had conveyed his displeasure pretty well. Moreover, any more shows of disrespect and he may have to fend off those wickedly sharp chakrams the Captain was fiddling impatiently with. "Tell me what's going on here and why do you need me."

#ffxivwrite2021 #ffxivwrite #ffxiv #kaito seaborn #yeziel writes #my writing

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photoeditingserviceprovider · 3 years

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Wonders of professional photo editing: How an editor can enhance your pictures

Do you know that the human brain is capable of responding and processing images faster than any other type of data? Backed by this science, brands and individuals use imagery as a tried and tested way to convey their message. A picture is worth a thousand words, and if you are using a photo to communicate with your audience then an effortlessly flawless photo is a mandate. However, sometimes even the best lenses fail to capture the beauty of a subject in its full vigor. That’s when professional photo edits come to the rescue. Wondering how? Then here are some editing essentials that add finishing touches to the artistic vision of photographers.

Adjusting exposure and contrast

Often photos are packed with noise that cranks up the brightness. This gives a mottled look to the photo and blurs the vision that you might wish to create. To reduce this noise, professional editors correct exposure and adjust contrast. When the contrast is high, you see a stark image, and when it is low, you see a flat image. Editors hit the perfect balance of contrast to avoid either of the extremes, so you achieve a stellar-looking photo.

Adjusting white balance

White balance is about the color levels. So, if your photo has an overall color tone that is unnatural or displeasing, then professional editors can adjust the white balance to fix it. To adjust the white balance professional photoshop service providers might also adjust the temperature that casts a tint in the pictures. This allows them to fiddle with the natural tone and fine-tunes the overall lighting, to achieve a crisp picture.

Cropping and clipping images

To improve minor compositional details and reposition the subject, it is best to crop images. On the other hand, clipping path services are sought by individuals or brands who wish to reuse their pictures. With professional photoshop service product clipping path, photo editors often remove the background from a product or image. So, this technique can be used when the background is shabby or when someone wishes to reuse the picture.

Retouching and eliminating the flaws

In the fashion industry and the designing tinsel town, looks are everything. This is why photographers and brands seek photo retouching services to hide imperfections like spots and scars and create an illusion of glass skin for the models.

Adjusting saturating and sharpening images

After the white balance is adjusted, adjusting the saturation further refines the colors in the photos and gives the photo a more dramatic look. On the other hand, sharpening images gives them a crisper and cleaner look.

The bottom line

Sometimes it might seem extremely easy to use an online photo editing tool for enhancing photos, but there are many pitfalls to them. The web-based photo editing tools offer limited functions, and if you lose your internet connection in the process, the changes get undone. Instead of wasting your time on these tools, you can always choose a professional photo editing service. Professional editors have years of experience in their respective niches, and they can easily make your photos look spectacular without any setbacks. So reach out to the best and make your photos look like a work of art!

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sharpen-jadescythe · 4 years

Text

Operation Kitten, 2

Part Two: Sharpen attempts to match wits with Mathias Shaw, himbo vs. spymaster. And we find out about Agent Kitten!

I trusted my gut again and went with it. I had every right to still be furious about the way things were run in the SI:7 Seals so I really put it to him. “But I haven’t seen these values in the SI:7 Seals. Not anywhere. Even if I did join to help you clean things up or whatever you’re implying. Not within these four walls, not in these barracks, not in any of the instructors, and Elune knows, there wasn’t a decent fool among the other recruits. Those ethics just aren’t there.”

“Mack. Go get us some water.” Mathias Shaw glanced up at the giant Kul Tiran man standing there, glowering at me.

Big Mack shifted his feet, gave a final grunt my way, then he nodded to Mathias and left us alone in the interrogation room.

Mathias arched an eyebrow at me. For a spy guy, he can come across as very phony. Or, dramatic. Perhaps he thinks it’s cute. You know, cleverer than the average bear, making fun of the profession he’s fully versed in? A way for him to keep things light. And so maybe it is cute, okay fine.

Mathias pointed at me again, as if still haggling over that beat down nag he was trying to sell me. “I hope you’re not thirsty, Sharp. You’re not really getting any water—”

“Look. I can follow things at least that far. So what’s up? What’s this big secret you want to tell me, alone?”

“It’s on a need-to-know basis. Big Mack deals with recruits and he’s high up the chain. He does know, but it’s best if he’s not seen as knowing. Locked up in a room for a really long time with a so-called failed recruit? Too obvious. That is, if any of the others are as decent as you proved to be, and they get suspicious.”

“…Okay. What?”

“That, in itself, was the test. We’re looking for fit men and women, for tough people. Yes, that’s true. But we’re also recruiting people who genuinely espouse the values of the Alliance. People who would serve because they care, not necessarily for a paycheck. A lot of stellar men and women apply, yes. And some of them do come from connections that are already inside the Seals, milking us for what we’ll let them get away with while they do important work. However, we can’t ignore that kind of talent, either. If a cousin of King Anduin Wrynn or Jaina Proudmoore walks through these doors, can we really turn away that magical or mental ability running through their veins? But once they get through those doors, we take a closer look. We take people who show us they are far more than pedigree. Only very good men and women. Sharpen, you are such a one.”

I have to admit, Jiroki? I was still completely lost.

Mathias cleared his throat, “So that Dwarf? You know the one, you actually almost blew his cover once, telling Hael he was trying too hard. Hael was our a plant. Hael tried to keep you up with drinking the night before the exam because we asked him to. You wouldn’t fall for it, though. And that death-defying swim across icy waters? Hael can swim like a fish! He was never in any danger, even that shark of his was Hael’s backup.”

“Wait—that was his shark? His hunter pet?!”

Mathias gave a proud smirk, “Ho, yes. And Hael knows a good recruit when he sees one, a fellow hunter. Sharpen, he liked you. He was hoping you’d give in and try to save his life out there in the water—or rather, at least what appeared to be an emergency situation to you. We were really hoping you’d pass that part of the test, that you weren’t like the others. Life first, serving the Light. That is what the Alliance stands for, the greater good. I was willing to make an allowance, that perhaps you were just afraid for your own life. You’d passed all the other tests with flying colors.

“So wait. Milnon Anaar that Draenei? And Felicia Graves, the half mermaid—”

“She’d be a quarter-mermaid then, Sharpen.”

“They both failed the test? But they were superstars. They really, honestly failed?”

“All of them did. Sharpen, everyone in your class got cut.”

I didn’t think, I threw my arms up and let out a celebratory ‘Woop!’ before realizing I’d done it.

Mathias smiled at me. It was the first real smile that I remember seeing on that man.

“Yes, well done. Well done, Agent Sharpen. We recruited from excellent stock. You had the right values all along—we would have preferred that you saved Agent Hael out in the arctic ocean instead of punching him in the face. But then again, you punched me in the face as well and, once I came to, and after I put certain accounts together from those who witnessed things on the beach, it made more sense that you were experiencing a kind of moral outrage. A breach of the ethic code that you yourself live by and that we also live by here at SI:7.”

“…Woah.”

“It may take a few years, and maybe even not that long for the ones using us for fame and fortune to eventually retire. But I’d say our recruitment process that sifts the wheat from the chaff is well in place and functioning. Sharpen, you’re in.”

I thought things over fully this time, “I guess if you’re allowed to punch Mathias Shaw and still be an SI:7 Seal, that is a good sign.”

“If you tell your buddies that’s the way to pass the test, I will punch you where the sun don’t shine, Sharpen Jadescythe, and leave you there.”

I shook my head at him, “Nice to have the honor, but I still don’t like this.”

“Why not?”

“You can’t place all that burden on me, the man to fix your organization. Or other people like me. New recruits, naked to the process. I hit you in the face and screamed that I was a decent person who didn’t want to put up with it, that’s what it took? And all those amoral guys at the top—those are the agents calling the shots. Those are the ones I’ll be dropped off in who-knows-where with, following their orders. This is still a corrupt organization. And I’m supposed to go and risk my life for you? No thank you.”

Mathias scowled rubbed his temples. Jiroki, you and him have that in common, it’s kind of cute. Well, coming from you, it’s cute.

He was gruff, “I can see your sister’s influence coming through. Sharpen, please don’t throw this once-in-a-lifetime chance away? Please, don’t do that. A lot of good can be done.” He growled, “I don’t want to call you a himbo for a second time.”

I stood up right then and there. “I want to leave.”

“And do I have to bring up your questionable connections with the Horde, especially through a certain burlesque troupe that claims to be faction-neutral, but we both know such a thing doesn’t exist.”

“You’re trying to blackmail me?”

“Doing one mission for the Seals is a great way to confirm your loyalty for the Alliance.”

“Walking out of here and not punching you in the face again is another way I can think of! In any case, I’m not on trial here, I didn’t commit any crimes. You can’t hold me here.”

“Unless—”

“If you want to bring up in a Boralus court that I punched you, Mathias Shaw, in the face, and tht you let me? And then you were laid flat out on the beach for several hours before they got the courage to move you? Heck, that’s your call.”

Mathias cursed under his breath. “Sit, please. At least for this last part before you go.”

I did, who knows why. Maybe because Mathias had pulled a file out of the box on the table, and I thought it might be about me. I saw writing in Darnassian on the front.

“You tried to keep a man here by corrupt means. You tried to blackmail me—now isn’t that the very thing we were just talking about? Call me a himbo again if you dare, Mathias. But I listen to my instincts first and foremost. They’ve kept me alive so far, they’ve kept me sane. And I sure sniffed you out, didn’t I? This isn’t a solid organization. It isn’t ethical what you all do here. And don’t give me that crap about how spies need to cross the line sometimes, I’ve heard it all before. Whatever you want to get over on me, it’s not going to work. Now what is that thing?”

“Oh, you’ve heard it before, have you? From your sister?” Mathias passed the dark blue folder over to me. “We do trust you, Sharpen. We want to extend some trust as a starting point. Some months ago, a man came in here just like you did. Another Night Elf man who had the same concerns. I told him, as I’m telling you now, that he could choose his own assignments, work with who he wanted. Especially if he wanted to avoid the corrupt higher-ups. That means you’ll have sort of… grunt work, and none of the real thrilling stuff when working as an SI:7 Seal isn’t a vacation and you’re bound to tangle with personalities, but still—I offered him a clean, good foundation to start with.”

“This his file?”

“Go on, open it. You’ve already signed a nondisclosure contract with us, so I know you won’t blab anything. I’m betting though, that you won’t want to.” Mathias watched me flip through the pages inside, he waited for me to get the gist of it. And that would have been easy to read all over my face. “… Night Elf druid Silas Freedale, one of our more recent and our very best, the excellent swimmer, he went off to Ashenvale to find something extremely important for the Alliance, and indeed for your people.” Shaw crossed his arms again, “But since he never came back, we need someone, someone incorruptible with a real vested interest, to go and find out what happened to him.”

“Is he dead?”

Mathias stared at me.

“Oh! I’m finding that out, then.” I turned a few more pages. “That is, if I even take this assignment. If I even agree to become a Seal.”

“What would you like your codename to be, Raorin?”

I narrowed my eyes at him.

“You could keep Sharpen. It already sounds like a mysterious spy name. Or even the name of a whole operation. Or, you could go by Agent Jadescythe.”

I frowned, “Flattery? That, I can appreciate. That’s a little less slimy… A world tree! This is about a new world tree? And it’s called Operation Kitten?”

“That’s right. Because our deep cover catform agent most likely got stuck up the very world tree he was supposed to find. The tree hasn’t even been named yet. We just know that he located it, that he chose to go up. But no details on where or exactly when that was. There were… stories about this new world tree for a long time before Agent Kitten found it, from your own druids.”

“My personal druids?”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to lump all the Night Elves together. But the druids that work in Ashenvale, tireslessly to save it from the Horde ravaging the land, ruining the forest, they have a pretty reliable oral tradition that says there is another world tree growing right on the border between Ashenvale and the Barrens. Do you know how important such a stronghold could become? The raw power of a world tree itself—if we could find it, and fortify it, your people might be safe from the Horde, forever.”

“How can anyone be safe from the Horde forever? Not unless the Horde is neutralized. Is that how you see it? There are plans in this file outlining a full scale assault on the Barrens, extending as far as the Crossroads. And once you control that, it’s not long till Orgrimmar is in a pincer, with Alliance forces on both sides.”

“There go those dangerous Horde leanings again—”

“Did it ever occur to you that peace might be an option? Respecting the Horde’s side of things, while they respect ours? Perhaps a trade agreement so that they cull the right trees and not the wrong ones? Their people need to eat and survive too, you know. And that’s harsh land they took on, in that part of Kalimdor.”

Mathias let out a low whistle, that I could not be more wrong.

I insisted, “And don’t look at me like that, kingdoms have shared borders before. Just look at Ironforge, you know the Dwarf lands? Stormwind and the Dwarves get along fine.”

“I’ve been told the Night Elves, you younger ones, are bound to have these upside down world views.”

“With respect. I am three hundred years old, sir.”

“And you act like you’re twenty. Like the conflicts these past few decades didn’t happen to you, personally, at all. Like you aren’t affected. The Horde is not a sovereign kingdom, Sharpen. It is a mess. It is an invading army that came to Azeroth to destroy life and civilization on this planet for the Burning Legion, reduce it to rubble no different from Outland, or Argus. The Horde did not manage it because the Alliance stood up to them. End of story. And don’t tell me things have changed since Thrall or Vol’jin or damn her—Sylvanas! As if Garrosh wasn’t the big tip off, and you talk about ethics not being present.” Mathias raised his voice at me, he was so frustrated, “We are life and they are death! Do you understand me, Agent Sharpen?”

“And do you understand that if I do take this assignment, I’m not killing any Horde unless I have to. I’m not killing anyone unless I need to.”

“If you go to the last page, you’ll see we’ve actually asked you for the same. We don’t want you to engage any Horde at all if you can help it. We don’t want them finding a world tree of all things. A death that doesn’t look natural gets investigated and then that will, in time, blow our cover. It could take years to gain control of that tree, and we don’t need a bunch of evidence piling up that it exists and the Alliance wants it that badly, in the meantime.”

I read that part, pinned to the end with a paperclip like it was an after thought. ‘No Horde deaths, no Horde engagement’ it said.

Mathias was very impatient now that he knew I’d read it all. “…Well?”

I told him, “I would come home successful, because I would. I’d find this lost feral druid and then the Alliance would take over that World Tree. And then you would use it to cut off the rest of the Barrens, cut off the Tauren from the Orcs finally. Right?”

“What comes next really is up to King Anduin.”

“But you’ll be in his ear like a buzzing hornet, and he’d have to do what you insist is the best way to ‘neutralize the threat’.”

“Look, Sharpen. I don’t see what the problem is? You’re a soldier for the Alliance. You’ve killed Horde before. You know that it’s essential.”

“In a war, in a battle. I say, we could also use this new world tree to prevent more death and suffering. To end conflicts.”

“So you say.”

“World trees are not about destroying. You want it so badly, but you don’t know the first thing about it.”

“You’re wrong. Do I need to state the obvious?” Mathias meant our tree. Our beloved Teldrassil that was lost. He leaned in, his leather gear creaked, “And what do you think the Horde would do, under Warchief Sylvanas, if they found a second world tree so close to their doorstep?”

“More emotional blackmail? That’s incredibly low, considering we Kaldorei never had enough support from the Alliance in Ashenvale in the first place!”

“It isn’t that, Agent Sharpen. But I do want you to see, somewhere between your values and mine, your world where people can play nice with monsters—you’re a hunter, maybe that’s where it comes from? Or perhaps it was because practically your entire family was down near Suramar of all places when Teldrassil was attacked. Which I always found interesting considering your sister’s intelligence work. And your family’s assassin “friend” Alessandre…”

“Don’t go there. Don’t you dare. I faced extinction along with the rest of my people on that day.”

“All I want you to see is that you don’t have a choice, Agent Sharpen. You must get to that world tree first before the Horde does, however King Anduin decides to handle things.”

I crossed my arms, “I also wonder why Tyrande, who has led our people since the beginning and is a walking agent of good, has been for thousands of years, now has to listen to the counsel of a boy Anduin’s age. Or any Human’s age.” I did have a point. Mathias let me have that. “I want the findings shared with Malfurion and Tyrande first, before anything goes to Anduin.”

“No, Sharpen. I can’t promise you that.”

“And you can’t trust that I won’t do it myself, in that case, considering my family connections. It’s amazing you’re not going through Darnassus to start with.” I tossed the file back to him, let some of the papers fly out. One whipped up into his face. I had pretty good aim, I was proud. “Those are my terms, Mathias Shaw.” Then, I thought better of it, “When I am done, I will deliver my mission report in a meeting with King Anduin and Tyrande and Malfurion, all of them in the same room. In Stormwind Keep.”

Mathias shrugged, looked elsewhere. “If I can pull them all together and their schedules are free.”

“For a new world tree? Now who’s playing dumb.”

Mathias scrunched his face up, as he fit all the papers back into the blue file with gold Darnassian lettering. “Fine. You and I don’t need to agree, Sharpen. You just need to be able to take orders. And, it’d raise the profile of this effort anyway, to do an official handover. You have a deal.” Mathias offered his hand to shake.

“I’ll see you in Stormwind when this is all done, then. I’ll hand over Agent… Kitten, then.”

I admit I grinned like a clever cat, myself.

#operation-kitten #stories #si7-seals

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sinfulredemptions · 4 years

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@dragcnsden submitted:

{ ☆ } If someone told him that he’d ever find someone to feel this- comfortable around— especially down in Hell of all places —Angel would have called them a fucking liar. If they told him it’d be with one of the most feared and dangerous bastards in the place, well… he’d have called them out on their bullshit even harder. And yet, here he is… lingering in the doorway as he looks across the room at Al, for once actually feeling hesitant about joining him. Ironic, isn’t it?

It’s late at night, as most of their pleasant chats seem to be… just another aspect of the nighttime to add to Angel’s ever-growing love admiration of it. And as he rests against the wooden frame, jazz lightly hinting the air and a warm fire flickering in the room making shadows dance in the drowsy lighting, he can’t help but smile. A soft, nervous one… charmingly quirked to the side, as all his sincere ones are, unlike the wide, showy grins he often dons around others.

He’s really gonna fucking do this, huh?

With a deep breath, he releases it with a small shake of his head before pushing away and slowly sauntering into the room as per usual. ❝ Heya, Luce stellare~ ❞ He pipes up with a playful purr, yet another nickname flowing forth like second nature; albeit, this one meaning more than Alastor could ever likely know. Plopping himself down on a plush chair beside the deer demon, one leg crosses over the other as an elbow props on the armrest, a cheek laying against a closed fist as he gazes into the gently-roaring fire.

It’s a nice sight… The warm colors dancing across the logs, the sound of crackling mingling with the music in the air, helping turn what could have been Silence into a comforting melody. Although, Angel must admit… the moment would be far more soothing if he didn’t have a stubborn decision lingering on the cusp of his mind. Evident by how his legs lightly bounces, free hand lightly drumming slim fingers against his other armrest as he emits a soft, discreet breath… Alright, time to stop being a bitch.

❝ Hey, Al? ❞ Angel begins, gaze still focused on the fire, and holding a hint of nerves, ❝ I don’t mean ta- Y'know, make things weird or nothin’… ❞ The last thing he wants is to destroy the companionship he’s found, the security he’s stumbled upon… And yet- it still feels wrong, in a way, to not be sure that Alastor- understands. At least, as much as is safe for him to. ❝ But I jus’, heh… I dunno… I jus’ wanted ta let ya know that, I- … I really appreciate these li'l chats we have. ❞

Looking over at the deer, a sheepish smile tugs at his lips, cheeks tinged with a gentle pink, ❝ It ain’t often that I can feel this comfortable around someone… Fuckin’ neva’, as a matta’ of fact. So, I figured I oughta thank you… ❞ Shrugging, gaze wanders to the fire as he raises a brow, ❝ Now, don’t worry- I ain’t plannin’ ta start spewin’ all my deepest feelin’s an’ shit on ya. ❞ Don’t want to drive him away, after all. Angel’s no fool… In this relationship arrangement they have going on, HE’S the one who needs Alastor. ❝ I jus’ wanted ta let you know, that- yer a pretty damn great guy, Smiles. ❞

Glancing over at Alastor, expression and tone turns playful— as if trying to backtrack from the snippet of unguarded sincerity he had allowed Alastor to see, to KNOW —as he adds, ❝ I mean- Yer an asshole, don’t get me wrong… ❞ Cue a light laugh, a subconscious brush of his bangs as his legs shift positions, hips shuffling slightly to become more comfortable, ❝ But you ain’t all bad… In fact, yer one of th’ betta’ guys I’ve eva’ known. ❞

One of the best, actually… { ☆ }

Routine.

If there was one thing that Alastor took solace in, it would routine. Things done a certain way at a certain time...as sure as the false sun rose and set, as steady as the ticking of the clock above the mantle..and as inevitable as a certain spider coming to peek into the parlor to see what he was up to that night.

It was...comforting in a way and it sort of alarmed Alastor honestly.

How easily he had come to expect the other to join in on his private time, and he didn’t hate him for it. Angel was respectful, despite their first few meetings where he had been exceedingly crude and the like, but he had seemed to understand that unlike most of the denizens down here, such things were not even on his radar, let alone something he would want to indulge in.

It had been like a switch being flipped he’d noticed, the lewder comments had died down and their dynamic had gotten much more comfortable over time. It was strange to Alastor, who was unused to people wanting to be within his company, most quick and HAPPY to flee at the first sight of him, and for good reason. His violent and murderous reputation preceded him, if the little story that Vaggie had told Angel was any indication~

Tonight, he was tending to his butchery tools, the black leather roll laid out on the table with the whet stone attached to it with a small vice. As per usual, his dress was....casual...almost. Hair pulled back, his suspenders off his shoulders, hanging about his waist on the couch, but tonight he didn’t have gloves on as he pressed the knife to the stone and set to work, humming lowly along with the music as he almost tenderly sharpened his blade before lifting it to check the sharpness against his thumb.

He didn’t look up as the other settled into the couch next to him, close to the fire. Alastor knew Angel enjoyed watching the flames, so he had made the habit of leaving that spot open for him and as always, there was a cup of coffee waiting for him on the table, seemingly out of nowhere. There was a slight jittering on the couch that caught his attention and set his teeth on edge slightly, his ears giving the tiniest of flicks as he glanced over, unable to continue his work while Angel jostled about, but then...he stilled as he began to speak.

A brow perked and he tilted his head with a light, amused expression on his face. The smile that he normally wore, the steel trap wound tight was relaxed just a bit with Angel, and he was sure the other had noticed. They had gotten rather good at reading one another with these late night excursions. Comfortable hm? It was a rather strange thought, Alastor pulling his gaze away from Angel to continue his work, but one ear swiveled towards him would let the other know that yes, he was still listening.

The soft sound of the blade dragging along the stone rumbled like a strange purr under Angel’s words as he spoke. Alastor pondering them over and he chuckled softly, there was a flash of steel then, glinting at the flat of the knife slipped under Angel’s jawline, turning the spider’s face to look at him. “I will argue Angel dear, that I am many things, but a ‘great guy’...isn’t one of them.” The static of his radio dropped out, letting the lower tone of his true voice to ring through the empty room as he leaned in, the two of them rather close as the low crooning of a jazz singer filled the air with lyrics of slow, dark nights.

“But...” He quirked a smile as he shifted the blade upward, giving Angel a gentle pat on the cheek with it. “I do enjoy your company. I find our late night rendezvous to be engaging and in fact, rather relaxing!” The static returned then as the stag withdrew with a little hum. “It is rare to have company that isn’t terrified of me and actually rather interesting to talk to! Besides, I think we have a bit of common ground from being so close to one another death wise~” A small laugh then as he put the finishing touch on his blade, giving it a light thumb and smirking at the thin line that he cut into the skin there. Such a bare graze of a gesture and already small beads of blood welled at the line.

Satisfied, the small wound was given a lick and he tucked that blade away in its slot, picking up another to repeat the process. That was perhaps as close to a thank you and a confession of friendship anyone would EVER get out of Alastor~

@burningfcols

#;; The Radio Demon | Alastor ;;#;; This Is The Manta; This Is My Life | Angel Dust (burningfcols) ;;#(it wouldn't let me post your submission bb so NYEH I HAD TO DO IT THIS WAY)

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bakersovencakes · 4 years

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Important Decisions to be made when Ordering Cake Online!

Mere listening to the word cake or thinking about it activates the taste buds of both children and adults. It is a rich, creamy delicacy apt for gracing any and every occasion. Whether it is a birthday, wedding, or just another day in your life when you feel like enjoying a scrumptious dessert, the cake is an awesome option for everyone having a sweet tooth.

According to bakers giving cake delivery in Gurgaon, gone are the days when people used to come to the bakery and select the ready range of cakes from the baker’s shelf. Now people prefer customized designer cakes over regular cakes with buttercream topping.

So whether you wish to celebrate your birthday, you have a wedding, it's Valentine’s Day or any other occasion when you are ordering cake online, there are some very important things that should not only be kept in mind but decided beforehand at the time of placing the order.

What is the occasion you are looking forward to celebrating?

The first and foremost decision that has to be made while placing an order for online cake delivery understands the occasion for which the order is being placed. If it is your kid’s birthday then you can go for cartoon character cake, sporty cake, or any other designer cake as per your kid’s choice. Birthday cakes are usually creamy, full of chocolates and candies. On the other hand on Valentine’s Day, you will rather take a pick on red velvet cake in a heart shape. These days’ bakers are sharpening their creative edges and coming up with ideas like cupid cake or other love inspired cake for V-Day. A short selection of shape, color, and flavor of the cake should be according to the occasion that is being celebrated.

Do you want a cake or cupcakes?

It will be interesting to note that both cakes and cupcakes are one of the most delectable delicacies but are made to suit different occasions. If you wish to order a dessert for giving a corporate gift or separate him and her dessert on a baby shower then cupcakes are what you should order. On the other hand, cakes are more suitable for birthdays, anniversaries and weddings. If you wish to enjoy an awesome dessert with your evening tea and snacks then cupcakes are rather convenient over cakes.

Does the online cake delivery service have a stellar reputation?

Bakers giving cake delivery in Gurgaon, believe that online cake delivery is a wonderful way to register your presence in the life of your loved ones who are living in a different city or country. It is a way to be in their thoughts and tell them you are thinking about them while you cannot be with them physically. When online cake delivery has such huge emotions attached to it, you cannot take the risk of selecting any online baker and jeopardize everything. You need to be very careful and ensure the cake delivery service chosen by you have a stellar online reputation. They serve fresh, moist, and tasty cakes which makes the day of the person who is far from you but stays in your heart. By online cake delivery, you are telling someone that they are special and you cannot order that special cake from just any baker. So do your research about the baker, bakery, and their service before placing the order.

Is the baker located in the same city or country of delivery?

Eating cake is fun when it is eaten fresh and moist. Nobody likes eating stale cake that has lost its freshness and smells yuck. And for this, you need to ensure that the cake is baked and delivered from the same city or the country. For example, if you are situated in America and wish to get the cake delivered in London, then there will be no point in selecting an American baker and getting the cake delivered thousands of miles away. You shall rather select an online bakery in London and get a fresh cake delivered at the doors of your loved ones. It is very important to ensure that the cake is delivered in the shortest period of time after being baked and decorated. Have you finished your homework?

Ordering cake online is not as easy as eating a piece of cake. You will need to look for the number of online cake delivery companies, read their web pages, look at the products they have got to offer, whether they can deliver the cake selected by you on the date and time you want, what they are charging for the cake and charges for its deliveries, are there any hidden charges, is there any discount, offer or coupon available and so on. Once you have answered all these questions and are sure about the reputation of the baker, you can order cake online.

Bakers Oven is an online bakery showcasing the variety of cakes for all occasions.

#Order Cake Online in Gurgaon #valentine day cakes #cake delivery in gurgaon #order cake online #Birthday Cakes in Gurgaon #best bakery in gurgaon #valentine day special cake #valentine day cakes in gurgaon

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lynne-monstr · 5 years

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Writers Month Day 14: Fairy Tale

prompt requested by @ketzwrites (thanks!)

There’s a prince locked away in the tallest tower of Edom, kept prisoner by his evil demon father. Alec intends to rescue him and make him his husband.

“What, really?” Isabelle asks, arms crossed over her chest.

“I mean, not if he doesn’t want to,” Alec responds. “But come on, he’s got to be bored up there all alone. It’s a good deal. He’d be a fool to turn it down.”

“Wow, and they say romance is dead.”

“Not all of us were lucky enough to find love on the training field,” Alec shoots back.

Isabelle smiles in a way that softens her whole face. It’s widely known throughout the kingdom that the only thing more terrifying than Isabelle Lightwood on the training field is when she and her wife team up to take challengers. But the downside of her whirlwind marriage to Lydia Branwell is that it had knocked from the running the only contender who qualified by the Nephilim’s own ancient laws to share the throne with Alec by marriage.

Not that Prince Alec is upset by that. If anything, he’s relieved. With Lydia off the market, there’s no pressure on him to propose an unwanted match. It does, however, leave the throne vulnerable.

“So that’s your plan?” Isabelle asks. “Sneak into Edom and hope to get a marriage contract signed just for showing up and smiling.”

“And slaying the dragon.” Alec’s looking forward to that part. He has a new bow and everything. It shoots five arrows. Five.

Isabelle doesn’t look convinced. “How do you know this guy even likes men?”

Alec groans. “Come on, Izzy, I did my research in the archives. Magnus Bane once put a sign in front of his tower that read ‘Caution: Goes Both Ways.’ I think it’s safe to say he likes guys.”

The question is, would Magnus Bane like him? At least, would he like him enough to say yes. Alec is trying not to think too hard about the answer. He can’t afford to fail in this quest.

Isabelle looks impressed before her forehead scrunches up in a way Alec would never dare call adorable to her face. “How’d he do that if he’s locked up?”

“Magic, I guess? He’s a warlock.” Alec frowns. “Why are you so against this anyway? You know the laws as well as I do. If I don’t marry before I turn 25, the Morgensterns have legal grounds to challenge our right to the crown. I have to do this.”

“I know, Alec. It’s just…what about love? You deserve to be happy.”

“I’ll be happy when I secure the throne.” Alec grins and hopes it doesn’t look strained. Happiness was never in the cards for him. “Besides, it’s just Edom. And a dragon. How hard can it be?”

(Several Days Later. In Edom.)

Alec backs into the hard stone wall, his own arrow digging into his throat.

“I’m here to rescue you!” he shouts. The words cause the sharpened point to dig into his throat and he winces.

“Not another one,” Magnus Bane mutters. He’s on the opposite side of the room, his hands a matching red to the magic levitating Alec’s arrow. Both eyebrows arch upwards in a way that drips sarcasm. “How’s that going for you?”

Alec stops trying to duck around the arrow. It’s a lost cause. “Not great, but I think you can see that.”

There’s a spare dagger sheathed at his back but he doesn’t draw it. For all he’s being threatened, it’s more playful than hostile. The tip of his arrows are sharpened to a fine enough point to pierce any object, yet not a single drop of blood has been drawn from his throat.

Besides, he’s a little busy staring at Magnus Bane.

There are few sketches of the captive warlock in the archives and none of them do him justice. Captive warlock might be a slight misnomer, he corrects, mentally cursing the archives of Alicante. Nowhere in his research did it suggest that Magnus Bane has anywhere near the level of power he’s displaying. Whatever’s keeping him in this tower, it isn’t the scraps of low-level entrapment spells that barely cover the entrances.

He’s also the most beautiful man Prince Alec has ever laid eyes on. His dark hair is styled high on his head and his clothing is fine enough to cost a good chunk of Alec’s monthly household budget. The dramatic makeup isn’t something Alec usually sees on men, but it suits him. Silver metal glints on his fingers and his chest, swaying with him as he moves. He looks equal parts deadly and drop dead gorgeous.

Alec doesn’t realize his tongue has darted out to lick his lips until Magnus’ deeply lines eyes flicker down to look at his mouth. A surge of heat rushes downwards and he shifts against where he’s pressed against the wall.

“Um, can you let me go now?” Alec asks.

“Let you go?” Magnus’ expression darkens. “I should throw you in the dungeon for what you did to Harold.”

“Harold?”

Magnus gestures towards the injured dragon behind him. The beast has four arrows sticking out of its hide. As if sensing prying eyes, it whines in what sounds like pain and hides its head. “I don’t take lightly to people hurting my friends.”

“I was trying to rescue you!”

An whirlwind rages in Magnus’ eyes as he spits out each word.“You broke into my home. The only person I need to be rescued from is you.” He curls his lips as he adds, “And I’m doing a stellar job of it, if I do say so myself.”

He raises an arm and Alec tenses, ready to pull his blade and fight, but Magnus merely places his hand on the dragon’s hide. Moments later, the arrows fall to the floor and the wounds heal in a flash of bright blue.

The dragon makes a noise like an excited puppy and stretches out its long neck to nuzzle Magnus’ stomach. Magnus scratches under his dragon’s chin and turns back to Alec. “Now, where were we?”

“Prince Bane.” Alec draws himself up the way he was taught in his earliest etiquette lessons. “I’ve transgressed on your home and I offer my apologies to you and your—” Alec looks at the dragon, who has its eyes closed as Magnus lavishes it with attention, “—your friend,” he finishes, clearing his throat awkwardly.

Magnus’ face brightens. “Most people don’t include Harold in their apology.” He snaps a finger and the arrow at Alec’s neck falls to the ground, the red cloud holding it in place dissipating in a soft pop.

Alec rubs at his neck. “I take it you don’t need to be rescued.”

“Do you have any idea how many books are in this tower?” Magnus’ eyes light up. “I think it used to be a library in the days Before. There’s more magical knowledge here than in the whole of Edom. Why would I want to leave and set foot in my father’s kingdom that only knows war and suffering? I’m happy where I am.”

Each word is a blow and Alec struggles not to show his despair. His quest is a failure. There are other potential matches he can proposition, but the Lightwoods are running out of time and Magnus Bane was the closest available option. Alec doesn’t have time to try again.

“Don’t look so disappointed,” Magnus says, either not realizing or not caring that Alec’s world is falling apart. His shoulders sway slightly as his eyes graze over Alec from head to toe. “We can make the best of it, handsome. I can pretend, if that’s what you’re into. I do a great warlock in distress routine.” He taps his lip with the hand not petting Harold’s scales. “Play your cards right and you can even tie me up before you ‘save’ me.”

Alec nearly trips over his own feet at the realization of what Magnus is suggesting, his thoughts of mounting his family’s defense against the Morgensterns scattering to the oppressive Edom wind.

He can feel the blood rushing to his face. None of his research has prepared him for meeting Magnus Bane. He shakes away the image of Magnus bound up in rope the color of his magic. He’ll think about it later. Much later. When he’s back in his bed behind a locked door.

Right now he has more pressing matters at hand. Princely matters. “Actually, I was thinking marriage.” He came all this way, he may as well take his shot.

Magnus freezes. “Excuse me?”

“I mean,” Alec stumbles to halt. Because that’s exactly what he means. But now, standing in front of his intended, this whole matrimony in exchange for rescue thing seems a lot sketchier than it did in his etiquette books. What can he say to explain why he’d make a good husband. I stalked you, broke into your home, and attacked your friend isn’t exactly a rousing endorsement.

Did other princes really do this? And their princes and princesses agreed to it?

Nevertheless, he steels himself for rejection and explains his people’s predicament. Magnus looks in turn guarded and sympathetic as the full story tumbles out. It isn’t until Alec gets to the part about Valentine’s son Jonathan, whose secret plan is to summon the demon Lilith that Magnus startles.

“Lilith is an ancient enemy of my people as well.” For the first time, Magnus looks discomfited. “She can’t be allowed to roam free.”

“If you marry me, she won’t.”

“You really know how to lay the romance on thick, don’t you.” The words are eerily similar to Isabelle’s own admonition, days earlier. Alec misses her with a fierce ache in his heart but doesn’t have time to dwell on it as Magnus purses his lips and adds, “I’ll need my own closet.”

Alec nods. “Consider it done.”

“And Harold will be given free reign over the kingdom.”

“Naturally.”

“There’s only one last thing. A test, if you will. If you pass, consider my agreement given.”

Alec straightens, hands naturally falling to clasp behind him. “Name it.”

“A kiss.” Magnus takes a step forward, his eyes both an invitation and a challenge.

It’s a challenge Alec readily accepts. In a few long, confident strides he closes the space between them.

The Prince of Edom is a tall man, but those last couple inches mean that he has to look up to meet Alec’s gaze. Ever so gently, Alec curls his hands on either side of Magnus’ neck, thumbs pressing against the underside of his jaw until his head is tilted back enough for Alec’s liking.

Their kiss is the barest press of lips, but Alec feels like he’s drowning.

Magnus tastes like fruit from his lip balm, and the stubble of his facial hair scratches lightly against Alec’s chin. He can feel the racing pulse of Magnus’ throat against his fingers, along with the cool touch of the many necklaces against his palms. Magnus’ own hands clench a bruising grip around Alec’s hips, keeping him in place with a ferocity that lights a spark of hope within Alec, that perhaps Magnus feels the potential igniting between them.

After what feels like forever, they part.

Neither of them is eager to move and in a calculated risk, Alec lets his head drop so his forehead rests against Magnus. His hands uncurl, sliding down to a more appropriate place on Magnus’ shoulders. His very large, very muscular shoulders.

Please let him say yes.

Alec wants this match for the good of his people but, unexpectedly and for the first time, he wants it for himself. He wants Magnus. Not just his body, but his quick wit and his fire and his willingness to throw himself off into the arms of a stranger and a strange kingdom for his people’s safety.

Reluctantly, Alec pulls back into his own space.

“Did I pass?” Alec says.

“Oh that’s one word for it.” Magnus seems to remember himself and straightens so his posture matches Alec’s own. “I accept your offer, Prince Alec.”

Alec can’t help the small, hopeful grin that stretches across his face.

(“About the closet. How big is it, exactly?” Magnus asks, as he leads Alec deeper into his tower so they can start planning.)

Prince Alec returns to his land and he brings his husband Prince Magnus with him.

#shadowhunters #malec fanfic #writersmonth2019 #malec #magnus bane #alec lightwood #this was super hard to think up an idea for #but then this hit me and i got so excited #i would have liked to add a lot more backstory but i'm using these prompts as quick writing exercises #but fyi i have i lot of ideas about this lol #lynne writes fic

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perogipoj · 4 years

Text

all this before coffee

Dedicated to my black sheep family, who will always be golden.

Barbed wire, blank walls and an empty sky. Cocoa Beach. Brevard County, FL. Jail. Also known as SHARPS. Tammy walked into the classroom with an air of bravado coupled with the eyes of a child. I never met a teacher before she said shyly, glancing at her handcuffs on the uncomfortable chair. Even … I hesitated, even in school, I asked gently. I adjusted my own hips to adjust for the cold hard beneath me. I mean, a teacher for real. Her eyes looked down, and I implored with my eyes this time to the corrections officer to remove the handcuffs. Her shoulder length hair was marred by black roots and mustard colored ends. There were scars on her arm from cutting. Her teeth were perfect when she decided to smile. Opening the GRE materials, I joked that I am useless at math but fairly good at grammar. Tammy looked beautiful.

Some of us take many things too far. That has seemed to be my pattern. Even healthy habits turned into obsessions. Jogging turned into running which became marathons and a cruel treatment of my body. Some can run into their seventies without injury as some people live to a hundred while smoking and drinking whiskey to the end. Mindful eating became anorexia and bulimia. Going organic made me broke with the kombucha and hemp that flowed through my veins. Being tidy led me to compulsive house cleaning, often with bleach scouring my hands and my eyes colored in pink tears. Personal grooming turned to hours and dollars of hair coloring, clothes I could not afford, Botox, and breast augmentation. Wanting affirmation led to dangerous and toxic sexual situations.

Jaylen, I was warned, was “special.” I would normally groan inward, used to so many parents highlighting their children as such, usually to explain poor grades. The volunteer walked all twelve years of Jaylen, his mannerisms large and chaotic, into the room in which all toys and colors were removed. I hate reading, he said, standing with his arms crossed in front of him like a knight. Why? It’s stupid. Can you read, I asked, opening the second-grade reader I was given. I don’t need to read, I can dance.

I met The Peruvian on a last minute, pathetic online date. I was at a job expo to acquire my first teaching job after finishing my master’s degree at a world-famous university. I almost flunked out. I could not focus. I cried over social histories in German, a language I lacked grammatical skill in, dreading the meetings with just my professor and another grad student. Black tea, discussions of Marx I got lost in, his approval nodding at the stout Russian girl I already had difficulty understanding in English, never mind in German. In college, I was stellar. On time to each class, writing papers late into the night with a gusto of my fingers and a smile on my face. The world looked bright. On a sweltering day with an incompressible and unimportant commencement speaker, we burnt in the sun and passed around a flask of vodka under our graduation gowns. Life is beginning. I held the parchment color graduation schedule. My name had a star next to it.

I saw that Tammy was no longer shackled when she entered the gray room. Since the week I met with her, she had elevated herself to the trusted inmates who could clean, deliver meals, and hand out the dog-eared pages of books on a squeaky cart. So, you scored extremely high on many levels, Tammy. Let’s take a look at the reading comprehension packet I assigned on The Scarlet Letter. She smiled more brightly. I pressed her for intrigue. Ma’am, she said glowing, my commissary is so lit now I don’t have to eat the garbage they give us. They try to pass off expired food when I deliver it. I wanted to call them out on those pistachios. I don’t have time to answer these packets you give me. But I read the book. What did you read, according to you? We clasped hands. Of course, the minster got off and Hester had to wear the giant A over her pilgrim costume. I dipped my head. Of course. She could read Hawthorne.

I will be the gladdest thing

Under the sun!

I will touch a hundred flowers

And not pick one.

I will look at cliffs and clouds

With quiet eyes,

Watch the wind bow down the grass,

And the grass rise.

And when the lights begin to show

Up from the town,

I will mark which much be mine,

And then start down.

- Edna St. Vincent Millay

Jaylen came running into the room from the play center and basketball court which I assumed was a courtesy to me. He needed to get the wiggles out.

Nassau Point in the summer at Aunt Tillie’s, driving the Long Island Expressway until it ended to countless grey and white mottled roads. Passing vineyards that used to be potato fields, cramming my mouth with the last bit of contraband Doritos which were called a Special Treat to nullify us on the vast expanse from New Jersey to the tiny white house. Decorated in “Early American” with a front glass porch smelling oddly pleasant of moth balls and sunlight. The huge lawn rolling into the bay with a dock that appeared and disappeared with the tide. Kids took showers in the dank basement, carved out of a space teeming of a hoarder. A crusted bottle of prell shampoo and a withered sliver of ivory soap. I met Man-Boy With Very Hairy Legs for the first and last time. Stroking my legs up and down, he asked if I had a boyfriend. I was ten, and smug that I could run through poison ivy and never get a rash. Do you want to fool around, like do stuff? He whispered into my ear everything I did not know yet. That’s what married people do! With his laughter, I leapt my long legs and ran, up the hill, to the driveway where my father was shucking corn. I got away. This time.

I was so excited to see Tammy. But she was not in attendance. I left the CO the beat-up copy of Antigone for her. I never saw Tammy again. “All men make mistakes, but a good man yields when his course is wrong and repairs the evil. The only evil is pride.” This quote was for my betterment, not for Tammy’s.

A time of reckoning, and a time of complete growth. A time of a schedule not placed by us. A journey into us through the connection of others, who became best friends. Vitamin fusions, lining up for medication in ribbed short paper cups, and Group. Totally released from responsibility, my linens and clothes were washed, returned the same afternoon in compact squares surrounded by plastic wrap. Jokes of communal constipation. So, this is my brain mapped. Here is what displays depression, here anxiety, this is insomnia, that part shows a lack of memory and concentration. What is that big blue of the Pacific Ocean? She looked at me, clicked her keyboard. PTSD.

I want to draw a Parrot! P-A-R-R-O-T and speak like one! Wordless, I handed him the blue and black expo markers for the old white board. With precision, he drew the bird. I need more colors, he explained in one breath can I talk like a parrot. I smiled at him at led him to his desk. Let’s try to pay attention today, and I will get you more colors and you can show me how a parrot talks. I began my lesson, and his eyes drifted into imagination. I needed to get him more colors.

I told The Peruvian I was pregnant. Now I can never afford to divorce you he muttered, enraged. Married two months earlier, I realized our honeymoon baby was not welcome. The protesters were angry, and I felt sick. Him on his laptop, me crying to a social worker. Do not sedate me, I plead, I need to feel this sin. Sliding my shoes off in the car, my trunk grinding with mountain rolls of cramps and uncontrollable sobbing coming from a divine place, I declined lunch in West Palm. I never want to do anything fun. Changing my pad alone in a car beneath the ceiling of the parking garage in City Place, I then tilted my head and fell asleep again. My birthday came and went. You didn’t remember my birthday. With that evil glint in his eyes, he turned his head and told me that was because he did not love me.

I purchased a ream of paper and a new box of 42 colors Crayola, legit, sharpener in the box, for Jaylen. He immediately sat down and drew and drew. Can we put some words to these if we use the colors you want? He looked up at me shyly and wrote down five words from the fifth-grade reader. How did you know that? Easy, my Grammy teaches me.

I did not smoke to fit in. I smoked because it felt good out in the parking lot, vying for shade, with the Tech supplying communal cigarettes and a light. The wave went through me and my lips burned with the dirt and smoky taste. You look like Strawberry Shortcake trying to smoke a cigarette! My mother was a sophisticated Virginia Slims smoker, sitting on the brick steps in her tennis skirt, so beautiful, watching my brother play in the backyard waiting for my father to return from work. I sat next to her in awe, breathing in the sprinkler water and counting its pattern, hum hum-hum-hum, hum hum-hum-hum.

I took a cigarette break on my Uber ride home. I knew I would not smoke much when I got home. However, I did not consume much except cigarettes and black coffee. I felt Parisian. The house got messy, and my thighs grew softer. Investing only in ponds cold cream and drugstore mascara, I laughed deeper and threw myself into work more than ever, with determined concentration, forgetting my posture, hunched over in zeal working sixty hours a week. Anxiety attacks did not make my head and hands shake while driving. I binged watched Law and Order. Being unhealthy never felt so healthy.

I called the jail to let them know I am available for other inmates if they needed me. I went the next day to help a young man learn English as a second language. All went well until he stood up screaming asking for a guard then switching to Spanish.

Here is your key, you can find your mailbox in the teacher lounge. Here is the form to join the union, Mr. Pescatelli will most certainly find you about that. Do you know what a block schedule is? In the morning you will be teaching Advanced Placement European History to our magnet students. After lunch, you have sophomore World History in the fourth wing. The afternoon will have different challenges. If you ever need assistance, security is just down the hall. Welcome to Ft. Lauderdale High School. Welcome to my first year of teaching.

…

I met the Sophisticated Scandinavian Man in Boston in the Spring. A PhD candidate from a social democracy intrigued me. I was twenty-two and he was twenty-eight. I felt like a puppy taken in from the cold. There is a long story for this, maybe later. The times in which he devoured me, lavished upon me, he loved a short story I wrote, “All this before coffee.”

Sonya met me in the prison classroom. In anticipation of a new student, I posted Jaylen’s parrots, travel posters, pictures of presidents listing their failures before they took office. Hello, she said, reaching her cuffed wrists out to me. I am Jaylen’s mother.

All this before coffee. All this after a DUI.

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el-gilliath · 5 years

Text

Welcome to the first fic of the Bioware Challenge; the Mass Effect AU.

I dedicate this to @hannah-writes, who besides betaing it, has been pestering me for a long time about writing this. Without you my writing would not be as good.

The Roswell is a ship worthy of a queen in Alex’s eyes. But then, Isobel Evans has always been as good as a queen in the Spectre community, especially since she helped saved them from the Collectors. Well, they helped. Between Isobel and Shephard, the ladies have the Spectre’s well in hand. But Alex... Alex left nice behind a long time ago: he knows his stellar flying got her out of more than one scrape. He does worry when he’s weaving in and out of tight spots, watching Isobel and her team run towards him. Usually, hot on their tails is raging gunfire or rampaging creatures that want to kill them (and sometimes, on really bad days, both.

He’s especially worried when Michael is out with them. His suit is beautiful, all the upgrades and new parts making it stronger now than it’s ever been, after being on the Normandy for years. But one rupture, one injury, one shot... All of it can be enough to overload his immune system.

It freaks him out more than it should.

Michael has been handling himself and his system for years, even that is stronger now than it’s ever been. But it still scares him to death.

On top of that he has to deal with a fucking AI flirting with his whatever-the-hell-they are. And EDI? Is not subtle about it. She purrs whenever Michael is near the engine, or the bridge, or anywhere that has to do with her systems. Which means she more or less purrs at Michael all the time. And as much as Alex appreciates bantering with her and her help when they’re in a tight spot, he fucking hates her flirting with his b- Whatever-the-hell-he-is.

“EDI, help me check out these calibrations would you?”

“Of course, Michael. Anything you need.”

“Thank you darlin’,” Michael says, the drawl in the slight robotic tone from his suit making Alex shiver. There’s something so unbearably sexy about Michael standing bent over in the engine room, the deep burgundy accents of his suit gleaming in the light. They’re docked at the Citadel and Alex and Michael are the only ones left on the ship. While shore leave is all well and good, he’s uncomfortable if he’s away from the Roswell for long. Michael electing to stay more often than not doesn't help his desire to stay away for longer than he has to.

It’s a time they have together. Alone, to just be them without supervision or nosy teammates.

“Oh, you know I adore helping you, Michael.”

Well, them and miss flirty AI.

“How does it look, EDI?”

“The calibrations are complete, and as always they are absolutely correct. You always do so well with my internal components.”

“Now you’re just flattering me, ma’am.”

“I enjoy learning from you and watching you work. It’s my… pleasure.”

“Well-“

“Okay,” Alex interrupts. “Enough with the flirting.”

“My apologies, Alex. You are very competent as well.”

“That’s not-” He sighs. “Thank you, EDI.”

“My pleasure, Alex.” The different way she says ‘pleasure’ is not lost on him. “Is there anything else I can help you with, Michael?”

“No thank you, darlin’. Imma sign off for the night, spend a little time with Alex since we’re alone. We can pick this up tomorrow.”

“Of course, Michael. Enjoy your evening.”

Alex knows very well what EDI sounds like when she’s pouting, and he tries very hard not to smile. He doesn’t want to annoy her as he does need her when he flies. Of course, he could fly this beautiful ship by himself, but EDI makes things a hell of a lot easier so he can concentrate on getting the hell outta dodge, and not on every calculation needed to successfully jump away from danger.

“What do you say, Alex? Wanna hang out with me?”

Alex smiles softly, taking in the facial features he can almost see underneath the mask of the helmet. “Of course I want to.”

“Good,” Michael says and reaches up to release the latch on his helmet, a soft hiss escaping as he takes off the faceplate and pushes down the rest until it lays comfortably around his neck.

Seeing Michael’s face always takes Alex’s breath away, the soft brown curls a bit squashed from the helmet, honey-colored eyes shining back at him. Michael pushes a three-fingered hand through his curls, ruffling them up until they’re surrounding his face like a halo.

“Hi. Been a while since I looked at you without the mask.” Michael’s voice without the modulator in the helmet is as smooth as silk, making Alex shiver just as much as his modulated voice does.

“I missed the curls,” Alex replies.

“These things? Nah, they’re a bit limp right now. Give me a shower and they’ll be great again.”

“No. They’re great right now. They’re always great.” The smile he gets in response is blinding, as all of Michael’s smiles are. Having lived most of his life in a suit, Michael speaks with a lot of emotions since people don’t normally see his face. But, without the mask, his smile is a sight to behold, just as gorgeous if not more so, than his suit.

“Maybe so. It’s real good to see your face though, without my mask.”

“Yeah, it’s been a long time. Will you be okay?”

“You know me,” Michael says, his smile sharpening into a grin as he walks over to Alex. “Half-Antarian, half-Quarian. My immune system’ll be fine, I can mostly handle living without the suit. Besides, I wanted to see your face again.”

A sharp hiss sounds as Michael releases the catch on his gloves, taking them off. His left hand is still a bit deformed, badly healed but healed nonetheless, crushed after his father caught them together. His long finger still has pretty hefty scarring, though his bones seem to have been straightened. It was something, at least.

“Hey, Alex.” Alex looks up to see Michael looking softly at him. “It wasn’t your fault. None of it, okay. Don’t blame yourself for the sins of your fucked up dad.”

“Mich-“

“No.” Alex leans into the hand that cups his cheek. “You were the best damn thing in my life, regardless of what your dad did. You are the best thing. I’ve missed you, for a decade, and the times I’ve seen you have been the best of my life. Okay?”

Alex sighs. This man is too good for him.

“He is speaking the truth, Alex,” EDI’s voice chimes suddenly. Alex isn't sure if he's pleased or not that she's chosen this conversation to break her 'no eavesdropping' rule. “He’s spent many nights, talking of your past adventures, and your love for one another. Maybe my flirting is a way of pushing you two together.”

Alex closes his eyes. Breathing deeply in and out as he considers her words. Considers her meaning. Her flirting. Considers who she is. “You would, wouldn’t you.”

“Perhaps. Enjoy your evening, Flight Captain Manes, Engineer Guerin. Try to get some sleep, sometime during the night, yes?”

Alex huffs, as Michael snorts in laughter. She’s been playing them all along, and they both fell hook, line and sinker for it.

“We will EDI,” he says with a smile, glancing up at one of the cameras located in a corner.

“Well, we’ve been played by an AI. I’m actually kind of proud.”

Alex leans his head back and lets out a full-bellied laugh, the kind of laugh he hasn’t let out for years. They shouldn’t be encouraging EDI but he’s proud as well. So damn proud.

“Hey, Alex?”

Alex tilts his head back down and looks at Michael. “Yeah?”

“Kiss me, already.”

And Alex does. Threads his fingers into Michael’s hair, pulls his curls lightly and slots their lips together. It’s just as perfect as it was ten years ago, five years ago, two.

A human, disabled pilot, and a half-antarian, half-quarian tech genius. Who would have thought.

Michael’s suit, if anyone was wondering. I love this thing.

#malex #malex au #malex fic #fic:mass effect au #bioware challenge #my fic #roswell new mexico

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ventrue · 5 years

Text

[Short Story] The Act of Existing

Yo!!! I wrote a short story for a workshopping group that’s starting up with a group of friends, and I figured I’d post it here for people to read. It’s been a while since I've written seriously, so any feedback is appreciated as FUCK!!

WHAT REMAINS OF THE DAY is a quickly waning sliver of light that filters greenly through the window. The bright veil is split into two distinct floods right through the middle by a peculiar mountain, stretching up from the ocean and into the sky, narrowing as it climbs up until one can scarcely see the top. When one traces it down all the way to the bottom, one sees the ocean and the red clouds beneath, billowing from the depths and spreading all throughout the sea. From Lysander’s window, he can just barely see the ring of blue that extends from the base of the long, long tower that the city’s platform is perched upon. He pops a plum candy into his mouth, and flicks the paper wrapper off so that it may plummet listlessly into the miles and miles of current carrying it. Though, the wrapper fades into an imperceptible spec long before it hits the water. For a moment, there’s an intrusive thought, the unwanted desire to chuck something of substance out over the edge, just to see if it makes a satisfying plop. But as the sun’s soon swallowed by the horizon, he departs from the window, having to be content not knowing the things he doesn’t know.

As the last of the day sinks into the inner edges of the sky and the sun is swallowed into the horizon, an urn rattles on Lysander’s shelf, the brassy sheen flickering along the crystal light bouncing off of it. A stream leaves the very top, a massless and shapeless consciousness that speaks into the very deepest cortex in his mind. “Mornin’, mornin’, darlin’! If you think you’re gonna’ hit the snooze button on this shit today–.” The voice stops itself mid-thought, then deadpans. “Alright, what gives? You’re up way too goddamn early today. No sleep?”

Lysander slicks a look towards the urn and then to the presence. It is not quite visible, but it is a burly distortion of space, refractions of the world’s Essence that is as present as the very air itself. No one seems to notice it but him, and he can’t figure out why. He hums something absently and relays himself in a cool tone, “I had another bad dream, and there was only another hour until sunset. I went through our notes again.”

“Eh? Why?” The presence smooths over the room and flushes over the bed, coiling around Lysander and flopping his blonde ponytail and bangs with an exertion. “What’re you worrying your pretty little head over? Ain’t nothing more than a snooping session, yeah?”

“I would like to think so, Bram.” Lysander flips through a small notebook, a tiny black thing that he commands with only a motion of the finger to open to the desired page. “But I can’t help but to take precaution. Even the oldest and most stubborn noble families do not ignore the scientific advances of the day. If anything, they see more reason to be paranoid.”

The presence scoffs. “Yeah? And what science explains me, exactly?

Lysander shakes his head. “All the better that we add superstition to all of this.”

A deep, goading laugh, “Is it superstition if it turns out to be real?”

Lysander’s finger’s clench, bending into harsh angles like claws, “Oh my god. This is completely not the point. Let us be on our way, I’ve scheduled a tutoring session with the Vraccas family court mage for initial reconnaissance.”

“This is a helluva lot for exposing some minor corruption.” The presence remarks, slinking along Lysander until the form drapes around his slender shoulders like a scarf. “How much money did you spend on that?”

“Irrelevant. But the public works projects will never get better if we can’t make it clear that they’re being blocked in bad faith.” Lysander says, as he slips on his navy peacoat and wraps a deep maroon scarf around his shoulders. The loops and knots he has to undergo to maintain a manageable length are perhaps a touch too convoluted, but the presence happily slips into the fabric and nudges one side of Lysander’s slim jaw like a wavy appendage. This is enough to coax a smile that is slightly warmer than wan.

“You’re the boss, darlin’.” The presence says.

Lysander makes his way from the single dorm room and down the halls until he’s free from the building and out on the bricks streets of the Bacchus district. From there, he makes his way past the parked carriages and navigates through crosswalks of busy roads until he reaches the skyrail station. The building stands with grey bricks where the rest of the district blends into a sandy, contemporary shade of tan. Lysander looks up towards the monotype sign and flickering neon rails – pink like all essence – when suddenly his scarf tightens around his collarbones. “Do we gotta’ take the rail tonight?” The presence pleads.

Lysander chews on a thought. “It’s on the other side of town, otherwise–.”

The presence cuts him short. “I know, I know. But you’re a fast walker, aye? It’d be good exercise. Could stop and get a galaxy cup. Oh, oh! You might see a cute dog along the way! Maybe tip a street performer. Please?” The tone tries to play this off in some winsome charm, but Lysander knows the desperation that nips at his heels.

Lysander frowns gently, but concedes with a hand resting on top of the drape. “I’ll walk, but I’ll only have time to do maybe one of those things. This will be cutting it very close.”

“S’fine, baby! You got it, which thing?” The relief in his tone stings at Lysander.

“Galaxy cup. I’m parched.” Lysander murmurs, as he makes off around the building. When he reaches the stall about halfway to the estate, he stops by a cart with bricks of cooling runes scrawled along the bottom. Lysander floats him a few coins and receives a slushy, snowy concoctions that glitters and shifts like a swimming universe threshing with stellar life. This is swiftly consumed before they reached the front gates of House Vraccas.

The hedges are almost as oppressive as the sterling gates themselves, truly. Dotted along the uniform structures of plant life are wreathes of grown amaranthine flowers, enchanted to take life in a deeply purple hue. The meaning to Lysander is starkly clear, an expression of the eternal and reoccurring power of the nobility. As he touches his finger to a runic pad, he signals his arrival with an exertion of his energy, an Essential impulse of his latent power – a baseline level of expression for most people.

The gate lumbers open as Lysander touches the scarf once more. “Have care, Bram. Do not venture any further than I go. I will signal when I feel it is not safe for you to linger.”

The scarf’s end flutters on top of Lysander’s hand. “Worrywart.” Teasingly.

With that, Lysander chuffs and presses onward, where he is greeted by an attendant who graciously shows him the way. Passing through the silvered door, he is taken into halls of pure and pristine marble, blindingly white and adorned with lavish painting and rich purple silk drapes. Where their heels don’t find purchase on lush carpets, there is the chilling echo of clacking heels against marble. But as they make turns, and the attendant slows down, he pushes the grandiloquent aestheticism aside and begins to discern with his proverbial third eye. Color fades from his normal vision and fine details begin to blur as he searches the door frame for any runic wards. He finds nothing, and the door opening reveals no flood of Essential residue.

Bram speaks to him, “Safe to go in?” And Lysander’s answer is a reassuring touch to his collarbone.

Waiting just past the door is a lavish court and dining room, with gold braids hanging and looping from the ceiling, though the head of the table – the seat belonging to Harlan Vraccas – is empty. There are known magistrates and various official idling and partaking in lain out delicacies. Though, the gaze that slicks itself onto Lysander belongs to a mustached man in mage’s robes.

“Target spotted.” A sing-song inflection in Lysander’s mind. “You good if I snoop around for something juicy?”

Before Lysander scrutinizes the court mage, he sweeps the room with his third eye once again only to find nothing. His vision blurs just slightly from two exertions in a row, composing himself and sweeping a hand across his shoulder to signal that Bram may survey their surroundings. The scarf loses tension as Lysander approaches the man.

“I am humbled to finally meet the newest addition to Class VIII.” The smile that the court mage brandishes is oddly warm, though Lysander knows better than to expect seasoned swindlers within the Vraccas family ecosystem to always gleam so keenly like sharpened daggers.

“And the sentiment is shared in equal measure, Magister Halliday.” Lysander affects a minute incline of the head and a delicate fingertip to his own chest. “It has been quite some endeavor to adjust myself to the new curriculum,” He lies, “But I have been shown nothing short of absolute grace by both my professors and my peers.” Lysander flashes his third eye once more and sweeps over the magister.

The Essence thrumming within Halliday is an orderly ecosystem – nothing short of expected, mind – but nothing in the Essence along the man’s eyes would suggest the same anomaly present within his own. Bram is safe for now.

“Of course,” Halliday flashes a fancy flourish of his fingers, fanning faintly for effect. “Helios Academy does so well to nurture the potential within its ranks, and none would so much as doubt the Dean’s judgement in his scarce selections for Class VIII.” He rises from his seat, and gestures towards another door. “But your schedule must be pressing you for spare time given that you requested this so late in the eve.” He begins to glide effortlessly off, “Professor Bateaus was kind enough to provide the slides for his last lecture, we shall go over the sections you have trouble with in my office.”

“Of course. I will give him my thanks after Friday’s lecture.” Lysander says, as he feels a faint stiffness in the coils of his scarf once more.

After signaling his return, Bram chimes smugly, “Ooh-hoo boy! I hit some goddamn paydirt in the other room, found out a couple ‘strates have been talking about lobbying at parliament seats. Some people got some interests in making sure some curriculums in Helios are carefully edited. Gimme the clear and I’ll start digging around.”

Lysander slides his forefinger along the scarf in both approval and affirmation, though there is a tension within the bend. Lysander didn’t make a scan of the other rooms, he didn’t give him the go-ahead to venture off. Hell, he’s not even sure which room he entered or if he went into more than one. While the existence of ghosts is something unprecedented within even the deepest Essential academic communities, he cannot be comfortable with Bram acting outside the scope of any contingencies he can muster. Should Bram trigger any anomalous vacuum behaviors within any of the Essence constructs present in the building, he will be forever associated with the thought-seed of ‘anomaly’ and ‘Lysander’. Should that come to pass, the unique advantages that have been such a boon will slowly and inevitably mutate into his greatest liability.

Regardless, with a cleansing breath, Lysander slips into the office and takes a seat on the oaken chair. The room takes on a different, more personalized aesthetic. Like slipping into a different building entirely, the wood panels exude their own rustic charm. The dark finish and lack of polish communicate rugged earnestness, with décor evocative of a sophisticated hunting lodge rather than the bare and muted prestige of cutting-edge academia. Bram once remarked about these kinds of people, the kinds that go to hunts in flashy outfits, then toss prey of their own design and have hounds ceaselessly trail them the helpless animal is hopelessly tired. Only after fatigue outweighs the tremendous dread is when the self-purported hunter slugs a measured bullet into their skull. This room feels as if the center of a Venn diagram describing the worst aspects of philosopher and warrior kings.

He can practical feel the hostile vibrations making waves in the air, sourced from Bram’s presence. As if responding, Halliday’s smile is thin and wan. Lysander touches his hand to his scarf in an attempt to calm Bram, and he offers the magister a slow and humble smile. “Now, I believe the exact slide where I felt clarification was needed was when Essential energies shift from potential ether to active flux, and the exact syntax required when rewriting axioms to compensate for when it shifts from a pseudo-gaseous state to semi-solid matter.” For Lysander, the process was more time consuming than truly difficult, but the tedium of it will allow Bram to sift through surface level qualities and information so that he can give Lysander the necessary information to help steer the conversation to more productive avenues suiting his own purposes. As well, the repetitive nature of these axioms will allow Lysander the free mental capacity to active his third eye once more, letting his gaze drift naturally about the room so that he can discern any Essential patterns in the airspace.

As Bram sifts about the room, Lysander is sure to activate and deactivate the perceptive trance as per conditioning training as to not overtax himself in projecting his mental facilities, typically in between responses. As Bram snoops about, he slides pithy comments idly, “Hee hee, look at this! He’s got romance novels stashed away. Ooh, comics, too!”

Lysander suppresses the urge to roll his eyes as he continues, remains intent on obfuscating his understanding of the mathematics at play while displaying just enough competence to not frustrate the magister.

“Boring, boring, useless, nada, nope.” The waft of distortion flutters about, visually rifling through the room without sinking into any particular object or drawer. “I mean, if you’re interested in knowing about his taxidermy collection, maybe he snuggles with his kills at night.” Lysander continues to try and ignore him as he sifts about. Eventually, he sinks back into his scarf and waits for a small lull while Lysander writes dummy notes to buy time for the rundown. “H’alright, we got some drawers under the desk. Most are unlocked, but there’s one with a keyhole and another with a rune lock. Give that shit a peep and gimme the signal for what you wanna do. As well, he’s got a family picture facing his side of the desk, but beside him is Gresham Volte, the bootlicker parliament guy. Weird, huh?”

Weird, indeed. But there is no time to speculate. He musters another opening of his third eye and flicks his gaze to where Bram indicated. He searches for the rune’s structure and syntax, and makes sure to respond blithely to another inquiry before trying to cross-reference what he sees with other Essential wards that do not react to Bram’s spectral presence. He mimics needing a moment to write and look through his notes before he confirms that the spell Halliday used was mundane and non-reactive. He indicates to Bram to proceed with a small scratch to his scarf mimicking a subtle checkmark.

Halliday deviates from his explanation of theoretical Essence applications to cant his head and peer briefly into Lysander’s gaze. “Is everything alright, Lysander? Do you require coffee, or should we continue this at another junction?”

Lysander disengages with all other matters and computations as he aims to course correct, “I won’t say no to coffee, but I am merely churning through the theorem. Your insight has spurred quite a bit of progress in my understanding.”

Halliday’s smile is a slow thing for how bright it becomes, chin jutting out just so in equal measures amused and proud. “I am glad to hear, Professor Bateaus has always described you as quietly contemplative. I come to wonder just what goes on in that head of yours.”

Lysander does not like that. He plays it back in his head, tries to run it through several times in an effort to detect anything that might hint that he might mean more than surface level context would imply. “No more or less than anyone else, perhaps. Merely the things on my mind.”

Bram, all the while, is echoing absently as he digs through the contents of the hidden drawers, “Lots of financial shit, not really stuff I can make heads or tails of. Nothing so juicy as a candid photo, either. Pretty lame.” Quietly, Lysander begs him to be serious to no avail.

Halliday continues with his theorem untangling, rotely going over definitions as things start to stagnate.

“Wait! Love letters! One sec, one fuckin’ sec!” Bram pipes up, “Ooh, he calls them mommy. Hee hee.” Lysander groans internally, but the presence goes unfortunately on, “Oh my god, Sandy. Sandy! He gets findommed! He gets mommy dommed into giving away money!” Bram is cackling, he’s practically feral at this point.

Lysander has to maintain his composure at this point, so if Bram doesn’t stop being an insane and incessant goof he might actually try to throttle a ghost.

But Halliday begins again, almost thankfully, so that Lysander has literally anything else to focus on, “So in keeping with the spirit of Class VIII, I will provide a demonstration of the Flux parameters shifting the nature of Essence manipulation.” He splays a hand, utters something in an arcane tongue, and conjures an orb with spinning fractal runes. “I want you to perceive with your third eye and observe the way Essence must be carefully monitored and adjusted as it changes states.”

This is a problem. This will be the fifth time he will need to project his senses once more, and the strain has already proven to pose a challenge with a fourth invocation of the third eye. Should he be caught struggling, he will not be able to play this off as some physical lack from the time of night, it is a different resource altogether that will ignite suspicion if it can be inferred that he thought to use it so extensively.

Bram pipes up, “Yo! Hey, Sandy, I got something!” The presence briefly flutters from the drawer and coils excitedly, “You’re never gonna’ believe what I managed to dig up! So, you see–.”

But before Lysander allows Bram to continue, he languidly, casually, draws a gesture of an ‘C’ over his scarf. A safeword, should Lysander require Bram to cease for one critical reason or another. With silence assured, Lysander has the mental space to prepare his faculties for projection. With no more than a moment, he calls on his third eye and reserves the scantest of efforts in maintaining composure, as if this didn’t take any effort at all.

Easier said than done, though, seeing as Halliday takes his time to carefully run his fingers along the anchor points, drawing over specific runes while he explains, “Essence, being entropic in its nature, rarely goes dormant. When it solidifies and converts into potential energy, it is stored in such a way that creates a high pressure bubble that will create cracks in all known containment measures. Thus, it is critical to maintain focus and a steady diction as you incant, as you reshape the apparatus accordingly.” And it is thus, with Halliday making careful sure to enunciate with attention to clarity and purpose. The flow of energies rapidly shift, like electricity with the intelligence to seek out cracks in the barrier – and more importantly, like it has the intelligence required for an uncompromising desire to be free.

Lysander musters the mental alacrity to speak as he watches, but the dull gray of the physical world comes to fade just a touch as he splits his attention. “This is remarkably similar to the mechanics governing the powerlines of the skyrail.”

“It is, and thus the expenses required to maintain it have a lot to do with requiring an abundance of experts able to maintain the diction and switching out seamlessly. Far, far less expensive than the internal battery system used for auto-carriages.” The orb seems fit to burts even just from the mall break taken to make that sentence, and with the effort taken for concentration he doesn’t muster what it takes to conceal an obfuscation. Bram vibrates uneasily, as if wanting to speak.

“With the use of phoneme incantation, yes. Would not graphene methods be more prudent in maintaining consistency?” Lysander asks, and struggles not to show he’s buckling under the strain.

Halliday frowns, tracing over new burgeoning cracks, “Observe the erratic behaviors of the shifting Essence. The lack of a predictable pattern does not suit the static nature of graphemes. There are simply too many variances for graphemes to accurately predict.”

Lysander considers, has to try and formulate a response that does not put too fine a point on his intentions. He now has to stop and start the third eye strategically to maintain the state with the ease required to escape without suspicion. This is becoming a problem, seeing as he’s starting to make some real headway. “But it is known that graphemes will always be a spell’s natural conclusion. The nature of the spoken word is always imprecise, always in some way terrifyingly improvised, no matter how rehearsed. Perhaps research on shifting algorithmic grapheme matrices could–?”

Halliday cuts him off with a simple raise of the hand. “A convoluted wish-fulfillment proposal by an idealistic contrarian. The practicality has been brought into question with only gawks in response from Magister Sykes.”

Bram suddenly pipes in, which causes Lysander to need to rub his eyes to maintain the perception. “That’s what I was going to say! The dude in the picture is related to the CEO of Auto-Auto!” Autoflux Autoworks, this is making sense. An acceptable deviation from the safeword, thankfully.

Halliday begins to carefully begin retracting his hand, saying, “Now I want you to try and maintain the feedback loop yourself. Remember that precise diction is key, articulate at the tip of your tongue.”

There’s no way this is feasible. He needs this demonstration to end. He’s on the outer limits of what he’s capable of maintaining, to try and run through the mnemonics for equations he needs to process in order to shape the Essence. While Halliday is busy concentrating to time his disengage, he flashes a fleeting, pleading look towards Bram’s distortion. “Got you, dear.” He assures quietly.

Lysander reaches out as Halliday commands, “On the count of five, I need for you to incant as the notes specifically say. Quickness and precision are of the utmost importance, Lysander.”

Lysander gulps quietly, and attempts to pull together the fraying strands of his mind – splitting like images taken in by crossed eyes – and tries to run through the processes to project his will onto the flowing gouts of Essence starting to flow from the cracking sphere. The sphere cracks, failing to hold, and the energy begins to flicker dangerously.

“Just a touch quicker, Lysander.” Halliday instructs. He cannot. He feels like he’s about to lapse into a dream.

But before that could happen, a loud crack resounds through the room, the sound of metal clacking hard against the wooden desk. The lamp crashes through the sphere and sends a wave of kinetic force, the sound like a bell warped through tunnels of light and passed through black hole. Or at least, that’s what Lysander had imagined as before.

Halliday frowns deeply, then squints about. “How in the blazes–?” He cuts himself off, then trails into nothing as his gaze narrows into scrutiny.

Lysander quickly draws a circle with a slash through it on his collar, a covert signal for Bram to exit immediately, and then there’s no sign of him.

“Shoddy fixtures, I will make a visit to the manufacturing plant on the morrow.” Halliday says as he shakes his head and then sets the lamp back where it was, where it wobbles once more. Despite the frown that motion provokes, he maintains his same blandly pleasant tone. “Sincere apologies for this. I know that you might have a sensitivity to…” He struggled to word it.

“The accident.” Lysander says flatly. “I am fine.”

“I am sure you are.” The tail end of Halliday’s statement immediately implies a ‘but’, and he continues, “Have care, do not tax yourself overmuch in your studies. I know Bram van der Meer was someone close to you, but…” He shakes his head. “To see him between the two cars, and to pull them apart as he still took breath–.”

Lysander holds up a hand and stops him right there. “As I am well aware.” Keen, sharp ice.

Halliday looses an awkward breath. “I think we may take the lamp as a sign that the night has grown late. I hope you may find time in your schedule for a timelier tutoring session.”

Lysander affects a deep bow of the head, “It is ia privilege to receive your counsel and tutorage, Magister Halliday. I will endeavor in navigating my schedule with these visits in mind.”

The magister smiles blithely. “As you will.” Final. “He comes to a rise, as beckons Lysander towards the door. “I believe you still yet have a full schedule, and I would not see you lose sleep over matters such as these.” The tone is pleasant, but Lysander searches for ambiguity.

“Until such time. I bid farewell for now.” Lysander departs, and Halliday beckons an attendant to see him escorted from the property.

It is nearing midnight, and Lysander is in a cold sweat by the time Manor Vraccas is far in the distance behind him. “The gall.” He murmurs, having been stuck on Halliday’s treachery for some time.

Bram, now safely coiled around Lysander’s shoulders once more, tightens in support. “Fuck that guy, at least we have our hunches confirmed, eh?”

“None of it immediately actionable, but it is enough to know that we’ve hit a lead.” He speaks quietly as he makes his way through the streets, “Auto-Auto has a vested interest in snuffing out public transportation, and has connections within House Vraccas, Helios Academy, and Parliament. Auto-Auto keeps a stranglehold on public infrastructure with connections to Parliament seats, and exacerbates concerns with the Skyrail by stalling – or even tampering with – research on the Essential properties their technology uses by leveraging their connections with House Vraccas. Thus, developments are stymied on an academic level. There’s no other sense it would make to not attempt to develop past phoneme techniques and into grapheme.”

The loose threads on Lysander’s scarf visibly bristle at the explanation, “Everything’s fucking rotten all the way down to the root, you’re saying.”

“To a degree, yes,” Lysander affirms, coming upon the campus and navigating his way to the dormitory, “But none of the signs show in such a way that is admissible to any official as of yet, if such a thing is even feasible. The missing link, right now, is the individual or individuals influencing the parties necessary for this obstruction.”

Bram flaps both ends of the scarf upon Lysander’s body in frustration, “And will you manage to track the shit-lips down?”

“That remains to be seen, but such will come with time, dearest.” He pats the scarf as he makes his way through the halls, “With my partner on the case with me, we shall ensure this resolution as an inevitability. You are still my rock, after all.”

Bram chitters, “Y’know, one day you’re gonna’ oversleep and I’m gonna’ go out and possess a great big boulder, and I’m gonna’ sit right next to your bed.”

Lysander chuffs, “Break your cover and I disown you, darling.”

And with that, Lysander finally reaches his little dorm room. He’s thankful, at least, that the members of Class VIII are allocated individual rooms. Though not particularly fair, he laments, the circumstances of Bram’s continued presence necessitates privacy. Secrecy was his only chance at ensuring the change required to prevent another tragedy.

Regardless, Lysander tosses off his peacoat and slips off his shoes. Bram leaves his scarf as it’s hung on the rack, drifting off to take over a constructed, verisimilitudinous hand that scampers about on its fore and middle fingers, like they’re little legs. Lysander settles into a desk where he takes out a glass tablet, completely clear until he scrawls a specific rune onto its surface, using what little Essence he still possess this night to activate it. A scant interface fades into view, thin serif letters colored mauve and bright assembling into a journal-like structure. He begins logging the night’s events and finding in a neat, particular order with crisp specificity.

As Lysander is writing, the Bram-hand begins to make something simple with his limited capabilities. He assembles the ingredients for a sandwich of shredded chicken and provolone. He stacks them together on a brioche roll and slathers it with a bottle of buffalo sauce, then sticks it into a glass box on the kitchen counter. Bram makes a show of reading a list of sigils before he draws one on a panel that’s stained blue. The graphene incantation is inputted and the spell is cast, an orange light blooming from the panels of the glass. After some time has passed, he stops the heating spell and pulls the sandwich from the tray and onto a plate. With its mighty thumb and pinky, it balances the plate and skitters over to Lysander, who receives the food with a thankful incline of the head and a casual scrutiny.

“You pile these so high.” An absent remark from Lysander as he struggles to fit the gooey monstrosity into one hand.

A scoff from Bram, “Only ‘cause you get so caught up in studying that you forget to eat, buddy. Lookin’ out for you, you twig.”

“Never once have you complained when you rip me from my desk with ease.” Lysander counters, the lids of his eyes starting to sag with fatigue. Had he truly taxed himself this much with the meeting? He could scarcely feel it within Manor Vraccas, likely from the adrenaline of paranoia like Essential fluid afire in a spell engine’s tubes. Regardless, he does take some time from his extensive note taking to eat what’s prepared for him.

Bram leaps off the desk into a spectacular flip, landing in a stance reminiscent to superhero comics – wide, low, and like a dynamo. He scurries off to prepare Lysader’s outfit for the morning. Though, Lysander will inevitably make edits to the selection according to his own tastes.

When he finishes diagramming possible relationships between entities and parties, Lysander’s body begins to slump into the shape of least resistance as his energy wanes until it’s vapor barely keeping him awake. He tries to do more, to bring up a new page for extrapolation and conjecture, but he dozes off for a few scant moments.

During that time, Bram looses himself from the hand and floats off into Lysander’s comforter. He crawls along the ground and climbs up the chair until he drapes over Lysander’s form, two corners of the blanket conversing over his collarbone in an embrace. One reaches up, firmly nudges his cheek. “Sandy. Saaaandy, I think it’s time to go to bed, eh? C’mon.” And as Lysander’s eyelashes flutter, he numbly struggles against Bram’s attempts to pull him towards his bed.

“There’s still yet more that needs to be done before I sleep.” He murmurs, half sleep-drunk.

Bram doubles his efforts. “You still need to be awake for classes tomorrow, darlin’. It’ll be alright.”

Lysander considers grimly, “No, yes, I’ll be fine. Shh. I need–.” He murmurs as Bram continues his endeavors, “I will rest when this is all over, when you’re–. I just–. While I still draw breath…” He trails off.

Bram the blanket tightens, the shroud pressing deeply into Lysander’s lower back and waist. “I get you, I get you…”

A sob. “It’s not fair, Bram. That you–.”

Lysander feels fabric stroking at his cheek. “I know it’s not. I want to feel this as much as you want your goddamned justice. But please, don’t fuckin’ kill yourself. I knew what I was doing when I pushed you out of the way.”

Lysander shudders, eyes squeezing tightly shut. “Things will be made right.” He insists, toned as if he were contrasting the statement against a perceived contradiction.

Bram considers, then nudges again. “Maybe they will, maybe they won’t. But I’m here, Sandy, with you.” He wraps the ends around his neck and firmly squeezes. “I’m awful lucky for someone with sucker’s luck.”

Lysander heaves out a breath, squeezed out like a deflating balloon. After silence, he lumbers to a slovenly stand and zombies his way to his bed. “Thank you, Bram. You’re still my rock.” He collapses on the bed, and curls into his smallest shape.

Bram shadows over Lysander’s sinking body and clings to him, hard. “It’s what I’m here for. Love ya’, Sandy.”

Lysander clutches the blanket, hugs as tightly as he can. “I love you too, Bram. Good night, my dearest.”

“Good night, my darlin’.” Bram echoes

Then, finally, Lysander sinks deep into the waters of unconsciousness. Bram remains, keeping careful record of every crevice of his partner’s body. The hours before dawn are long, quiet, empty as they are every night. Until, at least, he finally slips back into the urn of ashes on the shelf with the sunrise.

When Lysander wakes up, he remembers the shadow of his late night exchange with Bram. As he settles exactly into the clothes Bram picked out for him, he considers the act of existing as its own intrinsic exertion of power.

#my writing

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snootysith · 5 years

Text

Chapter 3 (5/5) Note: [Enter Vowrawn, the bastard.] Vowrawn and Gravus’s less than stellar relationship come to light. (Warning: emotional abuse.)

- Check the notes for links to previous installments -

* * *

Brandy splashed directly into Gravus's face.

Unsmiling, Vowrawn held up his now empty snifter, waiting impatiently as Gravus mopped up the dripping mess with his clean glove. At least Gravus had the prudence not to speak though he looked for all the world as if Vowrawn did geld him, forcing him to refill his glass like one of his many servants. As well he should.

Gravus handed him a fresh drink, eyes averted, tight-lipped, bracing for another faceful of bitter retribution, and Vowrawn let him stew with that for several long minutes before he finally took a sip.

“Where do I begin?” he asked. “Better yet, where do I end this?”

Gravus’s jaw clenched.

“Go on then. Explain yourself.”

“It was the heat of the moment.”

An ugly emotion threatened to crack Vowrawn’s expression. “You are a mongrel. He is not a bitch you can mount and mark. You’ve ruined–”

“I have already apologized–”

“Fat lot it will do to me! You will apologize to the boy!”

“He should apologize for striking you–”

“– Because you were arsed to restrain yourself!”

A touch of color rose from Gravus’s neck as his temper warred with his hard-won restraint. “Now Khomir…”

“You've robbed me of a perfectly agreeable orgasm. My patience is thin, Maximian.” Nothing put anger in the heart of the mighty Darth Gravus than uttering his birth name, stripped of prestige, an everlasting reminder that he was another mere mortal. He’d have the whole galaxy believe he sprung from the emperor’s head fully formed if he could.

“It really could have been much worse.”

The gall. Vowrawn had half a mind to marry him just to divorce him again. “Max…”

“Don't you start.”

“How long will it take for you to break this habit, hm? Another fifty years?”

“Old habits–”

“Shall I gag you? Will that make you behave?” Vowrawn demanded. “The boy is here as my guest. For as long as he stays under my roof, I extend every courtesy including personal safety and at least a modicum of respect.”

Gravus gave a short bark of laughter, high and cold. “Do you fear I’ve painted you a liar? You're proficient at that without me. When have you ever truly cared for your pets?”

Oh, the man could still make his blood run hot. Vowrawn loved and hated him for it. It was so easy to shed pretense and sling his words at him without the silk cushion; to be gloriously and hideously real for once. There was something about it that made him giddy, made him snort and laugh as he hooked deep into old scars and tugged.

Max was so smug, standing there with his arms crossed, smiling like a tomcat. He always acted like he was above it all, wanting to pretend that he outgrew his instincts, escaped his ignoble upbringing but Vowrawn knew better. It always came down to him mopping up the worse of Max’s mistakes and he had the audacity to take all the credit as if Vowrawn hadn’t scooped him out from nothing by the grace of his generosity.

Horrid. He was always so horrid and spoiled rotten and callow and so bloody ungrateful. But Vowrawn forgave him for it. Adored him for it even. Because he cared, don't you see? Of course I care. I married you, didn't I? Four times. That you were incapable of mastering yourself was a shortcoming of your own design, fickle, stupid Max. Why did you have to gnaw on the damn boy? Do you know how much time, how much effort– don’t you dare speak over me.

Perhaps you weren’t worth the time and effort.

Perhaps I have finally outgrown you.

Thundering silence answered Vowrawn.

Gravus trembled, inarticulate, apoplectic with rage, his muscles coiled tight as if poised to strike, and mercifully, finally, Vowrawn threw back a mouthful of brandy to chase down the last of his spite before Gravus forgot himself and the night went from bad to worse.

Vowrawn sat at the foot of the bed and patted the spot beside him.

It seemed for a moment that Gravus would object but he moved, albeit slowly, resentment rolling off him in waves as he sat down an arm’s length away. Sighing, Vowrawn bridged the distance and cupped Gravus’s taut jaw, tilting his face into the light and observing every spot and dusky vein, old and new, that littered the landscape of wizened flesh. Oh, his Max was far past his prime but he was a hard habit to shake once bitten. In more ways than one. The scar on Vowrawn’s shoulder was testament of that.

“Max…” Vowrawn’s voice softened to fond exasperation. “I tolerate your insolence because you deserve some respite from your search. Don’t think I haven’t noticed you still haven't found Thana’s replacement. The boy can be our happy middle ground." He glanced over at Cytharat’s prone form.

Gravus drew back, his eyes narrowing. “I get your leftovers? That is your brilliant solution?”

“Don’t be cheeky with me. Not everything I do is malicious, you know. At least one of us has the capacity for affection.”

“Laying the blame at my feet again? As if you are perfectly innocent? I wasn’t the ‘corruption’ that merited an entire faction to resist your appointment to the Dark Council! And I certainly did not dally with the son of my would-be assassin on a whim!”

“What the boy doesn’t know won’t hurt him,” Vowrawn said dismissively. “Without me, he would no doubt follow his father into an early grave. Without me, you wouldn’t have been able to rein in that hideous temper. Who helped you cultivate the image of a cold-blooded dignitary, hm? Who elevated you from a mere merchant’s son?”

“Yes, because you did so purely out of the goodness of your heart and not to thumb your nose at your parents," Gravus retorted. “As if you trust another man not to stab you in the back when you're frisky.”

A vision took shape in Vowrawn’s mind in that precise moment, crimson, ludicrously tall, and prickly, and his mouth closed into a tight smile.

Gravus’s expression hardened. “Who is it?”

Vowrawn said nothing.

“Who is he, Khomir?”

Vowrawn’s smile only widened, wicked pleasure thrumming in his blood.

Minutes ticked by. Korriban turned on its axis. Cytharat whimpered in his sleep. And Gravus stared at him, his breath quickening, his eyes dark and unfathomable, and Vowrawn waited impatiently for him to react– to strike him or hurl abuse so that Vowrawn could take a face for an eye.

Instead, Gravus rose from the bed, silent as his moniker, straightened his robes and left, the Force twisting in a maelstrom of anger in his wake.

Perfect bastard.

His perfect bastard.

Setting down his glass on the floor, Vowrawn moved further in the bed until he sidled beside Cytharat, his arm propped up to rest his head as he observed his tranquil face. So much more well-behaved. Perhaps too well-behaved but, unlike Gravus, open to change.

Vowrawn smoothed back Cytharat’s hair and pressed a kiss to his forehead. It was time for him to tuck in as well. Not here. Never here. The bedchamber served as pageantry. Comfort was found in his office and so he padded out the door in only a bathrobe, passing by servant and apprentice alike in the hallway without a care, and curled up in the plush couch that Qet– dear thing– lugged all the way from his office in the Citadel.

He slept as well as he ever did, light as a feather. But the incessant chime of the office door at the crack of dawn did no favor to his mood as he lifted his head from the armrest cushion and blinked owlishly in the gray-blue light.

If it was Qet, he would twist his ear and make him run laps around the circumference of the planet five times. If it was Gravus– fifty laps.

It was neither.

“I apologize, my lord, for accosting you so early in the morning,” Cytharat said, eyes lowered. “But it is imperative that I speak with you.”

Vowrawn leaned against the doorframe and rubbed the sleep from his eyes, barely able to suppress his annoyance. Cytharat expected him to hold his hand and be the perfect, attentive host but he could hardly find his face before his first cup of milk tea let alone summon the patience to answer a deluge of questions after Gravus scattered it to the winds.

“Step inside,” he said. “I’ll have a small breakfast sent over.”

“I do not intend to overstay my welcome,” Cytharat said as they settled into the couch.

“Your trials are as good as finished, are they not?” Vowrawn asked. “Or have you come to miss your overseer’s hospitality?”

Not even a hint of a smile.

Vowrawn’s mouth thinned. “Allow me to apologize on Darth Gravus’s behalf. I should have dealt more firmly with his imposition and now…” Though Cytharat was fully dressed, there was no missing the raised outline of a bacta patch on his shoulder. They’d have matching scars in a few day’s time. “If it still brings you discomfort, I have a medkit on–”

“No,” Cytharat cut in. “Or… or rather, yes it does but a medkit is not necessary.”

“Don’t be silly, it’s but a trifle. I’ll just be–” Vowrawn moved to rise but for the second time, Cytharat’s hand shot out to grab his wrist, halting him and throwing another log into the fire of his rising displeasure. Goodness gracious, hadn’t the boy learned never to look a gift plesine in the mouth yet?

“I tolerate the pain.” Cytharat’s fingers twitched nervously. “Permit me to speak freely, my lord. And then...” He took a deep breath. “And then we will see if I deserve succor.” He was determined then to suffer, to wallow in his agony in some misguided attempt to impress him. Who was Vowrawn to deny him anything? “I have been thinking about the future. My future with you and it has led me to wonder about many things.”

“Such as?”

“What am I to you?”

Vowrawn cocked his head. “An initiate with raw potential. A Sith pureblood with impeccable tastes. My guest.”

“Do you intend to make me your apprentice?”

There was a strange intent in his eyes that Vowrawn could not quite put his finger on and he grasped for clarity, his awareness shifting gears, sharpening and concentrating on Cytharat’s every sideways glance or twitch. He was missing something important. “Have I given you reason to believe otherwise?” he asked.

“I do not– I do not know. An apprenticeship means carrying out the will of my master and learning how to better myself by their example. Anything more than that is unfamiliar to me. Are those… acts we performed together expected of your apprentices?”

“Do I treat Qet as I treat you? Is that what you are truly asking?” Was it shame? Did the boy spend too much time alone fiddling with his moral compass? Perish the thought.

Cytharat held his eyes and said nothing.

“No,” Vowrawn said. “I’ve never bedded him. Not once.”

There was a flash of surprise in Cytharat’s expression. “The way he acts–”

“He has always been protective of me. I find that to be an admirable quality, don’t you?” Though it wasn’t for wholly selfless reasons. Romance didn’t enter the physical realm for Qet but Cytharat didn’t need to know that.

“How long has he been your apprentice?”

“Let me see…” Vowrawn hummed thoughtfully. “I brought him out of the academy right around the time that Ord Mantell business began so that would put it at… seven– no, eight years now. My, how time flies!” He noticed as Cytharat gave a start. “Is something the matter?”

“I– I have never heard of apprenticeships lasting so long before.”

“I suppose. But Qet has always been a special case.”

“Doesn’t he deserve to grow into something more?”

Something was wrong. Something had happened. Something before the unpleasant events of last night. Cytharat was not nearly this intuitive to the finer details. He had carried a similar air of melancholy during dinner before Gravus’s untimely arrival, one that Vowrawn had attributed to the rigor of academy life but now he wasn’t so certain.

Vowrawn wore his best smile and edged closer to Cytharat, wrapping an arm snug around his waist. “Tell me what really troubles you. You know I hate to see you so unhappy.”

Cytharat fell silent, emotion warring in his eyes, but it wasn't long until his courage returned. “There has been much weighing on my mind of late.” He reached up to touch his right shoulder but flinched away at the last moment. “I must be more than myself, much more, and follow the Sith Code in both letter and spirit. Only then I feel I can restore my family’s honor but I... I forget myself when I am here.”

“Is that so terrible?”

“Yes. I mean, no. I– I mean, it is possible that…” Cytharat took a deep breath. “You have provided endless generosity and kindness but now I must ask for something more before I ask my final questions: your honesty.”

Vowrawn gave a short, incredulous laugh though it quickly tapered into a polite cough at the sight of Cytharat’s earnest expression. “Of course, dear boy.”

“Who is Darth Scelero?”

“Wherever did you hear that name?”

“My lord, please.” There was a thread of desperation in Cytharat’s voice.

“Darth Scelero was my predecessor,” Vowrawn said with a quizzical smile. “The former head of the Sphere of Production and Logistics and a fuddy-duddy that could give Darth Marr a run for his money. Is something wrong, dear boy? You’ve gone rather pale.”

Cytharat swayed. “I heard whispers about you and your rise to the Dark Council. You must understand, there is much I do not know of the circumstances surrounding my father’s demise a–and if even a kernel of truth exists in these whispers then I will have it for myself.”

Dear, oh, dear.

“At dinner, when you left to deal with your relic, Darth Gravus spoke of the target of my father’s mission. That he was a candidate for Darth Scelero’s seat on the Dark Council.”

Vowrawn hummed noncommittally as he considered several different methods of drowning Gravus in the toxic sludge of Taris.

“I mention this… I mention this because… because…” Cytharat’s fingers curled and uncurled. “Because I wonder if that candidate was you, Darth Vowrawn.”

There it was. Someone had planted that seed in his pretty head, someone with enough clearance or clout to unearth that precious bit of history he’d squirreled away.

Vowrawn embraced Cytharat and tucked his head under his chin, ignoring how his body constricted at his touch. “My dear boy, who has put such hideous thoughts in your head?”

“Is it true?” Cytharat blurted. “I did not believe it. I did not wish to believe it but my father was a devout patriot whatever his crimes and he told me– he told me he operated under the auspices of the greater good, to expunge corruption from the Dark Council–”

“There were many candidates for Darth Scelero’s seat and yet you accuse me of corruption? You wound me. After all we’ve shared together, am I so low in your esteem?”

“That does not answer anything!”

“Do you not trust me?” Vowrawn asked softly.

There was only the sound of Cytharat’s shaky breathing in the stretch of silence that followed and Vowrawn took the time to bury his nose in his hair, breathe his scent, and steal several winks of sleep while the young man collected his thoughts. Reason would win out, of course. Cytharat had to see the benefits of an apprenticeship under his tutelage outweighed any misgivings. It wasn’t as if he had concrete evidence of what transpired all those years ago and to allow his conscious to carry him aloft through the Empire was nothing short of madness.

Finally– finally– Cytharat lifted his voice. “You have been most gracious to me. Any acolyte would be honored to have you for a master–”

Oh, don’t you dare.

“– but I do not think that I am worthy of being your apprentice.” Cytharat quickly added, “That is to say, I believe the Empire would benefit more if I applied myself to a different Sphere.”

How fortunate that Cytharat could not see his face nor the glimmer of something truly magnificently ugly. “Which Sphere did you have in mind?” Vowrawn asked, calm as a dead sea.

“I–” Cytharat was a loss. “I… I don’t know yet.”

“Defense of the Empire perhaps. Darth Marr has a veritable army of apprentices but he has an eye for these things. He always delivers the best Sith. Would you like that?”

“I... I think–”

“Ah, but what am I thinking? Expansion and Diplomacy!” Vowrawn went on as though Cytharat hadn’t spoken. “Granted, it takes skill to pacify Ravage but you can manage that. Of course you can. No mincing words here since Ravage does love playing war. Well?”

“I think…” Cytharat raised his head and finally looked at him, mouth pursed, golden eyes wide with uncertainty. “I think I should leave now, my lord.”

Of course, because one pet running away from home wasn’t enough. “Already? Wouldn’t you like a bite to eat first?”

“No.” Cytharat rose to his feet, letting Vowrawn’s hands fall away from him. “No thank you. I need to… sort my personal affairs. Thank you for taking the time to speak with me and spend time with me. I had expected—” He shook his head but as he turned to leave, Cytharat was not nearly quick enough to see the smile vanish from Vowrawn’s face.

#darth vowrawn #lord cytharat #darth gravus #swtor #star wars #the old republic #*kill bill sirens*#tw: emotional abuse #fic: the mark of a good sith #my fic

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akaiitokoibito · 6 years

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Jealous Ouran headcannons? Like how they would react or be dominant with there s/o?

Omg yesss I’m blushing already ohoho~ let’s do this! There wasn’t any specified scenarios, so I’m going to take a few liberties and vary the situation so it’s more interesting!

(edit after finishing: I regret everything and nothing. This has been my writer’s block for the past week or two. -Mod Camellia)

Tamaki

“My, it’s such a sunny day! It’d be even better if you let go of her. Do you understand?”

“T-Tamaki?” you stuttered, eyes rounded as you realized how pissed your partner was. To the average eye, Tamaki probably looked more than jovial; his hair was shining, his smile was bright, and his posture was relaxed. But you knew him better than that; when he grew truly angry, he didn’t sulk or give the cold shoulder.

He smiled brightly; that expression of imminent doom could make any of the Host Club members shiver (sans Kyoya).

“One moment, [S/O],” he said, his eyes softening before turning to the quaking boy holding your arm. “Well?”

The boy let go of your arm, almost tripping in his haste to get away.

You two watched the boy’s escape in silence. Finally, you licked your lips and turned to the blonde, laughing nervously. “You didn’t have to go that far, Tamaki.”

He hummed nonchalantly, slipping his arm around your shoulder and drawing you into a hug. A smile curved on your lips as you leaned into his embrace, content to let the faint smell of roses and coffee engulf you. “I just wanted to make sure he got the point.”

You drew back to gaze into his amethyst eyes. Gone were the shy glint and innocent twinkle; instead of sunshine, his gaze felt like fire. “What point?”

His lips curved upwards into a smirk. “Well,” he drawled, his hand reaching out and cupping your cheek. Your breath hitched involuntarily; were those butterflies in your stomach?

Despite the fact that you had read such a scene in so many shoujo manga before, you couldn’t help but blush, heart thudding loudly in your chest.

“I think he misunderstood something,” Tamaki said softly. His proud, passionate gaze pinned yours. “You’re my girl.”

Kyoya

“Oh, please. Do try and touch her again. I’d love for an excuse to expel you.”

To your relief, the creep backed away from you to glare at a seemingly calm Kyoya Ootori. “What was that?”

“Five seconds.”

“Kyoya, it’s fine,” you tried, honestly fearing for the boy’s life. Even if he had been groping you, you didn’t want your partner to kill him. You had never seen Kyoya so angry in the entire span of your relationship.

Unlike the other Host Club members, Kyoya didn’t burn with fury when angry. He was cool, bitter ice: calculative, methodical, and ruthless.

“What?”

“You have five seconds to remove yourself from this area before I force you to. Do not come to any of the Host Club’s balls again. Do not attempt to approach us during school. And if I learn you were anywhere near the vicinity of [S/O], I will end you,” Kyoya intoned, his chilly gaze freezing any protests the pervert might have had. “I’m not afraid to use my influence to ruin your life.”

“…fucking bastard,” the boy cursed weakly, stalking off towards the exit.

“[S/O], are you alright?”

“I…” The words seemed lodged in your throat. “I’m alright.”

Kyoya could read your unease effortlessly. Instead of pointing it out, though, he guided you back into the ballroom. The noise and myriad of vivid colors, although somewhat distracting, was comforting.

“Kyoya, really…I’m fine. I’ll be fine. He didn’t even hurt me, see?” You laughed unconvincingly, gesturing to your disheveled but still intact dress.

Kyoya pursed his lips, the most displeasure that he would allow to show in public. “Let’s dance, [S/O].”

“Dance?” you echoed. Kyoya…didn’t dance, at least not of his own free will. Affection for your partner surged in your chest as you took his proffered hand.

You two fell into the motions of the dance easily, seamlessly spinning and stepping in tandem. You fell silent, watching your partner’s eyes closely as the music continued. “Kyoya?” you called gently, your voice calling him back from whatever haze he had been in.

His grip on your waist tightened ever so slightly. “[S/O].”

“Mm?” you hummed, twirling around.

“That won’t happen again.”

His bold declaration (his promise) sent your heart fluttering. “Kyoya?”

He tilted his head, his eyes questioning.

A smile curved on your lips. “Thank you.”

Hikaru

“Say, Kaoru. Would it be illegal if I punched that guy in the face right now?”

“Hikaru,” Kaoru responded, a tone of warning in his voice.

“Yeah, yeah,” Hikaru waved off his twin’s concerns, grumbling, “He’s her friend, I get it. I’m not going to deny her that happiness.” His auburn eyes narrowed, a scowl tugging at his lips as he drilled holes into the boy’s figure with his darkening gaze. “But does he have to stand so goddamn close to her?”

“If you’re that bothered about it, why don’t you go over there?” Kaoru suggested.

“Not gonna,” Hikaru mumbled, his voice almost petulant. “They’re talking about Arina Tanemura again.”

Kaoru gaped, then snickered loudly. “Is that why you’ve been reading shoujo manga all week? To impress her?”

“Shut up.”

“You’re blushing!” Kaoru pointed out gleefully.

“That’s beside the point, Kaoru. That guy– ah, hey [S/O],” Hikaru greeted, his voice slightly strangled. You tilted your head in question.

Kaoru beamed at you and Hikaru. “I’ll leave you two alone.”

“You’re awfully quiet today,” you commented, sitting down beside him. “Is something the matter, Hikaru? Even Yamada-kun thought that something was off about you, and he’s only known you for a week.”

“Ah, yeah. I’m…good.” Hikaru averted his gaze. “Yeah. Good.”

Unimpressed by your partner’s truly stellar vocabulary, you raised an eyebrow at him. “Mmhm. Really,” you commented dryly. You sighed, your eyes clearly reflecting your concern. “What happened, Hikaru?”

“…I have better grades than Yamada.”

“…I know…?”

“I’m more handsome, too.”

“I’d say that’s a matter of opinion.” You laughed, but paused when your partner didn’t laugh with you. “Hikaru, really, there’s nothing going on bet–”

His golden eyes, deceptively calm, met yours, and for a moment you forgot how to breathe. Although you two had been together for several months, you could never stop the butterflies that fluttered in your stomach whenever he looked at you. Hikaru’s eyes had always been captivating: fiery, determined, and fiercely passionate.

“[S/O],” he breathed your name, his voice a low, throaty timbre. “I just…”

Your heart practically leapt in your throat when he leaned forward and wrapped his arms around you; the faint scent of cinnamon and sandalwood did not help alleviate the wild thumping of your heart. “H-Hikaru?” you breathed, your voice suddenly higher pitched.

For a moment, your partner didn’t reply, his eyes closed peacefully as his chin rested on your shoulder. Then, he opened his eyes, giving you a lazy grin. “I love you,” Hikaru enunciated clearly, fully content with continuing your impromptu embrace. His golden eyes were filled with warmth, love, and passion that threatened to swallow you whole. “I love you a lot, you know that?”

“I…” your breath caught as you flushed bright red. “I know. I love you too, Hikaru.”

Kaoru

“Heh, I know it’s stupid. But…I…really don’t want you to look at anybody else.”

“Is this about earlier, Kaoru?” you asked quietly, taking a seat beside him. “Sawada-kun was just helping me with a math problem.”

“I can help you with math,” Kaoru insisted.

You giggled, nudging his shoulder playfully. You knew your boyfriend too well. “You’re terrible at math.”

“Then I’ll get better,” Kaoru vowed, his hand reaching out and intertwining with yours. Similar to his nature, his hand was warm; its very presence soothed you. He sighed, leaning against your shoulder and flashing you a tiny grin. “For you.”

“How suave of you,” you teased, running your free hand through his ginger locks.

He hummed under his breath. The conversation faded into a comfortable silence, both of you content to bask in each other’s presence. The evening was surprisingly cool, despite the heat wave earlier in the week. Sunlight filtered through the canopy of cherry blossoms, gently illuminating Kaoru’s small, lopsided smile.

“I mean it, you know. I’ll have Hikaru tutor me until I score better than him in math, then I can study with you,” Kaoru offered, his gaze genuine and lips upturned.

Another bright smile bloomed on your face. Although you didn’t really need that much help with math, you couldn’t help yourself from ribbing, “Or, you know, I could just ask Hikaru to help me.”

Kaoru’s gaze sharpened. “No.”

“No?” you parroted.

A smirk curled up on his lips; suddenly, you could understand why your sweet boyfriend was dubbed the “little devil” type. Mischief and thinly concealed amusement danced in his golden eyes that were so intensely focused on you.

“Kaoru?”

“I’m gonna be the one to help you, [S/O],” he breathed, leaning in close enough that his warm breath fanned across your neck. Suddenly, you were very aware of how close you two were; his hands were still intertwined with yours, his body pressed against yours ever so gently. “Okay?”

“I…” Your throat suddenly felt dry. “Mmhm. I’ll be waiting.”

Honey

“Hey, you. I’ll give you some cake later, so will you please leave?”

Your breath hitched as you turned to face your partner. “Mitsukuni,” you gasped, relief flooding you as the petite boy beamed at the guy harassing you. His golden eyes glanced briefly at you, softening the tiniest fraction as he nodded his head reassuringly at you before turning back to the idiot clinging onto your arm.

“Huh? Why the hell should I?”

That was the wrong thing to say. You watched your partner’s smile grow even wider with dawning horror, the kind that usually was reserved for watching a tragic accident or the like. Mitsukuni Haninozuka might have been small, but he was a force to be reckoned with.

“Hah?” the blonde titled his head, sugary smile never leaving his face. “Because I won’t hesitate to use force if you don’t leave [S/O]-chan alone.”

“Go play somewhere else, brat--” the insult had barely left his lips before your partner lunged forward, snatched him away from you, flipped the harasser over, and slammed him into the ground.

“Sorry,” the ever sweet Honey-senpai apologized insincerely, his golden eyes as cool as his voice was. “But I really don’t like you touching my girlfriend like that.”

Mori

“Ah, sorry…my hand slipped.”

You startled, glancing to your right, where the familiar voice originated from. To your surmounting surprise, you saw your boyfriend standing in front of the table of boys who had been wolf-whistling at you for the entirety of your stay. The boys were frozen, completely drenched in ice-cold water.

In contrast, Takashi maintained his straight face as he placed his empty pitcher back on his tray. “We’ll reimburse you with ice cream,” he intoned, his deep voice silencing any indignant squawks the boys might have let out. “It’s a hot day. Why don’t you warm yourselves outside?”

“T-that was on purpose!” one of the boys screeched.

“Y-yeah,” his companion agreed.

Takashi remained calm, his gaze never wavering. “You should go outside,” he suggested again, gently helping one of the boys to his feet. “We’ll bring out some desserts for you.”

You watched the scene, your mouth slightly agape and eyes rounded. The boys were quickly escorted out of the small beach restaurant; only after they had left did Takashi approach your table. “[S/O].”

Although he only uttered your name, you could understand the multitude of emotions he was expressing. “I’m fine,” you reassured him. “Thank you, Takashi. You really -- eh?”

Your boyfriend had unceremoniously draped his jacket over your shoulders, expression placid. “Be more mindful,” he said simply. (Of your beauty, he meant.)

A small, gentle smile curved across your lips. “Don’t act too recklessly,” you said in return, tightening your grip on the jacket. (I love you, you meant.)

Sorry, got kinda tired towards the end and rushed >w

- Mod Camellia

#ouran koukou host club #tamaki suoh #Kyoya Ootori #hikaru hitachiin #kaoru hitachiin #honey mitsukuni #mori takashi

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