#he's bitter and yet he does it out of all the horrors he's seen and been subjected to

[fortheloveofwonderland]

Rusty | Chapter 23 | S.R

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A/N - penultimate chapter.

Summary - Spencer’s navigates being in alone in the ICU with his ghosts. Luke tries and fails to get through to him.

Pairing - Spencer Reid / Fem! Reader

Category - strangers to friends to lovers | angst | smut minors DNI

Warnings - hints at sexual activity (m/m), swearing, DID, talk of antipsychotic medication, a lot of internal monologging, mentions of urine, UTI, respiratory problems, suicidal ideation, mention of past sexual assault, past near relapse, heavy talk of hospital related things.

WC - 6.6k

Chapter 23 - Only the Lonely

It was unlikely you would have been able to sleep given everything that was running through your exhausted brain. With Spencer back on the ventilator in the ICU, succumbing to multiple personalities when he was awake, the fear was consuming.

You still hadn’t seen him, not even stepped in the room while he was sedated. Your time left together was getting shorter by the day and you knew it would soon be over. You shouldn’t be wasting a second away from him, but you couldn’t bring yourself to face him yet. 

Even if your mind hadn’t been awash with thoughts of him in the hospital, you wouldn’t have gotten much rest anyway, given the activities taking place in your guest room next door. Luke and Grant had been going at it all night long, their moans and the banging of the headboard enough to wake the dead. 

Copper had been perturbed by it too, deciding to sleep in bed curled up with you and occasionally barking if the noise got too loud. The men next door didn’t seem to notice.

You stifled a yawn as you leant against the kitchen counter, sipping coffee from a mug cradled between your hands. Copper was eating his kibble you’d put down for him and would no doubt need letting out for a good run considering he’d mostly been cooped up in the house for the last few days.

You needed to sort the horses too, Willow and Rusty had been extremely neglected recently and you were sure they both needed out of their stable for an hour or so to meander in the field. 

You heard footsteps on the stairs and you braced yourself to face one of the men staying in your guest room. You sipped more coffee as Grant strolled into the room, a small, slightly sleepy smile on his lips. 

“Morning,” he nodded his head at you.

“Morning, coffee?” You motioned to the freshly brewed pot and empty mugs on the counter.

“Please, I’m plum tuckered.” He headed past you towards the coffee and poured himself a mug.

“Hmm I can imagine.” You barely hid the bitterness from your tone.

Grant slid into one of the stools at the counter with his coffee and looked a little guiltily down into it.

“Ah, I guess we weren’t all that quiet, huh?” 

“Oh you were the very opposite of quiet.” You clucked. “I mean don’t get me wrong it sounded incredibly hot the first time but after the third it was a little grating.” 

Grant’s cheeks flushed red and he still wouldn’t meet your eyes. He continued staring down into his mug. 

“I’m sorry. This is your home and with Spencer the way he is…it was inconsiderate.” He mumbled. 

“Don’t sweat it, it’s okay. Can’t say I blame either of you, a couple of handsome studs.” You teased and when Grant looked up at you winked at him. 

“You know he doesn’t know about our kiss, right?” Grant whispered. 

And I assume you don’t know about my kiss with Luke. Jeez this is like a fucking soap opera.

“I figured as much. Don’t plan on telling him, don’t worry.” 

“Thanks.” Grant smiled softly, raising his mug to his lips. “I, uh…can I be honest with you ‘bout summin’?” 

“Uh, okay?” Your brow creased. 

“I know your name isn’t Elizabeth Parker. You’re that girl that Luke’s old partner has been hunting. The fugitive.” His words almost caused you to choke on your coffee.

You coughed a little, staring at him in wide eyed horror. 

“I…I’m sorry?” You choked. 

“I saw a file in his office. How does this work? Why hasn’t he arrested you?” Grant leant his elbows on the counter. 

“We have a deal.” You huffed out a breath. “He can take me in once he helps Spencer. Once I know he’ll be okay, Luke can slap the cuffs on me.” 

“Holy cow,” Grant pulled a face. “You must really love him.” 

“I do.” You nodded, trying not to look at the ring adorned on your finger. “I want him to be okay, I want to know that he’s going to get better. I don’t care what happens to me after that.” 

You sniffed back tears as you heard another set of feet on the stairs and you focused back on your coffee and not on the pain in your chest at the thought of leaving Spencer. 

Luke traipsed into the kitchen and offered you a small smile before sidling up to Grant and wrapping his arm around the other man. You turned away to give them a moment's privacy, not able to look at them like this without hearing the sounds they’d made last night. 

You heard some whispering transpire between the two of them before Luke cleared his throat.

“Uh, sorry about last night.” He spoke, his words heavy with guilt. 

“Just, uh, try to keep it down next time?” You turned back to him with a shrug. 

“Duly noted.” Luke blushed slightly. “So, uh, the hospital called and said Spencer is exhausted. He was up half of the night vomiting. They gave him medication through his IV for the UTI but he’s still struggling to empty his bladder and it's causing him a lot of pain. 

“On top of that his lungs are extremely sore and even with the ventilator it’s likely still putting pressure on his chest. They’re worried about the state of his lungs. He’s developed some scarring and it could lead to any number of respiratory illnesses. But Doctor Ryan was able to carry out some more neurological tests this morning and he was pleased that he doesn’t appear to have any brain damage or deficits. He’s still a little hazy in places but they think that could be a symptom of the DID.”

“So it is DID?” You asked, clutching your mug tightly.

“Doctor Vikram believes so. But she can’t say for sure if it’s permanent or just a causation of his sudden lack of medication combined with the alcohol. She has some new meds she wants to try him on - olanzapine - it's an antipsychotic used to manage symptoms of DID. It blocks some dopamine receptors in the brain, correcting the overactivity of dopamine. But they want to get his respiratory distress controlled and have him breathing on his own first. So he may have a few more days where he’s unsure of who he is and even who we are.” Luke took the mug Grant was offering him and sipped from it. 

“So we could do him more harm than good?” Grant asked, looking up at his boyfriend.

“Possibly,” Luke nodded sadly. “I didn’t tell either of you this but when he first woke up, he thought I was…he thought I was one of the men who abused him in prison.” 

Grant clutched Luke’s arm, looking at him with a sorrowful expression. You pouted, putting your mug down before you smashed it and wrapping your arms around your waist. 

“Jesus,” you hissed. “Luke I…that must have been horrible for you.” 

“It, uh, was not great.” Luke down played it. “But he’s sick, I understand that. I have to understand that.” 

The three of you fell into a stilted silence after that, letting it all wash over you. You had to take the good with the bad, try and focus on the fact there could be a light at the end of a very long tunnel for Spencer. 

***

The haze of sedation hung around him, clawing to every corner of his fractured mind. He wasn’t entirely pacified, but not yet completely in tune with his surroundings. 

The first thing he became aware of was the tube in his throat, threaded down his airway. His initial reaction had been to remove it but he’d reminded himself he was in the hospital, it was supposed to be there. Thankfully the sedative medication he’d been prescribed stopped him from panicking at the strange intrusion.

He could feel the air being pushed into his lungs via the ventilation machine and down through the tube. His natural instinct was to try and breath on his own but the machine wouldn’t allow it. Sometimes he would feel ready to take another breath but couldn’t until the ventilator was ready to pump that beautiful oxygen into him. 

He was hooked up to so many machines he couldn’t move more than a few inches without tugging on a wire here or a tube there. He was being fed liquid or medication, he wasn’t sure, through his IV in the crook of his arm, the suprapubic catheter was still lodged in his stomach.

There was something in his nose too which he could only assume was sending nutrition to his painful stomach. The little tacky pads on his chest were hooked up to the heart rate monitor which was beeping steadily, probably because he couldn’t succumb to his fear while sedated like this. 

He’d gagged initially when he’d come around after the general anaesthetic. He’d tried to cough, tried to speak but of course he could do neither. The doctor - Doctor Wells he thought he remembered - explained everything to him although a lot of it got lost in his foggy brain.

Gave me diuretics to clear the fluid in my lungs. Sedated. Ventilator. Need to monitor my blood, oxygen levels, and respiratory rate. Other things. She said other things…

Can’t move without help. Nurse will sit me up. Might make me walk. Something about bronchoscopy? Multiple of them, frequent. A camera down my throat to check my lungs. 

I know what this is. Think, think Reid. You know exactly what this is, Doctor Ryan said your brain wasn’t soup so just think…

ARDS? Acute respiratory distress syndrome? Even with treatment only 25 to 40 percent of people survive. If I’m one of the minority it’s likely I won’t ever retain full lung function. I’ll need physical therapy. Might never live a normal life again. 

Goddamn my stomach hurts, why does my stomach hurt so much? Am I still not fucking peeing properly? More comfortable than the one in my dick though, that’s for sure. 

You had surgery, it hurts because you’re probably bruised around the incision site. Don’t need to urinate, don’t think so anyway. Must have been. Must be working. 

No wait. Fuck, no I do need to go. Feels like my bladder is vibrating. What the fuck do I do? How do I make this thing work? 

He ran his fingers over the tube he could feel beneath his gown, trying to convey to his bladder and the catheter that he needed them to work together. 

What is happening, what is happening? Is it…oh my gosh its leaking…no that’s gross, it hurts! Oh so gross, this is a living hell. Someone please just put me out of my…

The door opened and a nurse he didn’t recognise walked in. He made eye contact with her, frantically pointing at his stomach. She frowned at him a little, coming closer to the bed.

“Is everything okay?” She asked softly. 

He whined around the tube in his throat, pointing again at the catheter insertion site beneath his gown. The woman followed his hands and rolled down the bed sheet, rolled up his gown and Spencer tried not to be embarrassed about being naked from the waist down but it was ingrained in him.

“Oh it’s okay, it’s just a little leakage. It might happen from time to time as you get used to the catheter.” She cleaned him off before going about replacing the dressing holding the tube in place. 

Time to time? No, no please this should never happen!

“You’re probably experiencing bladder spasms which is a normal symptom of your UTI. It will pass, sweetie, the antibiotics will just take a little time.” 

Normal? How the hell is any of this normal? 

She finished redressing his incision before standing back and smiling at him. 

“Aside from the bladder discomfort are you okay? Can I get you anything?” 

A shotgun with one bullet or a bottle of your strongest pills? How the FUCK am I supposed to answer you? 

He simply shook his head against the pillow, closing his eyes as he no longer wanted to partake in this incredibly one sided conversation. 

Soon he heard her leaving, humming as she went. When Spencer opened his eyes again the tears came streaming out. 

Is this just my fucking life now? Am I destined to forever be hooked up to a series of machines? Can’t eat, can’t talk, can’t even having a fucking a piss out of my cock. 

Jesus Christ why am I not dead? How the fuck did I end up here? I was alone, how could I have survived? Someone must have…

As the realisation started to present itself in his thickly veiled brain, those eyes he remembered seeing when he’d been spitting up water and turned onto his side, the door opened again and suddenly Spencer found himself looking into those same eyes that had saved him. 

Luke? Luke, are you really here? Luke please tell me I’m not dreaming. Luke! 

“Hey, you.” Luke croaked as he stepped into the room. “Wasn’t sure you’d be up for visitors but I couldn’t stay away. You mind me being here?”

Mind? Do I mind? Of course I don’t mind! Oh Luke this is so horrible, you have no idea. I feel like I’m trapped inside my own body, I hate it, I HATE IT. Please stay, please don’t ever leave.

Oh right, I can’t speak. 

Spencer shook his head instead. 

Luke smiled sadly and padded across the room, he slid into the chair next to the bed and Spencer rolled his head to the side to look at him. 

Spencer’s fingers twitched at his side, alerting Luke’s attention. He looked like he was trying to mime something, holding a pen? Writing?

“You want to write?” Luke asked and Spencer nodded. 

For lack of a pen and paper, Luke pulled his phone from his pocket and opened the notes app before handing it to Spencer. Spencer fumbled a little with it, his hands weak and shaky. It took him a few minutes to write out a simple message before showing the screen to Luke.

Why are you here? 

“Uh, Y/N called me.” Luke rolled his lip between his teeth.

Spencer’s eyes grew wide and the heart rate monitor picked up to show his signs of distress. Luke gently placed his hand on Spencer’s shoulder, thankful the young man didn’t try and push him away this time and didn’t seem to think he was someone else.

“It’s okay, Spencer, just breathe.” Luke realised his error as soon as he said it Spencer attempted to type out another message while his heart continued to race.

Can’t breathe, machine is doing that for me. 

“Yeah, that was a dumb thing to say. Sorry. But don’t panic, please.”

Spencer frowned back at the phone and typed furiously. 

How can I not panic? Why would she call you? Why would she put herself in danger like that?

“Spence, it’s all gonna be fine, I swear. You just need to focus on yourself right now.” Luke tried to calm him.

Little hard to do that when you’re going to arrest my fiance. 

Luke sucked in a deep breath at the sight of the word fiance. Clearly he still had a few things to work through. 

“Everything will be fine, I promise you.” Luke smiled shakily.

You saved my life? 

“Uh, I guess so. Do you remember anything?” 

Spencer frowned deeply at the phone, fingers still trembling and causing him to make multiple mistakes which he insisted on correcting before showing Luke.

Kinda remember you being there when I was on the floor in the bathroom. Everything else is a blur. Not sure what’s real and what’s not.

Luke nodded slowly, inhaling shakily. 

“I was here when you first woke up, I think you thought I was someone else.” Luke glanced down at his lap and Spencer frowned in confusion. 

He wasn’t even sure when he first woke up, his dreams and his reality blurring into one. Was he awake when he thought he was here? When he ripped off what he thought were restraints but must have been…his catheter. He was awake then, but who was…oh.

Frantic tapping at the phone caused Luke to look back up at Spencer’s pinched brows and his flying fingers.

Oh fuck Luke I am so sorry. I was delirious. I wasn’t with it. I’m so, so sorry. 

“It’s okay,” Luke waved a dismissive hand. “Don’t worry about it cari…Spencer.” 

Are the rest of the team here? 

“No, they’re on a case. I didn’t think you’d want them to see you like this either.” 

Thank you. Where is Y/N? What happened after she left the ranch?

Luke inhaled again before telling Spencer everything he knew of what had transpired to lead you to New Mexico where he met you and the deal the two of you had made. He ended things with saying you were back at the ranch taking care of the horses but he could call you if he wanted to see you.

Spencer shook his head. He didn’t want you to see him like this, even less than he wanted the rest of the BAU to see him like this. His tears rolled down his cheeks as he slowly typed out another message. 

I love her Luke, please don’t take her away from me. 

Luke’s lips puckered, his eyes sad and downturned as he took the device back which Spencer was handing over to him.

“Just don’t worry about it for now, you have to focus on yourself. Are you, uh, are there any…voices right now?” Luke dared to ask.

Spencer closed his eyes tightly and shook his head. 

“Good, that’s good. I know Doctor Vikram wants to give you some medication to help but maybe they’ll go away before then. Perhaps it was just temporary and maybe they’re gone now?” 

Spencer nodded, rolling onto his back and keeping his eyes shut tightly. Oh how he wished Luke was right. But he knew he wasn’t.

“Lying is a sin, boy.” 

“Just because you can’t talk right now, doesn’t mean they won’t find out. You’re as crazy as your mother, and crazy always finds its way to the surface.” 

Goddamnit, please? Please just let me rest. I just want to rest. 

“He really does look similar to me, aye cariño?” 

Stop please, please don’t call me that? You ruined my relationship with him, was that not enough? Do you have to ruin all my memories of him too? 

“Spencer? Spence, are you okay?” Luke’s voice cut above the racket in his head and he opened his eyes suddenly. Luke was standing, leaning over him. “Your heart is racing again, is everything okay?” 

Spencer lifted his hand, made a grabbing motion and thankfully Luke realised what he meant and handed him back his phone. A few moments later he turned the screen back to Luke and the words staring back at him on his own device shattered the older man to his core.

For the rest of his life, Luke Alvez would never get over reading those words typed at the hand of the man he still held so much love for. If his own heart rate were being monitored, the machine might just malfunction given how frantically his heart beat seeing those gut wrenching words looking back at him. 

Nothing is okay. I wish I were dead. 

***

“Still not sold the old ranch?” Grant’s voice carried across the stable from where he was filling Rusty’s food trough. 

You glanced up from where you were shovelling hay in the next stall. 

“How could you possibly know that?” You cocked an eyebrow at him. 

“My place hasn’t sold, it was an educated guess.” His lip quipped at the corner. 

“I guess people just aren’t in the market for all that land these days.” You sighed wistfully. “I’m gonna miss this place.” 

“I don’t think you gotta worry about that, little lady.” He walked out of the open paddock, past you towards Willow’s where he started replenishing her food. 

“What do you mean?” You followed him with your eyes curiously. 

“Contrary to popular belief, me and Luke did find some time to do some talking last night. All he wants is for Spencer to be happy and he knows you make him happy. I’m not making no promises or nothin’ but Luke’s a softy, a romantic at heart. I think you might find yourself able to stay here longer than you planned.” Grant smiled knowingly at you but it only added to your confusion. 

“I’m a fugitive wanted by the FBI. He’s not just going to give me a pass because I’m in love with Spencer.” You scoffed, leaning against the fence that separated you. 

“You willingly put yourself in danger for him. You put Spencer’s needs above your own freedom. It might not be ethical or hell even legal, but Luke is a kind soul and he can be awful forgiving if he wants to be.” 

“Don’t say things like that.” You sniffed back your tears that had suddenly accumulated. “Don’t say things like that and get my hopes up. It’s his job to arrest me. He’s not just going to let that slide.” 

“Hmm,” Grant shrugged. “Whadda I know, I’m just a simple cowboy?”

He smiled at you before turning away and going back to his task at hand. You stared at the back of his head as he acted as if nothing had happened. 

You couldn’t get your hopes up. There was no way Luke was going to let you off the hook for murdering your step father and escaping prison. 

But he had proven he would do just about anything for Spencer. Would that go as far to include allowing you to get away so the two of you could have a life together? 

You couldn’t even let yourself entertain the idea for fear of everything coming crashing down around you. 

***

Time is moving so slowly. Does time always move this slowly? Need something to do, a book or a chess board or something. Anything. I’m going to lose my mind. 

The nurse comes in every half hour give or take. It’s been twenty two minutes since she was last here, suctioning my airway. God I hate that, makes me feel sick. Makes me want to cough but I can’t cough because of this fucking tube.

Checks my blood, my oxygen levels. Checks my heart rate and my respiratory rate. Medicine every few hours, that horrible aerosolized spray through my breathing tube. Hate it. Hate everything. 

Doctor comes every hour. When was the last time she was here? Probably give me another bronchoscopy, maybe take some tissue samples. 

I’m so tired. Didn’t I just sleep? Why am I so damn tired? How long has it been since Luke was here? Hours, it’s been hours. Days? Guess he’s not coming back. 

Spencer had well and truly lost track of time. His medicine had him in and out of hazy sleep and he had long ago passed the point of knowing what day it was. In reality he had been back on the ventilator for six days, and just because he didn’t remember seeing Luke again after his first day back in the ICU, Luke had been to visit every day.

Most of the time Spencer would sleep during his visits but even when he was awake he was never lucid, and never Spencer. One day Luke had an entire conversation via his phone's note app with Cat Adams. Another he had a very confusing exchange in which Spencer flitted between Benjamin Merva and Raphael. 

The most horrifying experience had transpired yesterday when Spencer presented solely as one of the men who had attacked him in prison.

He’d gone into hideously gory details about the assaults he and his partners had inflicted upon Spencer. Luke wanted to smash his phone into tiny pieces by the time the man who wasn’t Spencer typed out, don’t you remember how good he is at sucking cock? Ay dios mio, it should be illegal. 

It had taken everything in Luke’s power not to vomit reading those messages typed by Spencer’s hand but not his mind. 

You and Grant went with him everyday but Luke was the only one who braved going in his room. 

“You told him you wanted to die, of course he’s not coming back, estúpido.” 

Oh god not you again. Why are you always here? Send someone else, Tobias, Cat, even my dad. Not you, please. 

“I’m always going to be here. Why would I ever leave you?” 

I can’t do this, I can’t spend the rest of my life seeing you., hearing you. I thought it might be temporary, but you’re never going away are you? 

“I’m not going away because you don’t want me to go away, cariño.” 

Please stop calling me that. Please? 

Tears snuck from his eyes as he laid there in the shell of a useless body, allowing his breathing, the one thing he’d always been in control of, be dictated by a machine. 

This was an all time low for Spencer Reid. If he couldn’t even do something as simple as pull oxygen into his lungs, what was the fucking point of anything? 

“You did this to yourself. I told you, suicide is a sin and you’re being punished for trying to take the cowards way out. It’s God’s will.” 

Tobias? Tobias, please don’t leave. 

God I never thought I’d say that. 

“How many times did you think about doing that after what we did to you? How many times did you want to kill yourself after prison, querido?” 

No, no I didn’t. Wouldn’t let you win, couldn’t let you win. 

“Hmm is that why you brought that dilaudid two weeks after you were released? Just enough to end it all. Woulda taken it too if you hadn’t found that ring. He saved your life and he never even realised, hijo de puta.” 

A phantom memory encased him then, the dilaudid vials in one hand, needle in the other. He’d been looking for something to use as a tourniquet when he’d opened a drawer and found the ring box hidden inside. 

He never told Luke that he’d seen it and no surprise, Luke had never given it to him. But it had been enough for him to want to try. He’d flushed the dilaudid down the toilet before Luke had any idea. 

It was my fault. All my fault. Would have married him in a heartbeat. Still would, wouldn’t I?…

No. No I wouldn’t. I love him, I’ll always love him. But she’s the one I want to spend the rest of my life with. 

“Not gonna happen now though is it? Because of you, you idiota. Because of your stupid decision to stop taking your meds she had to seek help from the only person she could. And now he’s going to arrest her and you’ll be all alone again. Well, apart from me. I’ll always be here, mi corazón.” 

Goddamnit I wish you wouldn’t be. How do I make you go away? 

“I’m a part of you. I’m in arraigado - ingrained - in you. I’m just as much a part of you as you are me.” 

Fuck, this is so unfair. Fucking Christ the nightmare will never be over, will it? 

“Shh cariño, it will be okay.” 

Spencer’s tears continued to roll down his hollow cheeks, focusing on the discomfort in his dry throat at the tube lodged inside it. 

He laid there in his husk of a body, listening to the steady beep beep beep of the heart monitor, the loud pumps of the ventilator as it kept him alive when his uncooperative lungs wouldn’t work for themselves. 

The almost imperceptible drip drip of the IV as it delivered antibiotics and fluids to his spent frame. The soft spasming of his stomach as the catheter worked constantly to remove every drop of liquid from his bladder before he could even register the need to urinate. 

How long could a person live like this? At least when they had him in a coma he wasn’t aware of all these things being done to him, wasn’t coherent of his total lack of autonomy over his own body. 

This must be what hell is like, surrounded by ghosts and being able to do nothing about it. Maybe I am dead after all, maybe this is just what death feels like. 

The door opened almost right on cue and the doctor walked in, followed closely by a nurse. He knew the drill by now and laid back and allowed it to happen, not that he could do much else. 

“Are you feeling okay, Doctor Reid?” Doctor Wells asked as she glanced at his vitals. 

By way of communicating he tapped the bedrail once. Once meant yes, twice was no. It was a lie and they probably all knew it. 

The nurse set up next to his bed, a small silver tray of instruments. A catheter was threaded down inside of his breathing tube so she could suction out any mucus that might have gathered in the tube and impede the machine's ability to do its job.

As always, he gagged at the intrusion, tried to cough but couldn’t. He laid back and took it, hating the way it felt and knowing he would never get used to that sensation even if he was on this machine the rest of his life. 

After suctioning came the medication, the spray which was administered down his tube and also made him gag furiously. He knew the bronchoscopy was coming, that was why Doctor Wells was here. She finished noting down his vitals before she turned to him with the tiny camera in hand. 

“We’re just going to take a few more tissue samples okay?” 

Tap. 

He closed his eyes while she went about her business and tried to ignore the way it made him want to vomit. It was all over in no more than five minutes but Spencer hated every second of it. 

“Your respiratory activity has been improving greatly, I’m hoping once we get the results back from these samples we might be able to start weaning you off the ventilator. Does that sound good?” 

Tap. 

The nurse was cleaning him with a damp cloth, he always tried to go to another place for this. His dissociations usually happened so easily he wasn’t even aware of them but this was one mortifying task his brain would not let him detach from. 

She moved him around like a goddamn rag doll manoeuvring him so she could remove the clothes he’d been dressed in, he assumed brought in by Luke in a last ditch attempt to help Spencer feel something akin to human. 

He had to admit it was better than the scratchy hospital gown, his flannel pyjama pants were soft and cosy and the t-shirt he wore he had a suspicion was one of Luke’s old FBI Academy shirts although he couldn’t really see it over all the equipment he was plugged into. 

He could have been more help, he could move his limbs and make the whole thing slightly less degrading but he didn’t. Instead he allowed her to lift his shirt, wash under his grossly smelling armpits, over his chest, around his catheter insertion and then his neck. 

Replacing the shirt she gave the same gentle attention to each of his arms, careful not to disturb his IV port. 

It was what came next that Spencer found incredibly dehumanising. 

The sheet was removed from the bed and his pyjama pants tugged down his legs. The way in which she cleaned his genitals, lifting his sad, flaccid penis as she wiped the cloth in those hard to reach places made him shudder. 

It felt like a violation and tears never failed to leak from his eyes but there was nothing else he could do. 

It was clinical, of course it was, she was a professional. But it didn’t stop Spencer from screaming internally at what his ravaged brain perceived to be an assault. 

Stop touching me! I don’t want it! Don’t want it! Please stop touching me! 

They’d noted early on that this part of the cleaning ritual caused his heart rate to skyrocket. It was understandable given what they knew about his traumatic past. No one had said as much but the doctors had all seen his full medical history, including the reports from Milburn infirmary. 

All they could do was to try and keep him calm, Doctor Wells mumbled soothing epitaphs while the nurse went about her business in an attempt to distract him. Judging by the heart monitor, it never worked. 

Finally she was finished and redressed him, covering his lower half with the sheet and steadily his heart rate lowered again once he was no longer being touched. 

“We want to try and get you moving, is that okay? We don’t want you to develop bed sores or for your muscles to atrophy.” 

No, no please don’t make me move. I’m so tired, so, so tired. Don’t want to move, just leave me here to die. 

Tap. Tap. 

“Doctor Reid, I’m sure you understand that once we can get you moving and off the ventilator you will have a lot more freedom. You might be able to wash yourself. The swelling in your urethra is settling nicely too, you might even be able to use the bathroom. But you won’t be able to do any of those things if you don’t first let us help you move.” Doctor Wells was no nonsense. He liked that about her. 

She’s right, dumbass. You wanna be stuck in this bed forever? At least once you’re back on your feet you can put yourself out of this godforsaken misery once and for all. 

Tap. 

“That’s what I thought.” Doctor Wells smiled. “Okay, we’ll start by raising the bed and then we’ll help you up okay?” 

Tap. 

Doctor Wells nodded to the nurse who was suddenly back at his side, pressing the button on the side of the bed to raise it. 

Spencer felt the bed shudder and jolt a little before his top half was being lifted so he was in more of a seated position. 

From this angle he had a direct line of sight out of the window into the corridor. A set of beautifully familiar eyes were staring back at him, hidden deep inside an oversized hood.

He blinked multiple times in quick succession as he tried to ascertain whether or not he was imagining things. But he wasn’t. You were really there. 

His heart monitor started frantically beeping again and Doctor Wells glanced from the machine to Spencer with a frown on her face. Spencer was staring out the window, one weak arm raised a few inches off of the bed as he tried pointing to the apparition in the window.

He made a pathetic whimpering sound through his tube, trying to explain without his words what he was trying to communicate. 

Tap tap tap. Tap tap tap. 

Please someone get her, I need her, please someone understand. 

Doctor Wells looked out the window and saw you standing there, arms hugging your waist. It was the first time you’d ventured out of the waiting room, the first time seeing Spencer since you’d found him in the tub. 

Doctor Wells nodded to the nurse to wait a moment while she made her way across the room and out of the door. Spencer stared dumbly through the window as he watched the two of you conversing but couldn’t hear what was being said.

Your body trembled and he saw you shake your head a few times. He felt more of his own tears falling. 

“She doesn’t want to see you, of course she doesn’t. She hates you, you put her through hell. She wants nothing to do with you.”

Then why is she here? 

He closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the pillows, not wanting to know what was going on. He’d only be disappointed and he’d dealt with far too much disappointment in his life. 

“She’ll never look at you the same. She hates you, she’s terrified of you. You tried to kill her, do you remember?”

No, no that wasn’t me! That was you, one of you, not me. I would never…I love her. I wasn’t myself, wasn’t me. I would never hurt her.

“You were very much you when you threw her up against the wall and slapped her, Spencie.” 

I didn’t…didn’t mean to. I was a wreck, my mind wasn’t working properly. I didn’t mean to hurt her. 

“But you would probably do it again. You aren’t well, you can’t be trusted to be around her. She’s too good for you.” 

The voices were once again blurring into one loud tone, he couldn’t decipher who was who. 

She is too good for me, of course she is. But I would never hurt her again, I wouldn’t, I WOULDN’T.

“It doesn’t really matter either way. She’s going to prison and you’ll never see her again.” 

He didn’t hear the door open again over the barrage of voices in his head screaming for attention. He didn’t realise Doctor Wells had returned until he felt a soft hand on his forearm, immediately silencing all of the yelling and throwing him into a deep quiet. 

The hand on his arm wasn’t sheathed in a latex glove like he’d grown used to from the doctors and nurses. It caused him to still, his heart monitor betraying his viciously thumping heart. 

He knew that soft touch, he would know it anywhere. It was emblazoned in his mind, solidified to his memory. He swallowed around the tube and almost gagged at the feeling. His forehead creased deeply in thought.

Y/N, is that you? Princess, are you here? Please say something, let me know it’s really you.

As if you could somehow read his thoughts he heard a breath being sucked in and then your shaking voice met his ears.

“S-Spence? Spence, it's me. Can you o-open your eyes?” 

Yes, yes I can do that. 

Slowly he lifted his lids and there you were at his bedside, gently brushing your fingers against his arm and staring down at him from the large hood hanging around your face. It didn’t take his full brain capacity to figure out why you were hiding yourself in this way. 

More tears fell from his tired eyes and he tried to smile at you but it was just a little too much effort. He wanted to speak, needed to speak but the apparatus keeping him alive dictated he couldn’t. 

Instead he shuffled a little, rolling his arm on the bed so his palm was facing upwards. You glanced at it with a soft frown but it didn’t take long for you to realise what he meant. You cautiously slid your hand in his, his weak fingers curling around your own as his heart monitor continued to beep frantically.

His fingers twitched against your hand, you didn’t understand why. You didn’t realise that he was trying to communicate with you the only way he knew how. His fingers tapped and brushed against your own in a strange series of what seemed to be dots and dashes, as though he was trying to tell you something. 

He knew you didn’t understand morse code, but he allowed himself to pretend as he spelled out the only thing he wanted to say to you in that moment. 

dot-dot. dot-dash-dot-dot. dash-dash-dash. dot-dot-dot-dash. dot. dash-dot-dash-dash. dash-dash-dash. dot-dot-dash. 

I love you. 

@kalulakunundrum @katrina0-0 @bakugouswh0r3 @prettyboyandthefangirl @zooni92802 @babyspiderling @pleasantwitchgarden @djsjjsjsjsjsnsnsns @bringitonhomejohnb @chineray1234

[lets-try-some-writing]

Hail to the King: Snippet

Megatron intends to use Smokescreen to torture Optimus. How does he plan to go about this? Simple. Make him the very thing Optimus fears most.

━━━━━━ ⊙ ❖ ⊙ ━━━━━━━━━━━━

“You bucket helmed piece of slag! I won’t give you anything!” He struggles against his bindings, his wrists and ankles burning with the effort. He fought with all his might, trying to thrash. All it earned him were a few scuffs that ached with every movement. 

“Good. Then you will have more to give to your new master.” No no no. He wouldn't serve the Decepticons. He wouldn't give them anything, not even the color scheme of Optimus's windshield. 

“What?” His voice shook and his door wings, pressed awkwardly as they were against the slab, twitched in response to his growing fear. This wasn't what he was trained to handle. How could he fight against someone tampering with his processor? That sort of thing only happened before the war with the old Council of Cybertron.

“Optimus Prime, my ancient nemesis. He claimed he had no interest in claiming the Matrix. I remember quite vividly how he denied any desire to take it.” Megatron met his terrified gaze with a smirk worthy of Liege Maximo himself. Smokescreen could only watch in horror as Shockwave, now visible at the far corner of the room, prepared a series of needles and cords.

“What does that have to do with anything?” Keep him talking. If he could just keep Megatron talking, maybe he could still get out of this.

“Optimus claims he does not want to be seen as a god. He preaches that he is a mere mech, despite the relic he carries. He despises the worship of the faithful. Truly a humble mech to the bitter end.” Megatron's gaze felt like a hot iron against his plating. Smokescreen wanted to run, he wanted to phase through the walls and into the ground where it was safe. And yet, he could do nothing except shake faintly as Megatron circled him, his clawed digits running along the slab that bound Smokescreen in a threatening manner.

“And yet, he took the Matrix anyway. He never even considered stepping aside so that real change could be enacted. We all would have been so much better off if he’d put down his arrogance and allowed those more suitable to step up.” The screech of Megatron's claws tearing through metal assaulted Smokescreen's audials along with the sheer venom in his captor's voice. For a moment, he couldn't vent. He expected white hot pain to overwhelm him, but when he worked up the courage to look, he saw that Megatron's claws were dug into his slab, not his plating.

“He took a role he was never meant to fill, and now he heralds himself as a leader, a commander and vessel for ancient wisdom. And yet, he refuses to take responsibility for all he’s brought upon himself. He won’t accept the praise of the faithful like a good puppet Prime. But he also refuses to silence the whispers about his supposed divinity.” One by one, those claws pulled out of the slab, leaving terrifying gashes in their wake. Smokescreen had to fight back the urge to cry out in terror as Megatron's voice edged into something even darker. He was practically seething as he ranted. Smokescreen could hardly understand all of it.

“He stole a station he was never meant to take. Maybe he did it to spite me and is now too devoted to back down. Perhaps he truly thought, in his naivety, that he was better suited for the role. Whatever the case, I will abuse his humility. I will make him pay for taking the place that was rightfully mine.” Megatron's arms raised to the skies, almost as though he were preaching to a crowd. His back was to Smokescreen, but his words were still just as cruel and wicked. He spoke Iaconian common for Smokescreen's sake, but it was so heavily layered with Kaoni sub glyphs that Smokescreen could sense every last iota of emotion.

Megatron was truly bitter. It had been generations since the start of the war, and still Megatron was clinging to an ancient conflict. Smokescreen wouldn't dare claim to understand it all, but he knew for a fact that Optimus was a better Prime than the crazed warlord ranting before him. It didn't matter if Optimus got the Matrix through underhanded means, he'd long proven himself worthy of the title in Smokescreen's mind. The fact that Optimus refused worship merely showed his humility and devotion to the cause. He expected nothing, save for the cooperation of those around him.

A true Prime did not enslave. A true Prime was kind and commanded respect through actions, not words. Optimus didn't need to be worshiped. He had long since become a mech worthy of respect far exceeding the bounds of religious bindings.

“He will become the thing he sought to escape, and you, guardsmech, will be the key to all of it.” Smokescreen gawked as Shockwave began to gather up the cords he was working with. Megatron grinned in a convoluted fashion, almost as if he'd already won. What were they planning? What could they possibly want if not information?

“I won’t do anything for you! Never!” He thrashed against his bonds again. It did nothing but prompt Megatron to laugh.

“Struggle as much as you want. It will yield you nothing. In the end, you will make Optimus squirm and drown in his guilt.” Megatron stood like royalty, but to Smokescreen, he looked like nothing more than a mad ghoul eager for its next hunt. Smokescreen would rather die than betray his team and Prime. Whatever Megatron had planned, it could not be allowed to succeed.

“The patch is prepared, Lord Megatron.” Shockwave approached the Lord of the Decepticons, a threatening series of cables in his servo. Smokescreen could see a needle on the end of one, likely meant to stab directly into his processor. 

“Excellent. Begin uploading the simulation schematics. I want him fully engrossed in it until Optimus agrees to a conference.” A simulation? Were they going to try and turn him into a Con or something?

“Optimus won’t ever surrender to you!” He flailed, fighting desperately enough to tear his armor around his wrists as he fought to be free. He wouldn't become a weapon. He refused to become a tool for Megatron to use.

Despite how hard he tried to get away, it wasn't long before part of his slab was removed, leaving his helm exposed from the back. He tried to move, but he could do nothing except bite back a scream as something sharp and painful jabbed directly into the back of his helm. Coolant threatened to gather in his optics as his systems were thrown into overdrive, trying to find the source of the problem to little avail. All the while, Megatron continued his mad monologue.

“The Primes of old were heralded as gods. The Primacy was devoted to their every wish and fancy.” The warlord paced, his sickening smile still ever present. Smokescreen could feel a faint buzz at the back of his mind, the beginnings of the patch's work, no doubt.

“It is ancient history now, but before the war began, every Prime was given devotees who were meant to serve them.” Smokescreen's optics trailed the leader of the Decepticons, observing with growing horror how much emphasis Megatron put on the word 'serve'. Just what was Megatron hoping to make him into?

“Mecha personally trained to meet their Prime’s fancies.” No. No, Megatron couldn't be trying to change him. Information fishing was one thing. But changing his mind? 

“Warriors brought low through humiliation and submission so that their will could become an extension of their Prime.” This couldn't be happening. He wouldn't succumb to Megatron's twisted will. He had to keep himself composed. 

“The most loyal and submissive servants. Just the kind of subordinate Optimus fears and despises in equal measure.” Megatron loomed over him, his gaze knowing and expectant. Smokescreen wanted to spit curses, but everything was starting to feel fuzzy, almost as though he were drifting into recharge.

“He fears becoming corrupt if given such devotion.” Twisted laughter bubbled in Megatron's vocalizer. His amusement rang out in the air as Smokescreen frantically tried to keep coolant from gathering in his optics. He couldn't show how scared he was, even though his shaking door wings betrayed him.

“Let’s see if his fears become reality.” Red optics glared down at him, demanding results. Smokescreen wanted to cry. Torture, interrogation, suffering of all kinds, he could endure those. But changing his very core? His mind and his beliefs? How was he to withstand that?

[spiriteddreams]

to the sky, the sun, (and you)

"there is something about you that i will always recognize" — boygenius (we're in love) Pairing: past Neuvillette x Reader, implied current Wriothesley x Reader Warnings: angst, hurt/no comfort Word Count: ~0.9k

oh to love someone and fall hard, only to watch it all crumble through your fingers and sink into the ocean along with your heart. oh to love someone with all your heart and feel it be ripped away, only for it to be pieced back in a place you’d least expect to find the sun. 

you find yourself standing as the accused, unfortunately rightfully so, in a plot in which you sought to bring justice to someone wrongfully accused. but where they were wrong, you were right. and the sight of you starting at neuvillette defiantly, head raised, mouth downturned, and eyes cold, forces him to reconsider what does justice really mean. he saw the signs of “betrayal” and yet he turned a blind eye, trying to convince himself that it was just his own paranoia.

his voice is unwavering as he delivers the final verdict that seals your fate. the words are bitter and poison on his tongue, sending a sharp ache to spear through his chest. but nothing will haunt him more than the look you give him on your knees, hands bound behind your back as you stare up at him on the dais. you don’t look at him as you are led away.

and in the fortress of meropide you meet wriothesley whose both surprised and hesitant to find you down there. you, who was an acquantance to him before being cast aside and stripped of all titles and status. but you hardly bat an eye when wriothesley makes an attempt to rile you up. yet he begins to find it fun to try to poke at you. and because there is still some lingering form of courteousness between the two of you, a friendship begins to bloom and he begins to understand why you did what you did. for justice is as cruel as she is blind, and her blade always strikes without remorse. wriothesley learned of it years ago and now he sees the way you try to bandage your own wounds. he takes note of the grimace that crosses your face at the mention of the chief justice, and the way a ghost of a smile seems to flicker across your lips when he catches you staring out into the ocean, as if you could see up to the sky.

time passes as the waves rise and fall, and the lines of friendship begin to blur. it is then that neuvillette decides to come down. he wonders if this feeling in his chest, the one of sinking regret and guilt as he is lowered deeper and deeper into the ocean, is what you felt when you were torn away from the sunlight and rolling green hills that you adored at his side. neuvillette runs through a practiced apology in his head, each step feeling like a balanced step on a tightrope leading towards where you are. and to his horror, he watches from a distance as you sit at the cafeteria, still as bright as ever, and yet you smile as the duke the same way you used to smile at him. and neuvillette wonders how long it’s been since he’s seen you laugh that hard.

he doesn’t make his presence known immediately, but he catches the way your eyes linger on his figure when he goes to meet with the duke. he pauses at the door, hand raised and ready to knock, and casts a glance at where you stand. he wishes you were closer so that he could see what emotions are on your face, but he can barely make out the traces of your features. your expression is blank, and he’s not sure if that’s worse than the look of betrayal on his face that you left to haunt him with.

when he asks to meet with you, wriothesley is hesitant and neuvillette’s chest aches at the way the duke thinks of your own wellbeing before the chief justice’s request. they sit across from each other, conversation locked away to the prying eyes and ears of all others. wriothesely traces the rim of his cup with his finger and it is then that neuveillette notices that the duke has acquired a new piece of jewelry, wrapped around his middle finger. he knows where he’s seen it before, but chooses not to ask. instead he waits as wriothesely chooses his words carefully, and tells neuvillette that if this conversation that he wishes to have with you has nothing to do with “bringing justice” or your case, then it’s not in your best interest to see him again. but neuvillette insists, a hint of desperation just barely slipping into his words. and because he’s the chief justice, his word is law. 

but when wriothesley goes to retrieve you, he can’t help but notice the whispers shared between the two of you. you look at him the way you used to look at the sun and above ground, clouds begin to darken the sky. you haven’t noticed him thus yet, but neuvillette notices the moment that his name comes from wriothesley’s lips, your smile falters. it’s impossible to miss the concerned look wriothesely shoots between you and neuvillette as you both approach. that smile that you offered wriothesely immediately drops when you look to face neuvillette, and justice crumbles beneath his feet.

oh to love someone and fall hard and feel it become swept away by unforgiving waters, to watch as those fragmented pieces of trust and adoration are offered to the hands of another, one who knows how to protect your own heart better than he ever could.

reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated! <3

[codenamesazanka]

assorted 408 thoughts

When I first saw this sequence of panes, I thought, wildly and hopefully, that’s Shigaraki Tomura. That could be Shigaraki Tomura, someone who holds the quirk All For One and who, despite everything, is kind.

＊

It reminds to be seen if Shigaraki Tomura can be stopped. As Deku says himself in Chapter 406, he still haven't come up an answer yet.

Since his first appearances, Shigaraki Tomura is infamous for being childish, talking about fights and battles as if he was playing video games. He's matured since then and his game metaphors have lessen in quantity, but his enjoyment of video games is still significant to his character.

But Shigaraki Tomura is also the one who created the League of Villains, a haven for outcasts and misfits. Twice considers the League the only place he belongs. Toga found life easier to live while with Shigaraki and others. The League is home to it's members, because Shigaraki made it that way.

Part of that is because Shigaraki Tomura is considerate of his teammates feelings and desire. This is core to Shigaraki - even as a child, he went out of his way to befriend those left behind, to include the children no one else wanted to play with. Underneath the layers of bitterness and rage caused by society's rejection, Shigaraki is still someone who cares a lot:

＊

One thing I really like about the new chapter is that All For One kept Yoichi's severed hand.

Why? Who knows. All For One isn't allowed any real human emotions by the story. But still - All For One kept a severed hand, a memento of a lost one and whatever significance is embedded in that; it's evidence of what he's done - killed his brother - and a symbol of his new purpose - to hunt down the other remnant of Yoichi.

Years later, he would do the same for Shimura Tenko, when he gives the boy the hands of the slaughtered Shimura family. And he intends for them to have the same meanings and purposes - for Shimura Tenko to remember the massacre, and for that memory to spur him onward.

That AFO repeats this gruesome gesture with Tenko, essentially reproducing the same horror he experienced onto the boy who he intends to be his heir. This recontextualizes The Hands a bit - instead of just what seemed to be a sort of unique psychological torment imposed out of revenge against Shimura Nana's descendant, it's also AFO just raising Tomura after himself. It's still a incredibly fucked up cruelty, don't get me wrong, but now it feels less because specifically Shimura, and more because AFO wanted an successor that mirrors himself, down to the same traumatic trappings.

＊

But of course, Shigaraki Tomura still greatly resembles Yoichi.

Overall, this panel of Yoichi does closely resembles the panel of Shigaraki from Chapter 221. Just— everything from the angle of the face and the direction of their gaze, to the position of the hand.

But based on Yoichi’s expression - the eyes, the slight smile, the whole demeanor - my first thought went to Shigaraki in Chapter 148, when he was telling Toga and Twice that he believes in them.

This is Shigaraki, revealing his face to Toga and Twice, when in the previous panels, it had seemed like he was insensitively ordering them around, without consideration for their feelings, telling them to work with Overhaul who had just murdered their friend Magne. But once the hand comes off - voluntarily, for the first time, facing them straightforwardly - we see a look that convey a lot of things - Shigaraki's resolve in taking down Overhaul, his trust in Twice and Toga, his sincerity in what he's saying. It's Shigaraki with probably his kindest expression in the entire manga.

It parallels the context somewhat too - in Yoichi panels, it had look at first like he was despondent, sad and weak, lamenting that he dependent and was unable to do anything against the evil that was his brother. But instead, with the face reveal, we're seeing Yoichi's own indomitable will and kindness, so much that he still sees the hopeful possibilities of All For One's power.

Both are victims of All For One, but both have always kept their strong sense of self and core sense and desire for kindness and justice.

＊

If you ask me what AFO and OFA combined would look like, I have to say: Shigaraki Tomura.

[geniemillies]

Yearning For Spring | Ch. 3 | Tamlin x Oc

— Chapter 3 - The Lady of The Mountain

<<Ch. 1 <<Ch.2 ___ Ch.4>>

Summary: It was always doomed from the start. Before the fall of the Spring Court, before the horrors of Amarantha's reign, and before Tamlin could even become High Lord. Fate played its hand long ago and brought them together, the string loose and the bond one-sided. Choiceless and caged, Niamh bears the weight of this secret as a heavy burden, this cursed bond she will take to the grave, condemned to only dream and yearn for spring.

Ch. Warnings: Amarantha as a warning by herself.

The Middle reeked of gore and blood and death all around as if whatever Amarantha's been doing Under the Mountain managed to claw its essence to the surface. I sigh, rolling my head back to look at the dim sky blocked by a canopy of dead leaves. Great. I was told Prythian was a beautiful place but now she has tainted it with the dreadfulness that is Hybern with her. I really do wonder how she did it. Her reputation exceeds her, many commend her for her cunning mind always scheming ways to have people wrap around her little finger but personally, I have never seen the appeal.

While her sister tolerated me, liked me even, the same couldn't be said for her. Amarantha has always been a possessive female, she likes keeping those she thinks belong to her close and throws a tantrum when she loses them. She's never liked me even when I was a child with no position in court. She'd trip me over with her foot and throw hateful glares at me. I never knew the reason so I concluded that she was just born a bitch. Children who served in the palace have fallen to her hands once or twice but never again. I will never forget how she urged the King to punish fae, young and older, for things that were not of their control. I will never forget how she looked at me when she whispered that idea to him. Turn them into the Attor, my King.

Loathe cannot even begin to describe what I feel for her. And I do not loathe easily.

Speaking of the horrid devil, the Attor welcomes me into the ant hive it calls Her Majesty's Castle and I fight the urge not to roll my eyes as it guides me. My bones seethe beneath my skin. This particular abomination smells odd. Familiar. No doubt she brought it to me specifically.

“Little Dove…”

Her voice echoes throughout the massive cave that is the throne room and a shiver crawls down my spine, not out of fear. No. Never of her. But of the burning hatred that I held in my heart, reserved only for her. Yet I am composed and calm as I stand before her.

“Welcome! To my lovely palace, dearest princess.”

I look around for a moment before meeting her gaze up the steps, her face just as I remember, stuck with bitterness and eternal rage. But something is different, atop her scarlet head sits a crown of thorns.

Fitting, as she is a thorn in the sides of many.

“Curious.. choice of furniture, Amarantha.”

She scoffs, a smirk forever marked on her face as she leans back, comfortable on her makeshift throne of ashened stone. How tasteless. At least the King had some.. panache. This place is just a sore to the eyes. And beside her, another throne is placed. It is empty.

Smaller and insignificant. I pity whoever willingly sits beside her.

“I would choose my words more carefully if I were you, little princess. After all, you stand before the High Queen of Prythian. Do you not see it fit to bow?”

“I do not bow to pretenders.” I catch a sneer from her. “I bow only to my King.”

She clicks her teeth. “Has he sent you to fetch me, little dove? And as always, like his faithful little dog, you bark when he tells you to. Does it not get tiring? Would you rather be free from his command?” She extended a hand, flashing her wrist void of any golden cuffs. And I must have felt my heart skip a beat at the sight.

She no longer has them..

“I have an opening in my court. You'll be a lovely cupbearer by my side.”

I would rather fling myself off Hybern cliffs. “Tempting.”

“Or you could be the court jester seeing as you think my reign is such a joke, Niamh.” She says my name with such disdain, flicking her tongue like it's some curse she never wants to say.

I tipped my chin upwards, my face unimpressed. “I am still your superior. You will address me as such. The King sent me to discuss just that. But as your guest, do you not find it rude I am not offered a seat? Refreshments even? I came all this way..” I tilt my head and smile sweetly.

A line forms at the edge of her brows. “You are in my domain now. I will address you as I see fit.” Her voice echoes throughout the room, lifting her body up her chair slightly to scold me. Yet she's the one acting like a child.

She sinks back to her seat, her face softening to an eerie expression of calm. “But you are right. I have been rude. Come, and stand beside me and I shall show you just how much control I have over these poor fools.”

“Bring them in.” She clapped and the door to the room flung open and I slowly got out of the way to her side. As I stand beside her I notice a glimpse of the eye inside her ring, how it twitches as the orb snapped to look up at me. Jurian looks at me. As if he's pleading, desperate to get out of that tight cage.

I can only ignore him.

Several fae enter the room, escorted by veiled servants. All children. My blood seethes under my skin. I hate it. I hate how she's turned this place into the spitting image of Father's Court. And there she sits on her throne, imitating his mannerisms, his cold stare, his smug smirk, and his cruel punishments. Like a sorry display of royalty.

I look around and see no one else enter. No High Lords in sight, not a single one. Just children shivering in the cold, their skin riddled with dirt and bruises.

And yet... I feel the presence of a thousand souls trapped all around me.

“Is this what your Court consists of? Tiny children?” I ask and she lets out a hearty laugh.

“Do not be ridiculous. Of course not.”

I place a hand on my hip. “Where are.. these High Lords?”

“Out and about. Further down the Mountain. I do not care much for them right now~ What I do care for is how these... unruly children.. stole from me.” She leans back on her chair. “Several pieces of food have gone missing from the banquet hall and I know it's one of you brats. I strictly forbade entrance and yet. And yet. I am disobeyed again.” She breathed in, clasping her hands in a weak show of patience. “We shall change that. Instill discipline once more so we can all live more happily in my little palace.”

My breathing slowed and I could hear the echoes of breath inside the mask I wore. One. Two. Three. Four– Ten children. Ten children. I memorize their faces in silence.

How many more are trapped down under? Her reign could go on for decades more and these children could never see the sun again. Will children be born underground, straight into a life of servitude?

I feel my heart race at the thought. She spreads the King's ways like a disease. A blight in the lands.

“Well? Does anyone want to speak up? Who did it? Step forward now and no one gets hurt.” She orders but no one speaks up, not until a meek child dressed in tattered silks steps up, kneeling until her head touches the dirty ground before her.

“It was I, your Majesty. I stole the pie. Please. Forgive me. I was just so hungry.” Her voice trembled as she spoke. And despite her weak voice it still echoed throughout the room. All the children seemed to tense up, something that didn't go amiss.

“Sweet child. I do not tolerate liars in my court.” She sneers, delighting in their predicament.

“I.. do not lie, My Queen. It was I. Punish me, please.” She keeps her head lowered to the ground, too afraid to meet Amarantha's blackened gaze as if she might turn her to stone if she did.

Amarantha only hums before snapping her fingers and suddenly, curtains open above the walls, revealing the balconies where the rest of her Court stood. All of them. Divided into groups of– One. Two. Three. Four— Six.

Six.

Six..?

Seven Courts. Seven High Lords. And yet..

“What do you think, My Lords?” She extends an arm to the audience only to scowl when there is no answer.

“Insolent cowards. Kallias! This brat hails from your dirt. Do you claim that your people are liars!?”

Kallias stands in front of a group of silver-haired fae, his face pallid and eyes sunken and tired. “No. My Queen.” He speaks as if he held back words of bile, his pale eyes swirling with great fear that overshadowed hatred.

“So she is guilty. What punishment is deserving for unruly thieves, hm? Shall we hang—?”

“I-It was me!” Another child shouts, standing and running up beside the crying girl before the dais, her head still on the floor. “It was me. I stole the food! Not her!” The boy exclaimed.

“No!” A female voice came from the balconies. A wail, a cry of a mother no doubt.

“Silence! I will not tolerate lies in my court. Who tells lies?! Who speaks the truth? I will have you all fed to the Wyrm if I do not get a truthful answer.” Her voice booms throughout the room.

Then she calms again, her voice trembling from suppressed rage. “We cannot have this. No, we cannot.” She looks up to the balconies to a raven-haired male, black orbs meet violet ones. For a moment she was about to call him to the dais but she hesitated.

Instead, she turns to me.

“I've been rude, your Highness. Reprimanding my subjects in front of my guest.” She smirks as links her arms with mine, as if we share a relationship above our mutual hatred for each other. She brings me to the centre of the dais then down the steps just before the kneeling children.

“May I introduce her royal wickedness, Princess Niamh. High Commander of Hybern. The Silver Raven. My.. best friend. We do not often have guests, do we?? We shall let her do the honors..~” I feel her fingers stroking my braid on my back and I fight the urge to cringe and push her away.

“Search the children. Break them if you have to but I want the culprit.”

I scoff, tugging my arm away from hers and I see her eye twitch. “I do not participate in parlor tricks. The boy tells the truth. He is the culprit.”

Amarantha hums. “And pray tell, my Princess, what is the punishment for thieves in Hybern..?”

I breathe in the wretched air. “Death.”

“Hm.. Death.” She nods.

“Kill him.”

I felt my hand twitch. “No.”

Her eyes narrowed. “What.” She muttered under gritted teeth, daring me to defy her again in front of her subjects.

“I will do no such a thing. Not in front of our Prythian Lords.” I say before I circle the children before us, they tremble at my presence, flinching at each click of my sharpened heels. I kneel before the first child, her skin soft as snow and cold as ice. My gloves disappear into scarlet embers at the sight of her silver eyes, glassy with tears. I turn her head left and right as if expecting her, feeling the cold breaths of those in the Winter Court cease.

I do not see the child before me anymore. I see only the terrors she lived ever since the beginning of Amarantha's reign as I absorb her memories as if they were my own. They disappear in a heartbeat, replaced by the sight of her trembling face.

“Hm, yes. They'll do nicely. I'll accept a gift from you now, Amarantha. A courtesy for your guest.”

Amarantha doesn't say anything. She observes me, trying to figure out my intentions.

“I'll be returning home with the little creatures. There is to be a feast at the Lighthouse. They'll do nicely as food on my plate.” I declare and chaos began in the balconies, not just those in the Winter Court.

All these children seem to belong.. everywhere.

Their screams of protest only fueled Amarantha's sadism as she grinned at my demand. She knows nothing of what goes on at the Lighthouse. Ever since it became mine, the King and I made a deal that he nor any other step foot inside my territory. What I do there is but my business and we shook on it, cursing ourselves as if the pact were between ancient gods and not father and daughter. Though it seems Amarantha has caught flight of my dealings, not by a lot. She knows I take children from Court and from Hybern streets. What I do with them, she nor any other in Hybern knows. Everyone just assumes I eat them. A ridiculous rumor that is widespread in Hybern. And by the looks of her emerging grin, I think she believes so as well.

And no, despite popular belief, I do not eat children.

“Very well~ Who am I to keep you hungry, Commander? They are.. all yours~”

“You are all dismissed..” The chaos continues, echoing throughout cave walls.

“YOU ARE ALL DISMISSED.”

Then.. silence.

“You may collect them once you leave. For now.. walk with me, Commander.” We disappear into another part of the mountain.

Above it apparently as there are huge holes carved asymmetrically along the walls, revealing the grey skies outside. A servant girl arrives with a tray of tea and snacks that she sets on a table. She bows before she leaves quietly, allowing us both to take our seats, Amarantha taking her place on a long sofa while I, on a normal chair.

“Very well. You've indulged my entertainments, tell me what His Highness wants to discuss so badly. If he's so mad why has he not taken upon himself to smite me for my disobedience?”

“His Highness is merciful.”

She slightly rolls her head back as she lets out a huff of laughter. “Not even you believe that.”

“He wishes to see how you'd go about this little.. game of yours. He thinks of you as an experiment.”

There was a pause, a scowl on her face was present. “I am no one's little lab rat. Tell your King I am not returning. I will not return. I. Will. Not.” she growls in discontent as she flares at me. But behind pride and scorn, there is a hint of desperation in her voice. A twinge.. of fear.

“You of all people should understand why I would run here and never come back. If it were you, you would've done the same.”

“I do not concern myself with petty vengeance or blowing steam on people who are blameless.”

“THEY FOUGHT FOR THE MORTALS." She snapped at me, but I did not flinch. "They helped their armies, fought by their side, they are complicit in her death!” Her voice echoes throughout the empty cavern.

“You were her friend. Though I do not understand why she'd favour the likes of you, she held affection for you. And you sit here questioning my methods of enacting revenge in her name.”

“You had your revenge. Jurian is dead. Is that not enough?”

She shook her head, her dark gaze fixed on me. She's shaking. “No. It's not. It's not enough. It will never be enough. Have you forgotten how she was maimed and butchered? How could you? It was not you who had to find bits and pieces of her."

How could I indeed..? I was a toddler when the War began.

"She was my sister. My blood. She was mine!" Her voice echoed before it all dulled down into whispers. "And they took her from me.. Have you any idea what it's like? To have the last of your blood family be taken from you? To see her beautiful face unrecognizable.. To be denied vengeance even when I clutched pieces of her to my chest, pleading to the King.."

"You are young. You think you've suffered? You haven't suffered yet, princess."

"And I hope one day you'll get to experience such torment.. Then you'll remember me. You'll think of me. You'll think of Clythia." There is grief in her eyes. A grief that paved way to madness, no doubt. Her lips twisted into a smile.

"I will never return to Hybern, Niamh. No matter what you tell me. Not like it matters. The King and I's hearts are one and the same. I still seek for the destruction of the mortal lands.”

“So why are you delaying?”

“Because~" She breathed deeply as she composed herself. "I'm having fun here. Can a female not have any fun now?” She grins as she tilts her head.

I look away, “The seven Courts. They all slave away here now?”

She hums, the topic of Clythia and vengeance dying as quickly as a candle's flame. “All but one pesky Lordling.” My eye twitched as I snapped to look at her, the tea cup frozen against my lips. “You remember him, do you not? The handsome young male from the parties the King throws every once in a while~”

I feel my wrist itch, the handkerchief still somewhere inside my armor.

“I do not.”

“Pity. He's rather unforgettable. Even now I still want him all for myself. He's grown into such a fine High Lord. Adorable how he delays the inevitable, like a mouse in an endless maze.” She lets out a cruel laugh.

My eyes narrow. “What have you done?”

She looks at me innocently. “Nothing.. Yet. The wretched little Lord rejected my proposal and thus he escaped the.. unification of the seven Under the Mountain.”

The mask hides my face. But I try my hardest to keep my voice from trembling. “I see. Where is he now?”

“In his Court. Hiding. Idling away. Looking for a way to stop me perhaps. He won't. He will fail. He will either bend the knee to me or I will break him and everyone in his wretched flowery court.”

My face contorted into a glare I couldn't control. “What do you plan to do?”

“He rejected me. And so I will burn his Court to the ground." She shrugs, "Leaving only him last. And when I finish the killing blow maybe I'll take his eye and incase it in another ring. Would be fashionable, no? Romantic even. That way we will forever be together..”

I struggled to keep my heart's steady pace as I listened to her ramble on. She'll kill him. She'll kill Spring's High Lord. She'll kill Tamlin. She'll kill… my mate.

My gaze still elsewhere, unable to look at her, unable to quench the blood seething in my bones.

“When?”

“As soon as I'm able. I'm still getting used to Autumn's fiery fire. I will set the Court ablaze myself.”

I spiral. I spiral into thoughts of his screams, his blood splattered across blades of grass. And when the light fades in his eyes, will I feel the bond die as well? I gripped the hands of my chair too hard that I might've cracked it. And while I spiral in the dread that swirls around my stomach I manage to let out a small laugh.

A mocking laugh.

Amarantha's burning glare could be felt even at this distance, even when I wasn't looking at her..

“He was right about you.” I breathe out. “He knew you wouldn't be able to handle it. I owe him quite a number of gold.”

“What.”

I blink innocently at her. “Oh. Father and I bet on whether or not you could truly rule Prythian without it being cinders by the time you're done. I gave you some benefits and I claimed that with your cunning you might be able to keep it together for a few decades.” I laugh again. There was not bet. “But this? Not even a year through your reign and you're already killing people because, what? You cannot bring them to heel?” My laugh only grows with each insult I throw at her hoping desperately that she takes the bait.

“Father laughed at my bet. Saying that it wouldn't take you even three months to lose control and throw a temper tantrum. He believes you are too incompetent to handle the burdens of a monarch. Guess he was right about you. As always.”

She seethes and jolts out of her seat and I see Jurian twitch in my direction. “How dare you.”

I scoff. “How dare I? Did I speak any untruths? You're so pathetic not even males want to bed you anymore. How long have you been lusting for that boy only for him to reject you? Time and time again. You're Queen and he still doesn't want you. It must sting, doesn't it? To not get what you want? Have you fallen so far from grace that you can't get a single male to want you back? Father's Court laughs at your incompetence, you’re already disgraced in their eyes. The disappointment of a Commander. The pretender Queen—”

“ENOUGH. Get. OUT!!” She hurls magic at me, a blade of ice that almost grazed my cheek had I not winnowed to another corner of the room.

But the ice did get me, it struck the sides of my iron mask, willing it to fall to the floor as I moved out of the way, revealing my face.

She seems to fume even more at the sight of me uncovered, baring her teeth, her eyes a murderous show of jealousy. She's always been jealous. From the moment she was knocked out of her place as Father's second in command in favour of me. Someone more capable, stronger, younger. She cannot bear it and in her eyes, I stole the King's favour just as I stole Clythia's affections like it's my fault I can win people over just as easily as she does.

If she finds out the male she's been lusting over for years was mated to me she might actually tear all her hair out and bite my head off right here, right now.

I show her a smirk, tilting my head. “You prove us right. Every single time. And you cannot handle the truth.”

She points at me. “I will show you just how capable I am of getting what I want. Sooner or later, Tamlin will get on his knees and beg for my forgiveness, my hand, my love.” As if anyone wants any of those from her. I shouldn't be this angry, shouldn't have prodded her to the point that she almost landed a hit on me. But I couldn't help it. She speaks of him in a way that makes me want to strangle her and feed her body to the fire.

He's my mate. He is mine…

She calms down for a moment, pacing around the room as her gaze falls to the floor to my fallen mask. She grabs it and inspects it, how the intricate details of Hybern patterns are carved to its surface. Her eyes narrowed as she bore her gaze into the slits of eyes on the mask before turning to me with her usual, wicked smile.

“You are right. I must handle unruly citizens without resulting in immediate bloodshed. Ever the wise advisor you are, Commander.” She hands me my mask back. “In fact, to say how deeply sorry I am for my actions towards the Spring Court and their Lord, I think I will throw.. a party. One that they will never forget..”

Dread swirls around my stomach at her words. She wouldn't. Shit. She would. There's nothing she wouldn't do to get the slightest bit of satisfaction from others’ suffering. And I think I just gave her an idea..

Fuck.

I cannot speak my mind. So I remain silent.

“You must return to Hybern. Inform His Majesty that I am well and I'm having fun. He'll get his war. And before then... I will remain here and enjoy myself.” She looks down at my gloved hands.

“Really, I do not understand why you coil into his service when he remains doing these horrors to you.” She ran her calloused hands along the fabric of the glove, eyeing me as if she were my friend who cared.

“Or has he broken you completely that you answer only to him, now? Just like Brannagh and Dagdan?” She prods, showing her pearly white teeth as she grins at me, reminding me of what happened to my cousins. She was there as was I.

I shook my head and looked away. “You're right. I should return to Hybern. At once.”

“Yes. Back to your cage now, little dove.” I feel her hand on my wrist, right above the golden cuffs. The same ones she had yet she has managed to break with all the power she stole.

“Back to the shackles you've grown to love.”

I want to strangle her...

“Hybern is my home. I am happy there.”

She smiles knowingly. “Of course you are.”

There was a knock on the door, interrupting us as a scowl returned to her face. She snaps at the door, willing it to open.

A tall male appears. Raven hair and violet eyes. Lord of Night. He is alive.

“Rhysand. What did I tell you about interrupting me while I have a guest?” Amarantha says sweetly, behind her words is boiling bile. I reckon once I leave she'll hurl that bile at him.

I put my mask back on before his eyes could turn to me. “He's not interrupting. See to it what he wants and we'll continue this conversation.” I order and she seems to stab me with her glare, her ego hurt because I just gave her a command in front of someone else.

No wonder why there was no audience when I arrived. She didn't want anyone to see me insult her to her face while she could do nothing about it.

“There are reports of a group of fae leaving through the tunnels, my Queen.” He informed, keeping up a cordial front of loyalty. The poor thing.

“It is of no consequence, tell the Attor to sniff them out. Tonight we will have a show.” She turns to me. “Shall my princess stay to watch?”

“I have other matters to attend to. But do enjoy yourself.”

“Pity.” She shrugs. “That will be all. Leave us, Rhysand.”

“Wait.” I say before he can even turn around. I look at Amarantha. “Are your subjects so ill-mannered they don't know how to greet their royal guests?”

She narrows her eyes at me before turning to the Night Lord. “Rhysand. Bow to the Princess.” She orders through her teeth as if she didn't want to.

“Of course.” His face softens, a perfectly crafted expression of a charmer. And as he approaches me I extend an arm, feigning being charmed by his very beauty. My right glove turns into cinders before he takes my hand and kisses the back of it.

At the contact of his skin on mine, I fight the urge not to flinch and pull away as his memories flow into my head like a wind blowing through doors with no warning. Visions of his servitude to Amarantha, how he offered himself, his body, in exchange she left the Night Court alone. I could throw up at the visions where he lay in bed in the aftermath of a passionless night. I closed my eyes and willed my power to stop. But it didn't. And so I tore my hand away and the glove reemerged from existence, returning to wrap themselves around my skin.

“Princess..” His touch lingers as he looks up at me. “Is your beauty so blinding that you are to don a mask?” He flirts and if I could I would've snorted.

Just like his sister..

I look at Amarantha. “At least this one is a flatterer. Can't say the same for that damned Attor.” I feel her jealous glare boring at my face. I was about to dismiss him but stopped myself, knowing that if I did her jealousy might flare up and the poor male would suffer for it.

“Dismiss him, Amarantha. I have no use for empty compliments.” I turn away, putting up a tone of disinterest.

“Rhysand. Leave us.”

He leaves and we are once again alone. “I too shall take my leave. Where are the children I am promised?”

She snaps her fingers and we are winnowed back into the throne room where the Attor guarded the trembling children still shackled and cold on the ground.

“All yours.” Amarantha smiles as she flashes her cruel eyes on the High Lords perched again at the balconies.

The only way for the Ravens of Hybern to leave the land is with the King's permission, which he grants as a jewel that temporarily dulls the magic of their shackles. Once they have completed their journey and returned to Hybern, the magic of the jewel would cease, and they would be caged once again.

I twist the ring on my middle finger and a shadow-rimmed whip emerges from the air, landing in my hands. I crack the whip in my hands as I approach the children.

As the eldest child looked up at me with pleading silver eyes, I didn't falter and looked back down at her with a face colder than the lands she hails from.

A sharp slash of the whip echoes throughout the courtroom. And the children vanished, taken by dark flames.

As did I.

— —

The scarlet glow of the gem on the ring I was given dulled once I stepped foot in Hybern lands once more, expending the permission of leave.

And once again, I am back in my cage.

The children huddled together at the entrance of the foyer, their limbs still bound by shackles. I called to Manann, one of the elder children of the Lighthouse and he ran to me, his face horrified by the sight before him.

“Mother..”

“Manann. Have someone open the empty room at the west hall. We have new guests. Even more so than my usual additions. And tell Dreas to let everyone know. I have to make haste to the palace. Please do make them feel welcome.” I hurriedly instructed before I walked past the children in the foyer and to the door.

“Are they from the northern territories?” Manann asked.

“No. They're from Prythian.” Mannan turned pale and before I opened the door I snapped my fingers and the children's silver shackles shattered into light.

“I will attend to them once I return. I apologize for asking this of you.”

“I do not mind, Mother.” He smiles sweetly, tilting his head. "I'm always happy to see new faces.."

I nodded and opened the door. “Clothe them, feed them first and foremost. Tend to their wounds. And if I am back early I will do them myself. If they'd let me. But you know how he is..”

Mannan nods. “I will handle it. We'll make them feel at home, don't worry.”

With one look back at the trembling children on the floor I sigh before turning away. Then I left for the palace where Father's waiting for my report.

— —

When I returned to the Lighthouse hours later the halls were quiet. When I snuck a peak at the west hall I heard children's chatter, all of them trying to help with the Prythian children. It's a good thing. I'm probably the last person they want to see right now. I'll give them space and in time, when they warm up to the place I will give them the explanations they wish for.

Instead of seeing them, paperwork found me and drowned me in my private study. The King likes to keep me busy most of the time. Matters like controlling his Court and handling his armies are burdens dropped upon my shoulders while he sulks about in his dark libraries accompanied by potions and spellbooks and whatever schemes he brews in his tower.

People of Hybern like to praise him for being their most formidable King while he warms his chair and has me do all the tedious work behind the curtains. I cannot complain. Not for a second. Not after I realized that it is a beneficial thing to be in charge of Hybern's affairs. To know the ins and outs and be in the reins of it all. He trusts me explicitly and yet distrusts me all the same. I control his lands, his military, his Court proceedings. But I know not how his mind works most of the time I spend doing his bidding.

And I think he revels in the fact that I am trying..

I do find it suspicious how much trust and power he's willing to give me so I do not let it get to my head. I'm wary of the authority I instill, suspicious that there is a great chance that he is.. observing me even when he isn't.

“Mother? The children you rescued from Prythian don't want to leave their rooms.” Manann appears between the crack of the door to my study, disrupting my thoughts.

“I understand. If they do not wish to come out we will not force them to. The horrors they faced in that cave are horrible enough. We'll give them time. Tell the other children to leave the door.” I look up at him, the adolescent fae with tanned skin and curly dark locks. Mannan was a child I picked off from the streets of Hybern, just like all the children in the Lighthouse. His parents were dissenters and begged me to spare his life.

And I did. I spared theirs as well.

“Are they changed from their clothes at least?”

Mannan nods. “There are clothes in the room. Giving them some food and water was the one thing they let us do before pushing us out and locking the room.”

“I see.”

“Is it.. that bad? The eldest, I think, the one with white hair.. is the voice of reason. But I understand, she is smart to not trust us.”

“Yes. To put it simply. Amarantha is as cruel as you remember. Still revels at the sight of children suffering.” I feel my eye twitch as her name leaves my mouth.

“Has Velaria returned from her endeavors?”

“No. She sent word that she will be returning, though.” Manann enters the room and sets a plate of desserts beside my papers. “I will prepare you wakingdew elixir if you want.” He stares at the scrolls and papers on my desk and my shoulders soften.

I smile, “I would love that. Thank you, dearest.”

— —

I stir the elixir in my teacup as I stare out the window to the courtyard below where the children ran and played about amongst themselves. The sun above is but a light pink glow from all the fog and dark clouds. If I could pierce through the skies to reveal the blue heavens and golden rays I would. For them. I would.

I stopped stirring as I felt a presence sneaking behind the large doors to the dining hall. The eldest winter child, now free from her shackles. Our eyes met and she coiled her head and hid from me.

I look away and sip my elixir as if I did not see her. Silence followed for a few minutes and the child didn't leave yet she stayed hidden.

“Why?” I hear her say from that distance.

I set the cup down. “Why what?” I tipped my chin upwards.

“Why didn't you kill us?” She asked meekly, her brows furrowed into a forced glare as she hid from me still.

“I had no reason to,” I said simply. “Come. Are you hungry?” She comes alone, I sensed.

“No..”

“Of course you are. Come.” I flick two fingers forward and open the door completely with my magic, revealing her frail body now clothed properly before summoning a plate beside my table. “Eat.” I grabbed a piece of bread from a basket on the table, a silver cart rolling towards me before I took the butter from it and set it beside the bread.

The child reluctantly walked towards me, her eyes up and her head down as she did. She sat down but only stared at the bread.

“Apologies for the lack of variety. It is not yet supper so I have not cooked yet.” I tilt my head as I observe her eyeing the food with suspicious eyes.

“It is not poisoned. I am not so cruel that I'd kill you after bringing you out of that.. cave prison.”

I see her shoulders slump down at the mere mention of that place. “Amarantha would be so cruel..” She said, her voice weak and broken.

“I am not Amarantha. This is not Under the Mountain.”

“Where are we?”

“Hybern. The Lighthouse. My home.”

“Why..?”

“It is the safest place to bring you and the others.”

She continues to frown, not believing my words. “But why?”

I tilt my head, confused. “Why what?”

“Why save us at all?”

“I saw an opportunity to put you out of your misery and I took it.”

“Why?”

“Because it's not right. What she does to you. To all those people. If I had left you and the other children I would have regretted it all my life.”

“She said you were a princess. A commander. They say you eat children.”

“My reputation is exaggerated. And even more if such rumors come from Amarantha of all fae.” I roll my eyes. “I will not hurt you, child. You're safe here. And when the time comes, when it's safe to return you, all of you to Prythian, I will. I just want you to live. And you will not live for long if you do not.. eat.”

I push the plate further closer to her. “Eat.”

And eat she does. She dug into that bread until it was nothing in mere seconds, immediately grabbing another from the basket and digging into it like she hadn't eaten in months. The poor thing.

“What's your name?”

She gulps down her food, panting. “Marilla.”

“Marilla.” I smile. I propped an elbow on the table and leaned my head against my head. “My name is Niamh.”

“Your.. Highness.”

“Just Niamh.”

She gulps her food, almost panting for air. “The boy from before called you mother. Is he your son? Actually, everyone around here calls you that.”

“Not by blood. Perhaps I am their mother in a way.. They live under my roof, I provide for them and play with them when I can. I suppose.. that is somewhat of a definition for a mother.” It didn't used to be like this until one child started calling me mother and everyone joined in. It stuck. And I had no particular problems with the name.

It is.. endearing.

“You do not need to call me mother if that's what you're asking. You may call me whatever you like least it's anything formal. I have no need for formalities. Not here. Not in my home.”

“Okay.. Niamh..”

“Eat up. Eat all the bread if you like. We have plenty. And when you return to your room, tell the other children to eat as well. We need meat back in your bones.”

She was silent for a while as she chewed. “You cannot imagine what goes on in that place..”

I pause. “Yes, I can. We have a similar predicament around here. But instead of a Queen ruling over us, it is a King. And he is worse. Far.. worse.”

“King of Hybern..”

“Hm. But do not worry. The Lighthouse is the one thing he cannot touch. You're safe.”

“You're a princess but you do not live in his palace.”

My nose flared. “I do not want to be anywhere near him in such an extended period of time.”

“Are you his daughter?”

“Unfortunately.”

“You do not get along with your father?”

I look away. “Is there any daughter that does?”

“Some.. Though, maybe not a lot.” Marilla mutters.

Before we could utter another word, footsteps made their way to the dining hall, stomping of heavy boots echoing throughout the walls.

“How is he?! Is he alive!?" She demanded immediately, making her way to me in a flash making Marilla flinch in her seat.

Her large wings outstretched behind her, a veil of darkness in her wake, following her every step. When I looked up, violet eyes met mine, brimming with emotion. Concern and fury etched on her features.

“He is alive,” I responded. “Though if your question is how he is fairing I'm afraid, not well. He serves as Amarantha's close command in exchange for her to leave the Night Court alone.”

“Velaris..”

“Yes, remains untouched at the cost of your brother's servitude to her.”

Lines form at the corners of her brows as she shakes her head. “What does she make him do?”

I grimace. “I cannot tell you. I'm not sure he'd want you to know. Just know that it's horrible.”

“That bitch..”

“I'm sorry, Velaria. The King lets her do as she pleases. The experiment continues.”

She remained silent as she paced the room, the mist that surrounded her threatening to swallow the space whole. But she controls herself. Just as I taught her.

She turns to me. And the child sat beside me. "Another one?" She raised a brow. "From which territory this time?"

"None. She's from Prythian." I answered and Velaria's jaw fell.

"Niamh." She looked at me in disbelief. "How many?"

"Ten."

"Niamh.."

"They are safer here than there. They're given to me as 'gifts'."

Velaria sighed as she sat down in front of Marilla, observing her features as her own softened. She nods. "Good.. That's good."

Her worried face was slowly replaced and she offered Marilla a kind smile, her dark wings folding behind her. "I'm sorry about my outburst.. My name is Velaria. Prythian is also my home."

She extends her hand. "Welcome to the Lighthouse.."

"Marilla.." She answers meekly as she hesitantly shakes her hand.

"Marilla. Of Winter I presume?" She asks and the child nods, her shoulders relaxing.

"You're Illyrian.." Marilla comments.

"That I am." Velaria smiles, tilting her head.

"Are you one of her children, too?"

Velaria snorted as she glanced at me. "Gods, no. We're closer in age." She shrugs. "I'm just here. Using her rooms, eating her food. Do not let her nonchalance fool you. The High Commander is a softie."

I sigh. "Velaria.." I turn to Marilla. "You may take the whole basket to your rooms. Share amongst the other kids, I'm sure they're hungry. I need to speak with Velaria. Alone."

Marilla looked at me and then at Velaria before getting out of her seat, taking the whole basket of bread with her, and leaving us alone.

Velaria turns to me.

"When do you plan to return them?" She asked.

"When I am able. Or when Amarantha's reign is over, I'm not sure." I let out a breath. "I acted too quickly.. I just.. I only thought of what might happen if I left them there."

I felt her hand in mine. "You did good. And as for returning them.. we will see."

My heart warmed at her reassurance. "We will see.." I nod. It's unknown when I could be given permission to leave again. He doesn't like me leaving Hybern. And with all the High Lords trapped in that mountain, I doubt the state of their Courts is any better than their prison. Their remaining people outside the Mountain lives in constant instability, fear, and hunger most likely.

“And what of your endeavors to the south?” I ask her.

She lets out a heavy sigh as she lets go of my hand, running her fingers through her silken strands of black hair, and leaning back against her chair.

She smiles at me.

"A success. The dissenters are captured. Taken underground. And the rebellion is ever growing in number.”

I finish my elixir, feeling awake to the full.

“Good.”

[basil-the-scorned]

Pleasure to burn

Adam Page and Swerve Strickland fic. This is the first part of this thing, I'll write the other part tomorrow.

This does have spoilers for this week's Dynamite so if you haven't seen it avoid at all cost.

ALSO, if you see a lot of reference to a certain book about burning things...yeah.

(I'll mention it the title of it when I publish the whole thing on AO3)

It was a pleasure to burn. It was a special pleasure to see things eaten, to see things blackened and changed.

Adam remembers reading that sentence years ago, half understanding what it meant as he went through the book and followed Guy Montag's job of burning books and causing fires instead of preventing them. In the first couple of pages alone, he wondered what made him enjoy burning something that could be so personal to some people.

He finally got it with one strike of a match.

The media team always uploads so damn fast, so he wasn't too surprise to see on his secret account his name and face all across Twitter. He took another sip and let the warmth of the whisky fill him as he let the video play out. Adam wondered if Montag ever sat close to the flames like he was doing, letting the heat hit his back and watch the smoke surround the sky around him. If he ever had to burn the books of someone that he despised with all of his being.

His memory's fuzzy on parts, it's been so long. He remembers that Montag did love burning until he met some people that changed him. Mostly for the better.

Swerve was someone that changed him. Completely. He was still deciding if it was for the better or worse yet. He was more cautious, checking his phone for cameras around his house, teaming up with people that could get him closer towards Swerve, being careful and precise with exactly what he wanted in all of his promos.

He was angry. So much anger than he's felt in years, not even towards all of his friends. A lot of it in the past was doubt and bitterness mixed up and masked in anger, towards them, towards himself, towards the choices he made and couldn't help making because his brain was being clouded.

This was different. This burned in his chest, flared up everything in his body and sent him spiraling towards attacks he thought he had settled a year ago. Even now, while the video played and he heard Swerve's protests and finally felt satisfied with every scream that was let out, he felt that tight feeling trying to come through.

When Montag let that hose he had onto Beatty, did he feel satisfaction among his horror, even for a split second? Beatty was about to ruin his life, even when Montag was doing the right thing, and Montag reacted right.

He was right, just like Adam was right.

He was right.

Adam takes another sip of his drink. He focuses on the slight bite it has, the way it turned smooth as he gulped it down and how it dropped down inside him warm. He still heard the crowd on his phone, and swipes them away.

In it's place came music, some that he cut up loud as he took his sweet time loading up his couch back onto his truck, putting his whiskey and glass in the car, and looking one more time at the burning house in front of him.

Flickers of orange and red were glowing right at him in the night, along with the smoke surrounding it in huge puffs. The whiteness were now turning a charred black, burning away the physical memory of a family that lived here, whose past is now only told in pictures that he happened to luck upon on his search. Now he was part of that history, as the man who burned it down as a lesson.

Finally, they were back on equal ground.

[lynn-writes-things]

“Burn It”

aka the one where you command a certain fire-wielding maniac to burn down the house of your abusive ex (angst -> fluff)

warnings: mentions of past abuse, mentions of rape (not detailed, it’s just brought up that it happened), uhh mentions of your abusive ex burning alive

wc: 900

a/n: my ptsd demanded this be written, so here it is 😌 inspired by things my ex did to me and what I wish would happen to him

“Dabi?” Your voice is small, hardly audible over the sound of your own heart beat, the muscle racing as you gaze up at the house you once knew so very well. It looks different in the dark, illuminated by the crescent moon and the street lights - yet, this is the same view you had of it the night you ran, escaping the monster of a man you once shared a bed with.

Your box-dyed companion had decided to join you for a walk, chain smoking cigarettes back and forth, until you subconsciously had found yourself right back here. When you realized the street you’d turned down, you began telling him the more minor details. An ex boyfriend, one who had done bad things. When you got even closer, you unveiled the more griddy details - he cut me off from everybody, picked fights all the time. Finally, you revealed the worst of it - he raped me. Forced himself on me, never took no for an answer, ever.

Now, standing frozen in front of the same house which sheltered your horrors, Dabi finds himself barely holding his anger inside, but to put it frank, neither of you are dressed to outrun the legal system. Not to mention, he doesn’t want to upset you. “Yeah?”

You’re quiet for a moment, contemplating. Drawing in a deep breath, releasing it just as slow. “Burn it.”

“..What?”

“I said, burn it. Please.” Your voice, small at first, was now strong and certain, with an undertone of bitterness that Dabi understood, had tried to forget about, but Touya remembers that bitterness all too well.

“My pleasure.” He says, grabbing your arm to move you behind him, once you’re safely tucked behind him, he does just as you asked, bright blue flames engulfing the darkness of night, catching the cheap wooden paneling and swiftly surrounding the house. He’s inside, you know he is, and Dabi’s got a strong suspicion about it as well - so he does you the favor of adding more heat, not letting the piece of shit have a chance to escape unscathed. You knew better though, it was a Friday night, the beast trapped inside was surely knocked out cold from either the booze or the drugs, quite possibly both. He’d sleep through it, and if luck was on your side, he’d burn alive right with the house that had once been purchased under your name. Maybe you’d manage to get insurance payments from the ordeal?

Selfishly, you admire the way the flames dance, and you feel the urge to dance right along with them, celebrating the end of your torment, the end of the man who so carelessly ruined your life. “We should get out of here.” Dabi says, fingers pinching your jacket, knowing his hands were still much too hot to touch your perfect skin.

“Yeah,” You agree, not realizing you were tearing up until your voice comes out choked. The man beside you panics for a second, until you look up at him, wiping your crystalline tears with the brightest smile he’d ever seen on your face, you even laugh out a joyous little huff before grabbing his still-too-hot hand, uncaring of the way it stings your skin, pulling him away and escaping into the shadows, taking a detour through dark alleyways to get back to the hideout.

No one’s awake when you enter, making it all that much easier when you throw yourself at the man, wrapping your shaking arms around him as quiet sobs wrack your body. Dabi hesitates at the long-forgotten feeling of being held, before his lanky arms eventually wrap around your waist, his heart hammering violently against his ribcage while you trip over whispered thank you’s. “Really, I-I can’t thank you enough.”

“Seeing you smile is thanks enough, doll.” He says just as quietly, like he’s worried if he speaks his vulnerability any louder that he’d fall over dead on the spot. Maybe he would, he isn’t sure, this was as close to a confession of his feelings that he’d ever uttered. You shock him again when your lips kiss the unscarred part of his cheek, the part he can still feel, and it sends his mind buzzing even after your arms drop to your sides, wiping your face clean of tears outside of his warm embrace. When you look up at him again, Dabi swears your eyes would put the stars outside to shame, your smile so contagious that he finds himself smiling too. One last tear escapes the corner of your eye, and it’s an automatic response when his hand caresses your cheek, so gently thumbing away the shimmery bead, the fondness in his eyes makes you feel so warm inside.

The air feels thick like sweet honey, the two of you trapped in such a moment of silent intimacy, and it’s almost on impulse when your arms loosely wrap around his neck, his free hand snaking around your waist, the other staying on your face even after you stand up on your tiptoes, pulling him closer until your lips meet, every unspoken message being read crystal clear. It’s perfect, everything about the moment and the night itself feeling so very perfect. Dabi can’t figure out why you’d want to kiss him, but he’s not about to question it, he’ll kiss you as long as you’d like, he’ll do anything to keep that radiant joy in your eyes.

He’s absolutely certain in that moment, he will do anything for you.

[meluiloth]

Whither Go The Songbirds

Elured and Elurin live headcanon: They are raised by Daeron.

"Doriath burns!" the birds cry, swooping overhead as though their feathers are on fire. "Doriath burns!" the woodland creatures howl, tearing through the undergrowth too swiftly to see. "Doriath burns!" the trees whisper, their branches rattling with fear that they will burn also.

Daeron's fingers freeze on the harpstrings, the beautiful music that had filled the forest silenced in an instant. He listens anxiously to the wildlife around him, hoping that he misheard them - what they say is impossible!

But even as he thinks this, the forest still screams: "Doriath burns!"

The harp slips from his hands, landing with a muffled sound on the forest floor. He has not seen Doriath in many years, and his parting with it had been bitter - but this news awakens something in his breast that had been dead until this moment.

His body acts before his mind, and he breaks into a run, mossy green robes flying out behind him. He does not know how far he must go, as his wandering has been long, but he follows the sound of the terrified creatures fleeing in the opposite way.

Night passes into day, and back to night again as Daeron travels, the fire of desperation fueling him when the fire of energy dies out. The dawn was red, crying for spilled blood, and Daeron fights back tears of his own. Memories flash through his mind with every beat of his heart: The libraries of Menegroth, the waterfalls and the forest, the celebrations and the voice of the King ... and the laughter of Luthien, his dearest friend. Oh, the jealousy and heartbreak her face inspired!

All the love he had felt for his first home had vanished with Luthien - or so he thought - he had turned his back on Doriath and sworn never to return. And yet he could not bear it if the news that the kingdom had fallen was true.

Days of ceaseless travel lead Daeron to the edge of the once-familiar forest of Neldoreth, and his heart stops in his chest when he sees the red glow of fire through the trees, and the vast curls of smoke billowing in the sky. Doriath burns!

Tears roll down his face as he stumbles onward towards the inevitable horrors before him; how did this happen? How great is the carnage? How many died?

The fumes clog his lungs and burn his eyes, so much so that he is forced to stop. Perhaps this is a mercy, the noble city's ghost barring him from looking upon her defiled corpse. Besides ... he was too late. The forest is utterly silent, with no signs of life to be seen. The trees mourn the loss of their brethren, who lay burning further on, and all of the wildlife has long since fled. The survivors of this destruction - if there are any - must have escaped as well, though Daeron knows not whither. He is alone in the ruins of his city.

No, not alone - a faint sound reaches his keen ears, one that might have gone unnoticed if not for the stillness of death around him. Daeron tenses, resting his hand upon the hilt of his spear, and listens; there it is again, a little way away - the soft, high cry of a child.

Impossible, he thinks as he creeps towards it, every muscle taut. Could it be that he has gone mad, his ears plagued by phantoms?

His search brings him to the edge of an ashen glade, where a smoke-sullied creek runs beneath his feet ... and, peering in through the shadow of the wood, Daeron sees them. Two small children huddling together, their thin clothes dirty and their silver hair tangled. One of them is sobbing quietly, his little shoulders shaking with fear and cold, and the other whispers consoling words in a trembling voice.

Daeron steps quietly into their view, his grief momentarily forgotten in the pity he feels for these two young ones, left alone to starve. When they see him, they fall silent, the same look of terror on their identical faces - and Daeron stops short.

For in their wide blue eyes is the reflection of Luthien. He sees the ghost of his dear friend and beloved in their faces, though he has not seen Luthien all these long years, not since she left Doriath to be with the mortal she loved. But there is no mistaking her spirit in the two children before him, and Daeron's heart breaks just a little more.

He takes another step forward, and the twins shrink away in fear. But Daeron kneels down slowly and reaches out a comforting hand. "Don't be frightened ... I want to help you. Come, I will take you somewhere safe."

The children do not move, not until Daeron begins to sing. His voice is soft and gentle as he sings the lullaby, one that he remembers from childhood - a song that he and Luthien had written when they were young and carefree. Slowly, the two children relax, inching closer to him, soothed by the melody, and he takes their chilled hands in his own.

Daeron still sings as he lifts them into his arms and carries them away from the ruins of Doriath.

[panelshowsource]

alex talked about that recently in this interview! [rubs hands together like a mischievous little shrimp] i hope we see it one day heh

hehehe it was a fun task! we've NEVER seen alex play such a character during a task like that — he's received cuddles and made demands and eaten meals, but this was next level Alex Acting — so that was really fun!

lucy talking incessantly about alex's legs but mans also got his long sparkly toes

i think people are too quick to call this or that iconic, but ngl the second i saw this final image...it's practically a horror movie poster...PERFECT

can you imagine greg davies being your drama teacher and then he quits to become a comedian and the next day you see him on tv as Massive Greg hand feeding a man with no teeth who is pretending to be a tortoise

honestly if that's the one that haunts you i'd say you got off pretty easy, i scrub my eyes with concrete mix every night to try and forget ass sandwich and yet... but hey at least when he hurt his hand he finally had an excuse for that stupid bandage he wears hahaha

she was being so sincere and he was Such A Little Shit 😭

you know what i was binging some simon stuff as well, since it was his birthday, and ran across this again after all these years!

aw anon i'm so glad ♡

moooost of my fave episodes are like ~2005–2015ish? probably the nostalgia!

21.01 with jess hynes bc she is an icon to me

21.05 love seeing simon and miquita together

21.07 with martin freeman

22.02 with stephen fucking fry YES

22.04 was crazy like conchords-era rhys darby was there (i LOVED flight of the conchords lmao) and then johnny vegas and danny dyer next to each other? what a lineup

22.12 with josh groban, omid, martin freeman, heston is an ALL-TIME CLASSIC

i LOVE the guest-hosted episodes with martin freeman, rhod gilbert, frankie boyle (especially 24.12 with miles jupp and professor green), jack dee, alex horne, kathy burke, and johnny vegas

23.12 doctor who special HANDS DOWN

24.02 it's hilarious how respectable catherine tate is offset by how ridiculous catherine tate is

25.06 when greg hosted with frankie boyle, h was there just being h, holly walsh angel, it was a riot

john barrowman is also extremely iconic on buzzcocks, probably most so on 19.05 but also when he hosted 25.12

there are tons of older episodes from the lamarr era that i love — bob mortimer is so funny on this series especially on sean's team, 12.05 when jimmy and claudia were with phill, fun to see ian dury on 5.01, and so on — but these above are some of my personal all-time faves!

aw i really appreciate the rec! first i would like to say i looked it up on youtube and stumbled across the american version and holy shit the dude who hosted brainsurge on nickelodeon is hosting that and WOW my brain would have died never having remembered he existed if i hadn't seen him just now — so that was very weird. ANYWAYS i'll check it out!

imo it didn't start with ben miller...rob is always like this... sometimes when the pod episodes are shorter (less than 10min? does he do that anymore), you can tell some of the bullshit is edited around, but now that they're longer-form conversations he is dominating every episode. i'm certainly no rob hater, but it's really unsurprising to me because facts are facts — rob is self-involved, extremely concerned about being seen and being heard, incredibly pouty if not outrightly bitter when he's not recognised, when fame/success doesn't chase him, when he's getting less from life than he believes he deserves. there are aspects of rob in the trip that aren't far from reality, if you see what i mean. rob is, honestly, quite showbiz. don't get me wrong, he's funny, affable, talented, we love him! but he's not a stellar podcast host because he doesn't have the attention span to let someone else have a moment. have a story. put something on the table. there are definitely times i give him the benefit of the doubt and assume he's trying to form a connection by sharing a related experience/feeling/whatever, but other times he's just being self-involved, pivoting the convo, and it is what it is. it's too bad when we don't always get lengthy, insightful content for someone we love — like miles, let's say — and when we finally do rob isn't doing his part; i felt that way about the dara episode. i don't think rob means any malice, it's just how he is...+ a dash of being a middle-aged white man in showbiz...

i got this one yesterday...

...and i'm going to dedicate it to you<3

and frankly sign me up for the woz/vcm experience i am happy to be a little tomato in that flapjack sandwich

you guys are really sweet, it makes me smile ♡ i don't know why some days the trolling can really get to you and other days you forget it in a couple blinks... i feel like i've been having some bad days. last week i saw something on my own dash with thousands of notes outright mocking me and i haven't really recovered from the uncomfortableness/just general hurt feelings. i want be better about letting those things go, but i also think a holiday break will do me good. anyways, thank you for always enjoying the blog and taking the time to be so kind ♡

—————

WATCH LINKS MASTERPOST / FAQ / TAGS / ASK

[mycupofteafanzine]

My Cup of Tea contributor announcement: part 2!

We are excited to share our list of writers and cosplayers in the zine! You can also find our artists here. See below the cut for links to their socials and their answers to the question: Why do you love Martin?

Writers

milkteamoon | tumblr Ao3

I really love how contradictorily human he is! He's a little guy. He's kind of a bitch. He wants so badly to be the sensitive artist type and yet will encourage murder against those whom he perceives to have wronged him at the drop of a hat. He's incredibly kissable and should be kissed by anyone and everyone, I think, for his health.

crescenttwins | tumblr carrd

Martin is this lovely exploration of a person who is deeply affected by trauma but still ends up able to be kind at the end of it.

Morning Softness | tumblr

He’s just such a great complex character. He does his absolute best in a job he’s not at all qualified for, determined to go above and beyond so no one will complain about his work ethic, even when the demands placed on him are ridiculous or dangerous. He’s anxious but he’s also brave and stubborn. He’s jealous and bitter and petty and sarcastic. He’s kind and optimistic and gentle. He’s a poet. He’s incredibly practical, and is better at showing care to others through his actions than his words. He holds onto guilt because he’s convinced it helps him do better. He tries so hard to be needed because he thinks it’s the only way anyone would want him, and he feels like it would be manipulative of him to expect or even want anything in return. He makes an effort to care about others and help in any way he can, even though it is an effort, even when it isn’t returned.

Pine | tumblr

In "Big Picture," Martin says to Simon Fairchild "I think our experience of the universe has value. Even if it disappears forever." I think it may be the most hopeful statement in TMA (not that it has a great deal of competition!), and I thought about it a lot while season five was airing. (And I love, too, how Martin may have been a hypocrite about it, unwilling to let the universe disappear.)

Saint | tumblr Ao3

Golly gee what a question. I guess the biggest thing is I love how full of seemingly diametrically-opposed contradictions he is: his genuine sweetness and kindness vs his very serious desire to see the violent death of people he's perceived to have wronged him, his dorky poetry vs the fact that he's the kind of person to use the word "ontological" in casual conversation, his capacity for love and compassion vs his proclivity for isolation. Also he has the best voice.

Cosplayers

Shashamisen | tiktok

He hit me as the most human-like character to me. Blame it on the beautiful voice acting or the discreet complexity of how his character was written, but I started loving him for how much I related, and stayed for the cutest awkward love I've ever seen.

Bow | insta tiktok

The obvious reason is that I see so much of my current, but especially younger, self in him, but I also love him because to me, he is the character in TMA who goes through the most growth and comes into himself. I love seeing his journey of self discovery and emotional strength.

Kaedan | tiktok

He became a comfort character immediately. His patience, his sweet nature, the way he stutters when he's flustered (just like me,) it all felt like a cool breeze in the fire that is the horror that is TMA. His life and traumas mirror my own, and the way he comes out of it with kindness and an unexpected fierceness is amazing to me. The way he underhanded Elias AND Peter impresses me constantly.

Alex | tumblr tiktok

He is my husband and I adore him.

Slush/Hailey | insta tiktok tumblr twitter

To me, he is the heart of The Magnus Archives! Martin is always showing his most human side to those around him and never lets the horrors around him stop him from being a good person. Like so many on this zine, I see a lot of myself in Martin Blackwood. There's so much of myself I see in him, yet there's so much more I want to be. He's kind and thoughtful. He's soft, but he finds his courage and shows that he can be quite tenacious and clever! He's constantly underestimated, especially by himself, but shows them up with confidence and sass. He doesn't let the horrible things that have happened to him make him hard and is never afraid of being his true self. I also find our relationships with the Lonely incredibly similar. Essentially, it's been quite a long time since I've found a character that is so much like myself, and gives me hope that I can also make the same changes in my life as him to grow and become a better person. Hopefully that doesn't include being stalked by a worm lady.

[wiedzmacienia]

@honorhearted from kasia

it's a stormy night with howling winds sweeping through dense wood. bitter. chilly in the way that bores into one's aching bones and elicits unrest within a soldier's camp. the horses are at unease, restless and whining as their tender's work to keep them calm lest they break free from their tethers. resources are limited enough despite calls for aid to congress, their camp does not need to lose the little they do possess. it is naught a night ripe for battle and scouts remain within their watchful stations. no troop movements have been detected within the radius of their camp, no coded missives confiscated to indicate an awareness of their forces at present. their encampment, or at least a portion of it, had taken an unscheduled detour three nights prior with washington giving little indication even to his trusted aides as to reason. he had made it clear the larger force remained upon it's path, perhaps as a distraction, while a smaller force he led detached. he's remained within his tent often hence, voices at times heard, muffled, hushed. a woman's voice, a man's, a strange feeling of unease within the air and yet no one is outwardly seen within council with the general despite what people are convinced they hear. a young soldier is seen standing guard upon the outskirts of camp, though there is little to be seen of what he is guarding as it appears a forest behind him, though oddly shaded considering the openness of the above canopies. his presence is on the generals orders, it is not to be questioned outwardly.

the moon is high within the sky when the scent of blood enters the air. there's no warning until it's too late. no war cry or clash of swords or gunfire. screams arise though. the guttural sounds of men facing a secret invasion of horrors. it begins on the far side of the small camp, confusion rampant. this was no battlefield with generals and officers commanding a charge. it was chaos. pure and simple. it was the work of vampires dressed in flashes of red. a small group sent to cause destruction, sent into the heart of the rebellion. sent toward washington directly despite the detoured path. a bold move. but not one wholly unexpected by the small group of cloaked people moving out of washington's tent with him, a council interrupted. a feminine hand is outstretched from a figure hidden by her cloak, it forces the man to stop his approach, as a voice with a strong accent emits toward the general. a confirmation that the man before them is trusted, a familiarity of the name tellmadge by the female an indication that the man before her has been discussed previously between the general and her. kasia nods unseen, and directs her attention to a different man next to her, commands him into action. flank left, another flank right. they are out of sight within the blink of an eye, an impossibility to a layman and yet reality all the same. the general tells the officer to join them as they move into the chaos.

washington was too important to the cause to be directly within this fight. the priority needs to be his protection. not engagement. even if she had taken the time and devoted resources in the form of two knights to aid in slowing down the vampire advancement. logically this directive grants them time. the more vampires taken out the less obstacles. but it also provides the additional benefit of preventing further innocent bloodshed of men who held no fathomable idea of what was transpiring around them, of what was slaughtering them for by the time the nature of the faces of death were upon them their lives were forfeit. everything happens in rapid succession from there and kasia will later admonish the strategic fumble that was the decision for washington and her group to meet separate from the larger encampment. there had been benefits at the time, yet it had left him far more exposed without a greater number of soldiers between him and their invaders.

there's running, there's bodies though the whole of the camp suddenly seems shrouded within a kind of shadowed veil, blurring the edges of human sight. they're in the center of their small camp and kasia reacts with little warning when she halts their group and drops her cloak to the ground revealing herself. her dress is a dark hunter green, long and typical yet with slits high up the sides revealing pants worn underneath. a freedom of mobility. vampires with distorted faces move toward them rapidly and find themselves thrust backward into tents and supplies by tendrils of dark force that seem to explode out of kasia as if they had been hit by cannons. two others on her side take stance around the general and tallmadge, as kasia moves with fluid motion, a dagger drawn from somewhere and thrown at a vampire directly into it's heart. it isn't wood, but the iron causes the smell of rotten flesh to leach into the air. she fights with skill and cuts down another vampire via decapitation with a broadsword. it quickly becomes a melee as the other two join the fight and prevent the humans from taking action. this was why they were there. it would do no one any benefit to have inexperienced humans entering the fray no matter how skilled they were at human combat. it happens quickly and yet somehow in slow-motion, until finally the threats are dispatched and they are left within the aftermath of surviving soldiers who have no sure idea what had transpired.

a storm. a strange dark fog. there had been a battle for sure but had anyone of them truly seen the monsters which had lurked? was it the germans with a sneak attack?

such questions of men are left outside the tent kasia, washington, and tallmadge now occupy. most men too shell-shocked and warn to do much more than rest now that the sun began to rise upon the horizon. a hazy and thick fog engulfs the encampment, hiding the true level of carnage until it could be dealt with. now is the time for questions, for shock to give way to inquiry. with washington proclaiming for the other man to trust her. to listen. to put aside what he believes he knows to understand the truth that was going to be presented to him. the general leaves them to it, perhaps figuring his word is enough to broker a beginning of dialogue. perhaps it is though kasia is ill at ease as she watches the man before her, keeping a distance. she's bore witness to men's worlds being turned upside down before. to the moment they discover the truth hidden behind the veil and she has little to go off of to know which path this man's mind with take him to find reason within the chaos. she only knows that the general trusts him enough to be privy to the order's involvement in the war effort. if only he had had the opportunity to have a less brutal introduction. she rather hopes, in the least, he does not try to kill her outright for that would be rather counterproductive for the both of them.

"my name is katarzyna and i am a knight of the order of soteria." it seemed as good a place to begin as any even if it seemed wholly unsuitable considering all the man had bore witness from her shortly before. yet she knew this would require some form of delicacy of which her brother would have been more suited to. she needed to allow this man's mind to catch up with what he's witnessed. she needs to allow him to lead with his questions and gauge how to proceed from there.

[druidgroves]

a mutual haunting (they both live au)

October 23, 2287

Inside his decontamination pod, Nathan Tate gasps for the first breath he will take in this new century.

He doesn’t know it yet, still trying to parse what the fuck just happened to him. Shaun had been in his arms the entire time, from when they entered the vault to getting into the pods. Across from him, Georgia had been staring at him from her own, an indecipherable look on her face like something bad was going to happen. Considering he just had a gun leveled at him and their son taken out of his arms by force before being shoved back into his pod, she may have been right.

The door of his pod opens with a hiss and he stumbles out of it, legs wobbling like the gelatin they served during Basic. Nathan sucks in air like a drowning man. He chokes on the crisp coolness of it, some artificial taste bitter on the back of his throat that makes him cough. An alarm blares from somewhere around him and an automated voice says something about a cryogenic array and it clicks. Anger courses through him like an overwhelming wave and he punches the door of his pod. His hand bounces off as it explodes in pain but he barely registers it. The vault staff had been lying to them. They hadn’t been decontaminated at all.

A yell tears out of him, primal and ripping through his throat, and God he needs a place to put this fury before it consumes him. The people responsible seemed like a good target. Whoever took Shaun had hell coming after them, once Nathan could find his way out.

He paces back and forth in front of his pod, trying to quiet his raging mind. It’s only when some water drips onto his head from the leaking ceiling does he remember Georgia in her own pod. He approaches.

On the other side of the glass, she was perfectly frozen inside. Her wheat blonde curls fell over her shoulders and framed her face that was contorted in anguish as if she had been frozen in the middle of a scream. Their conversation from before the end of the world replays in Nathan’s mind as he looks at her from the outside. He swallows and quickly goes to check the other pods housing their neighbors.

All of them were slumped over inside, skin wan and eyes closed. A terminal mounted on the wall at the end of the row catches his attention. It doesn’t have a password on it and responds when he taps the spacebar. Files flash over the screen and Nathan sees Cryogenic Array: Offline and system failure as his eyes skim over the words until others stand out. Pod C6: Nathan Tate and Shaun Tate. His eyes skim faster. He sees Pod Door and Override Engaged on the same line.

Overridden, then. If it was the same people who took Shaun…it was possible they were still in the vault, right? They had to be—whatever happened topside would have destroyed everything. There was no surviving out there, at least not without a fight. Right about now, Nathan had a lot in him.

Below the entry for him and Shaun is Georgia’s. The status reads as Alive as opposed to all of their neighbor’s Deceased, which he supposes is a good thing. He wonders, vaguely, why she was left alive but her pod not overridden like his. A malfunction, maybe? There was no option to override from the terminal and as Nathan walks back over to Georgia’s pod, he wonders if busting her out is even a good idea. Staring into the horror of her expression, all it does is conjure up memories of the night before. He swallows again, her words echoing in his head.

“I want a divorce.”

Nathan bites down on the inside of his cheek. After what they just went through, what they have now lost…surely she wouldn’t still mean that. They had made a promise when they got married, hadn’t they? Until death did they part? His to have, hers to hold.

But then again…frozen as she was, she had seen him give up their son to strangers. Sure, there had been a fucking gun shoved in his face, but he could assure himself that she’d still be angry with him. If there was one thing he knew about his wife, she could hold onto her anger in ways he never could, keep it all inside until it was ready to rear its ugly head. He had gotten a good look at it last night.

Nathan begins to wonder how far away “last night” really was. If they were frozen, how much time had passed? How much time was passing for Georgia now, still frozen in the same position she’d been subjected to for God knows how long? And, if she remained frozen, how much would she be aware of if he thawed her out?

His mind races and he brings himself to look at her face once more. The corner of lined lips he had once enjoyed kissing–could enjoy again, if she’d let him after all this–had a red smudge from shaking hands that had applied it that morning. Her freckles are faint under the dusty powder covering her cheeks. Even with her eyes crinkling in the corners like they are now, he notices for the first time the delicate black swoops of her eyeliner. At the bottom of the glass he can just see cuts and dried blood on the knuckles of her left hand, bruises blooming against fair skin.

Looking at her through the glass, all made up and emotional, Nathan makes a decision. Whatever it would take to find Shaun, he knew Georgia to be too soft for it. She’d been a housewife before all this for God’s sake, sitting around their home in her neatly ironed skirts and playing with her hair and makeup between home cooked meals. She wouldn’t even go on walks around the neighborhood, much less fight. How could he expect her to join him in trying to find the people who took their son? No, she would only hold him back. And with how she felt towards him now…he had an idea.

Nathan would find Shaun. He’d give hell and then some to those responsible and then he would come back for Georgia. She had been left alive for some reason, so he could count on her being safe while he was gone. Sitting pretty in her pod, so to speak. As the threads start to weave together, he’s only more and more sure of his idea. If he came back to get her with Shaun in his arms, then she couldn’t possibly stay angry with him. She wouldn’t be able to.

“Don’t wait up,” he says to her pod, and begins his mission with a vengeance.

[washedupfae]

WeirdCore Au List

This will be updated as I continue to work on the AU.

Character Concept Posts:

From the Parlor Posts, a little glimpse into WC and just a hint of how it came to be.

A small snippet of information on him and the rest of the WeirdCoreTale crew.

There is still a great deal of missing information, what event set everything in motion, but we do know that WCTale ended after far too many runs, on the Surface. However, something changed in the original code, and the monsters there, were brought back to the Great War.

Unable to fathom the idea of not only all of his friends dying yet again, but this time, the last remaining chance for monster kind, Sans joined up alongside the royal guard and other like-minded monsters, and joined the ancient monsters lost to the annuals of history, in the fight.

He has fought a mage before, after all, wasn't Frisk one? Ruling their domain over time itself? Though, Frisk was a child, an untrained child.

The battle was gruesome, and as he fought, he witnessed so many fall, dusting, an event marked in time, unchanging it seemed, they would be forced Underground again.

And.. He couldn't. He could not see his brother's HoPe dashed, his friends' dying cries, the pain of magic searing his bones.

He snapped.

The mage he faced, a purple soul, vile beast of a human, and they called his kind monsters. Monsters had never sought out to destroy an entire species, but humans would, humans had, were these descendants of these very monsters, fighting for their lives, their freedom, not the only race of monsters to have faced humans? Where were the fae? The elven, the banshee, those beasts that took human form then turned with rise of the moon? Where went the bloodthirsty beasts of horror?

In hiding, perhaps. Or victims of a ruthless genocide. By any matter, humans had been the cause of so much suffering. It was here, now, so many years brought back before his Judge's eye, that he determined and weighed the soul of this mage.. and devoured her soul.

Bitter, ash in his mouth, copper on his tongue, and magic that should not mix with his own. The first eye opened.

Disoriented, he was nearly taken off his feet as his brother defended him, construct in hand, shouting jeers at the opponent and unfortunately, glancing back to check on the horrific scene of his own dear brother, Sans.

You could say, Papyrus lost his head.

Rage, and persistence burned within his tainted soul, his next foe, a Determination mage, soon followed his fellow to the earth. Acting without thought, Sans cast back a curtain of time, but he didn't know how to wield the magic, it was unnatural, warped, disgusting in how it oozed in against his own soul's true nature.

The second eye opened.

Time, he turned back time, again and again. Watching his brother fall to another mage, watching Toriel be torn apart, Undyne crushed beneath a horde of human Soldiers. This was not a fight they could win. This was never a fight they were supposed to win.

This. Was a massacre.

Pushed back. Underground, sealed away, the magic, however, was weaker now. Two mages short, but the code was written, and so it must be followed.

Monsters would be forced beneath ground, but now, there was a .. hiccup.. a glitch perhaps? A little bug in the code.

There was Sans, or how shall we call him now? Cryptic seemed good.. Ostracized by those around him, his family, his friends fallen to the hands of humans yet once more. He was the beast in the depths of the mountain, but this time, they would not await human souls to fall into their hands.

But we can talk about that story, at another time. You need only know this. They all returned to their proper place in time, but the Code remembered. And the Code, began to fail.

[justsomeoneintoomanyfandoms]

Hallo, Covid here!!! Could you do general headcannons for Edward Elric and your favorite full metal alchemist characters?? I hope you’re doing well!!!

Hi Covid! Absolutely! I've never done general headcanons before so let's see how it goes! I've gone with five headcanons for each character; just let me know if you'd like some more (or some for different characters). Thank you for your request!

Fandom: Fullmetal Alchemist:

Characters: Edward Elric, Alphonse Elric, Roy Mustang, Riza Hawkeye

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General headcanons about the characters.

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Ed (especially post time skip) enjoys making floral arrangements. He enjoys creating things without alchemy but when they don't turn out how he wants, they usually go flying out the window. Winry's seen a lot of flowers go that way.

Ed's really good at doing complex hairstyles. He's had a tone of practice with his own hair so learning new styles is easy for him. Mei learnt about this and always goes to Ed when she wants a new hairstyle.

A fan of horror movies (this is possibly more in a modern au). He is more of a fan of terrible b rated movies though. He unironically enjoys how tacky they are.

Ed has lots of small scars on his left hand from getting his skin pinched in his automail when he was still getting used to it as a kid. That's half the reason he started wearing gloves.

Has tried to wear platforms before. He thought they would make him taller but failed to consider how hard they are to walk and fight in. He nearly twisted an ankle before Al stepped in and forced him to take them off.

Al can't ride a bike. He was just barely at the right age to learn when the whole "human transmutation" thing happened and he couldn't learn to ride one while he was a suit of armour.

Has a really good singing voice. It just doesn't come across well in the armour. He likes humming to himself quietly when he's whiling away the long nights so his pitch is usually spot on after so much practice.

As much as Al likes cats, I see him as someone who would own a dog post-series. It suits his lifestyle and is good company without being too high maintenance (I tried to keep this as spoiler-free as possible).

Surprisingly dexterous with his hands. You wouldn't think so with him being a suit of armour for so long but he's nimble enough that he could easily pick up knitting if he wanted to.

Reads a lot of fiction novels. They're a good break from all the academic reading he does for alchemy. This means he daydreams a lot. He's so used to letting his mind wander during the night that he sometimes slips into his own thoughts through the day as well.

Mustang listens to salsa music while working. He was introduced to it while away on a military assignment and has kept up with the latest trends since.

Mustang never uses his alchemy outside of military uses. He uses matches at home and carries a lighter with him when he's off duty. He doesn't want to rely too heavily on something that he knows bothers Hawkeye.

Enjoys watching soap operas and telenovelas in his free time. He likes being able to switch his mind off and just watch something for the sake of just passing the time. He does end up getting invested in the story though...

Mustang enjoys reading and writing poetry. He's not very good at writing it yet, but he's improving. He's got all his draft poems in a box in the bottom draw of his bedside cupboard. Has considered publishing a few under a pseudonym.

Drinks his coffee with only a half teaspoon of sugar and a small splash of milk. He likes it more on the bitter side because he read somewhere that it has more caffeine that way. He needs to stay awake when doing paperwork somehow.

Hawkeye did ballet classes for years as a kid. She stopped when she was in her early teen years and hasn't really danced since. Mustang is the only one who knows.

Has a major sweet tooth but controls it strictly. She only allows herself one sweet treat a week. When she's very stressed, she lets herself indulge a bit and bumps that up to two sweet treats a week.

Listens to true crime! She loves theorizing about the culprit and trying to figure out the plot twists before they happen. Despite being surrounded by those sort of things at work, she likes listening to events that happen outside of Central.

Got her ears pierced when she was a kid. I think she had a lot of earrings left to her after her mother died and she wanted to wear some of them to remind her of her mother.

Has faint burn marks on her hands from her time in Ishval. Her metal gun get very hot in the sun and it burnt her hands when he had to hold it for a long time.

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Hey, did you enjoy this? If you like my writing, please consider donating to my Ko-Fi page! This will allow me to make some money off my writing, something I enjoy doing.

ko-fi.com/justsomeoneintoomanyfandoms

Important Note: Please only donate if you are financially able to. If you are currently in a position where you can't donate, a like, comment, or reblog will mean just as much.

[titleknown]

HELLOWEEN #14: XMECHANE

-MANGINIX is a Lesser Carnifex of hell, with 14 sites of operation and 28 varieities of sausage to his name. He may teach the art of the finding and preparation of meats rare and unnatural, and may provide spices that alter the body and mind or to transform enemies into discrete forms of sustenance. He appears as a great carrion heap in the shape of a man with a handsome human face, holding a great butcher's cleaver-

...And here we reach a point where the Last Testament is far out of date, which is a feeling I am more than depressingly familiar with in my own recordings. For, Hell too changes as our own societies do; though perhaps more slowly due to the semi-immortality of its inhabitants, and the former Manginix is no exception.

Manginix is at this current moment one of the most terrifying things in Hell: A true believer. He speaks of his old life with a bitter contempt, even as both records and Giobella's testament show that he enjoyed his work and was quite good at it, and was even one of those rare showers of true compassion on occasion.

But compassion is not a world I would describe with his current state, not after walking through his factory, a place of war machines and cybernetic limbs birthed from twitching steel wombs, of pipes like sclerotic veins and furnaces like bleeding lungs, a place of where demon and soul and machine blur into a form of life hostile to all but itself.

He speaks of his old life as a former, dull dream, that he was one of the few demons who saw the speed and efficiency of the machines which now have taken up half his body, evangelizing the powers of speed and and creation. He was very proud, almost like a disciple of The Anti-Sun describing being "born again," as he delved into his discovery of the strange enigmatic machines manifesting in the higher circles, and how only he was the only one able to hear what they told him, what he'd known all along about his body. 

He was suspiciously cagey about what happened to his crew however, and he also says that he views Hell as undermechanized due to their lack of understanding of the glory of mechanization, which having walked through the dark satanic mills that reach even to the Giants' Well and beneath the waters of Bloody Mary, horrors untold yet still less hideous than his own, I find that difficult to take as true.

More likely, I suspect and Giobella does as well, that the machines from which his design draws are not from Hell. For, there are powers in the multiverse far more terrible than hell. 

There is a Machine at the corners of the cosmos, a Machine ever-churning that heaven fears. The oil of worlds devoured runs through its veins, the thoughts of trillions stolen run through its mindless mind. It exists to consume and grow and consume and grow again. And in the heartbeat of that factory I heard the sound of it's soul.

When I obliquely mentioned this, offhand from carelessness, he... froze for a second. Then he emitted a high-pitched screeching sound and attempted to turn my pages into cinders with the cannon upon his arm for several seconds. Then he resumed speaking as if there were no conflict at all, ignoring the smoking holes in his grand edifice.

I've seen that behavior before. I know who he really believes in.

-Xavier X. Xolomon , Monsterologist and Understudy to The Librarian Of Babel

So, when starting this project I knew I wanted to do a demon that was half-and-half flesh-and-technology, evoking Doom. The inspiration there's probably more obvious in the head, which I made because I wanted to blend both halves, and that was an obvious way to do it. And yes, I was thinking of that one Doom 3 demon in the back of my mind, that too.

The idea for them being secretly an agent of The Machine, a nasty faction from my work y'all might be familiar with, followed logically from trying to think about this guy's hook. Because like, there's a reason Heaven considers The Machine far more of a threat than Hell, and it does speak to Hell's poorly organized state that it was able to slip in so easily.

Also, I am still proud (perhaps more than I should be) of making the Goetia-type entry out-of-date in universe, I came up with that on the spot.

As per usual the whole descriptions, designs, ectcetera from this project are free to use as you see fit under a CC-BY 4.0 license so long as I; Thomas F. Johnson, am credited as their creator!

[dat-town]

chained to you

never seen circus masterpost

Characters: escape artist!Hyunsuk & female reader

Setting & genre: magical realism au

Summary: Hyuksuk is the best escape artist the circus ever had. He throws himself into more and more dangerous situations, pushes himself closer and closer to death, yet he always survives. Nobody knows how he does it or what’s his secret. Nobody but you.

Warnings: general creepiness of an eerie circus, hyunsuk’s character does not seem to care whether he lives or die, so mentions of life threatening situations, temporary death, mentions of drowning, snakes, sharp objects

Words: 1.8k

For @restlessmaknae, happy B-day, dear! I sincerely hope you are having a delightful one! <3

You let out a relieved sigh as subtly as you could when Hyunsuk emerged from the box just before the snakes were dropped inside as the countdown hit zero.

The audience erupted in loud cheers and hollers. The boy practically glowed in their attention and awe before taking your hand and you both bowed together, the artist and the assistant. Then the show ended with one last trick, the two of you disappearing into darkness when the lights went off just for a moment and smoke filled the stage, the curtains dropping. You could still hear the audience clap in the background as you turned to the tall boy, standing in his way in the narrow underground corridor leading to the dressing room.

“I told you not to do things like that without discussing it with me first! Why did you throw your extra key to the audience? What if you couldn’t pick the lock in time?” you snapped at him as soon as it was just the two of you. Your heart was still beating loud and clear in your ears from being so anxious but Hyunsuk was too high on the adrenaline of his successful escape to take your worries seriously. He smiled, easy and confident, ruffling your hair as if your worries were silly. As if knowing that it was ‘just’ a performance should have been a relief.

The thing with these shows was that you had to sell the drama. That if it looked too easy, like anybody could do it or if the chains or ropes or locks weren’t secure enough, the audience felt disappointed and deceived. It would have left a bitter taste in their mouth and yours too because being one of the most popular acts in the circus was not a small feat. Your duo always promised a one of a kind, thrilling show courtesy of the most fearless escape artist the world had ever seen since Houdini. So you had to make sure that the audience knew the dangers of the performance, that they felt it, the drumming of their hearts and the thumping of their veins. They needed to believe that Hyunsuk was indeed outstanding with his bravery and skills. Don’t get it wrong, he was without all that show and acting, it’s just… it wasn’t enough to convince everybody.

Sometimes you called people from the audience onto the stage to check if the locks were secured or the ropes were tight enough. Sometimes it just had to be scary enough with an axe hanging from the top, the rope holding it thinning with each second while Hyunsuk laid under it, chained to the floor. He couldn’t get away even if he managed to unlock himself too soon because that would have made the show boring. He had to stay there, wait until the last minute, until everybody was holding their breath, worried about the horrors they were about to witness. It was a delicate game, trying to hit the right chords of human emotions without dying and Hyunsuk was nothing if not dedicated.

The axe thing had just been one occurrence when your heart had been beating wild in your ribcage as you were watching his performance go by from mere metres away, your hands sweaty and eyes frantic. You felt a huge rock lift off your chest when the blade eventually pierced into the wooden stage floor right next to Hyunsuk’s head as he rolled away at the last moment, unchained. Then there was one time when he was actually swallowed by a huge amount of sand because he didn’t manage to open the vitrine’s door in time… or at least he pretended not to. Or last time when you really thought for a second that he couldn’t unchain himself from the bottom of the human-sized rock that would have squeezed him flat when hitting the floor.

Hyunsuk was a good actor and sometimes you wondered whether you could have told if he was genuinely panicking. When it wasn’t just a game anymore.

But it seemed like only you wondered about the what ifs.

“Then you would have saved me,” Hyunsuk flashed you a bunny smile, not at all shaken up. He continued to complain about sore muscles as he flexed in his skin tight outfit before asking what you would have preferred for dinner. He craved instant noodles and you weren’t one to turn greasy food down. Or say no to him.

You didn’t want to ruin his good mood either, so you just willed yourself to look away when you saw the shadow of Death creeping closer over the reflection of your figure in the mirror. 

The truth was that you had already saved Hyunsuk’s life once. It was how you met.

You could still feel the harshness of ice beneath your knees, the winter coldness on your skin and  the stillness of a body under your touch. Maybe you shouldn’t have interfered, maybe it would have been wiser to let Death take him but you couldn’t let him drown in the ice cold lake. He was too young, he had the whole life in front of him full of ambitions and dreams.

You remembered vividly the panic in his eyes when they opened and the trembling of his cracked lips as his body tried to fight the cold. It was then when his originally dark hair turned to silver as the last remnants of Death’s grip on him.

“Are you an angel?” He had asked then and you couldn’t tell him the truth.

It was show time again.

You twirled around in your glittery dress, showing the audience the thick chains and weighting the metal ball on a balance scale, so they would know Hyunsuk wouldn’t have it easy. Then, as the music turned dramatic, you stepped closer to the boy. He smiled at you lazily, holding out his arms, so you could wrap them in chains, securing them just like how you had practised. Your fingers grazed against his skin gently and you couldn’t help the feeling of wrongness as you let go. Hyunsuk opened the door of the empty, human-sized water tank and as he was standing inside, you locked the chains around his ankles too, tying him to the weight double his own before closing the water tank and putting a padlock over its opening, dropping the key inside a box of dozen other keys.

When the boy nodded at you, ready, and the audience watched each of his moves, entranced, you pushed a button and started the countdown as water started to fill up the tank. Soon it was already at Hyunsuk’s knees and he was still struggling with the chains around his arms. He was probably pretending because his record was getting out of everything even before the water could have reached his waistline. Still, the sight made you uneasy like always.

The moments ticked by. The shocked noises and cheering from the audience faded in the background as you watched Hyunsuk finally get rid of the metal around his wrists before his chest would have been covered in the emerging water. You watched him take a deep breath and submerge to reach for the locks around his ankles, twisting and turning. One of them gave in easier which was a relief but Hyunsuk had to come up for air and with the weight holding him down he could barely get to the surface for oxygen before going back down. The last lock seemingly didn’t budge even then.

You told yourself he just wanted to fool everybody. He wanted them to fear for his life before he revealed that there was nothing to worry about. But second after second passed, the countdown continued, the water was almost at the tipping point on the top of the tank and Hyunsuk was still chained to the weight by his left ankle.

The moment he looked up and your eyes met through the layers of water and air, you could tell that he wasn’t acting.

You moved on instinct, without thinking of your reputation or popularity when the boy tried to hit the glass walls of the water tank, trying to break his prison. It was all in vain though. It was supposed to be an unbreakable glass and you had the key to open it, among many others. You threw the content of the key box to the ground, trying to look for the small grey one that opened the padlock but every one of them looked the same. You tried the first three you could grab quickly but none of them worked.

The water was pouring down on the outside of the water tank already, so even if you stopped the flow, it wouldn’t have mattered. You had to get Hyunsuk out of there.

You didn’t care about the audience who watched what was happening like it was a good show. You didn’t care about the circus owner’s opinion. Nor what would the illusionist say. Not if he stayed alive after this.

You knew that trying to break the glass or overturn the entire tank was impossible for you and since you didn’t have enough time to try each and every key, you did the next best thing: break the padlock with the first heavy thing you found.

The moment the water tank opened, water flooded the stage and those too who were sitting in the first row.  Hyunsuk’s unconscious body fell to the floor as screams and gasps filled the air.

“Hyun… Hyunsuk!” You called his name in panic as you hovered over him, shaking his shoulders but there was no response. Nothing. Not even when you put your hand over the boy’s chest trying to feel his heartbeat. It wasn’t there.

No, no, no. That couldn’t be happening.

In your hurry, you forgot about your surroundings and pressed your lips to the boy’s wet, passive ones. Pulling back, but still hovering over him, with both of your clothes soaked and the cold embracing you, it was almost like deja vu. But this time Hyunsuk didn’t open his eyes immediately after your kiss and you wondered whether you did something wrong. Or whether Death couldn’t have been cheated twice. Necromancy was a delicate occult science after all. Not everybody could bring back dead people to life just like you could. No wonder why Death was always lurking around you.

Water dripping, metal rattling, your shoulders shook as sobs rocked your body. It was your fault. Something must have happened with the chains or the locks. You messed up. But still, you should have been able to save him. He was counting on you. What was a necromancer with the ability to grant the kiss of life good for if not this?

Sobs. It was your fault.

Sobs. You killed him.

Sobs. You failed to save him.

“Angel…”

A raspy voice called and Death walked away empty handed.