#i know for a fact there is an entire box of razor blades a few steps away from me

[whsprings]

.

[str8aura-no-not-that-one]

unfinished unused str8aura story (tw for mild descriptions of violence and blood)

I wake up tonight, at an unknown time (I know it must still be night, for I remember I left the window shutters open, and the room is still pitch black), to the sensation of a metal blade being drawn across my throat. My skin and muscles are being split open, exposing the vocal cords and larynx underneath. My airway is currently leaking, and I will be dead in a matter of seconds.

Which sucks. Let's unpack that for a moment.

I'm in college right now, and my roommate arrived rather late, a few days after I had already begun settling into classes. I didn't really get to know him, but from what I gathered, he seemed like a perfectly kind and charming individual. Clearly that is not the case; I suppose it's entirely possible the lock on my door was picked, or perhaps someone broke the window and slipped in, but Occam's razor tells me that my roommate has for some reason decided to murder me in my sleep. Why, I don't particularly care. Leave that to the police; this is about me, not him.

So, death. That which is rapidly approaching me as I lay here in my bed, cradled by my killer. I have never deluded myself about death, any more than all of us do at every moment; were we to only think about this inevitable fate, every moment, we would scarcely have time to do anything. It is for the betterment of our lives that we delude ourselves about it, at least partially, which is why it is always so surprising when it happens.

We all would, at the very least, like for it to happen later rather than sooner. There are no plans which death wraps up in a neat little bow; it never comes at the perfect point to end your character arc, like in a movie. It only derails and destroys that which you had previously set up. I wanted to be an actor, an artist, all the usual things people my age want to be. None of that is possible now, and I have been prematurely brought to the end, everything screeching to a halt.

I suppose at that end of life, the last thing we do is fling the memory of us forward, like a javelin, and see how far into the future it lands. My friends and family will grieve, of course, but they will die someday as well; without a fame or reputation to precede me, that javelin will only land a half century or so into the future. Pitiful, considering.

Of course, there was no guarantee it was ever going to get that far. I should consider myself unlucky for this fate, but it is important to remember everybody is lucky; the fact that we continue to live, when our skin is paper and our bones hold the consistency of breakfast cereal, is miraculous. I especially realize that fragility now, feeling the knife press into my voice box- How much must this knife have cost my attacker? Ten, fifteen dollars? Is that a low-ball? I've never bought a knife. Comically small, in any case.

There is some injustice in dying so young, but it pales in comparison to the real injustice here, which is that I'll be buried like some stooge. Damn those who wish for their bodies to be shoved into a box and thrown downstairs. In life, nobody asks you for your funeral plans; You have to go out of your way to tell them to someone, at an age when people expect you to die, and then have to hope they listen. I did neither of those things. I'm barely an adult. Who was I supposed to tell?

What I really wish could happen to my body is for something to eat it. A tiger, or a lion, or a wolf- Something cool. Perhaps it sounds hippie of me, but it truly is what I wish. As it stands, my body helps nobody. Nobody will benefit from a decrepit sack of meat and bones, except perhaps the earthworms, and I certainly don't care to give back to them. They have enough as it is. Feed me to the beasts, and pass my life on, I say.

Not that I'll have any chance to exercise frustration at this injustice. The mature thing to do is to stop caring, in this final moment of life.

This final moment of life is lasting quite a long time. Can you imagine if it never ended? There is no Heaven, no Hell, no afterlife; when someone dies, they become trapped within the moment of death, their final agonizing pain, for eternity.

Wouldn't that be so stupid? If I read that in a book, as canonical fact, I would be enraged. What a hack this author is.

Then again, the author of my universe, whoever that may be, killed off someone clearly intended to be the protagonist within two decades of screentime. Maybe my author is a hack.

I say protagonist in jest, but it is naturally what we all hope for. I'm not insane for thinking that, right? I do enjoy solipsism, but it has always been with the unspoken hope that it will never be put to the test like now. If I die, and the rest of the universe is all a figment in my head, then surely this death has brought with it the apocalypse. And if so, why would my brain choose to off itself in this way? Am I stupid?

No. If solipsism is real, I would surely live into my tender eighties, be rich and famous, and then never die. Better men than I have believed themselves to be the sole owner of reality, after all.

The difference is they didn't see things like I do, through my eyes. Unfortunately, before too long I won't be seeing things at all.

(I sort of hope and dread it at once. Death is still not preferable to this agony I endure, but an answer would be.)

So then perhaps reality does not run on the wetware that is my brain. In hindsight, what would it have? Something external needs to contain it, after all. A first person shooter does not run on the brain of the protagonist, it runs on a computer.

Does that grant me immortality then, if my thoughts, feelings, and experience all existed on something external outside reality?

I doubt it. Knowing my luck, reality is a computer, and I'm a file that's just been deleted.

Actually, that's not true. Knowing my luck, Hell is real, and I'm going there. I've never been particularly religious, but I truly cannot imagine a more horrific ending to this life then to find out the televangelists were right. Being queer does that to you. Would being a WASP for some pithy handful of decades have been worth it, for an eternity in the good place? Do I not also wait agonizingly through my peas and carrots before receiving my chocolate cake?

God, I could go for some cake right now. Shame my throat has a hole in it.

Nah, that's not it. There's my resolution; if Hell is real, and I go there, I'm going to steadfastly pretend it isn't, just to piss everyone off. I had my life stolen from me, the least I can do is make it everyone else's problem.

So that's the worst case scenario. What's the best, then? Let us imagine for a moment that Heaven is real; I receive an eternity there as a reward for good behavior. An eternity is a long time. Surely I'll have done everything there is to have done within two heaven-decades, without such stupid things as 'eating', 'sleeping', 'shitting', and 'working' to distract me. And then what? Do I forget it, and start again? That's going to be a real pain if I end up looping my actions, over and over again, forgetting each time, but I suppose I wouldn't remember it well enough to care anyway. That could be fine, I guess. Not Heavenly, but fine.

If that is best, the reward I get for living, I'm not very impressed.

I don't know what would impress me.

It is, admittedly, hard to think right now. Due to the hole and whatnot.

I guess I'll find out soon enough.

With a little luck.

[mr-ig]

On the Bardots

As it happens, I recently turned up a small pile of diaries from the nineties, stuffed into a holdall with my old ZX Spectrum, some scart leads and a couple of pink plastic kazoos. By that time, I was, mercifully, beyond documenting my romantic woes in gruesome detail, but I hadn't yet got out of the habit of writing hysterical notes about gigs I'd been to and earnestly noting down a weekly playlist.

As I adjusted to my twenties, that weekly diet was somewhat lacking in fresh ingredients. Random example from 1991: Ministry, God, Terminal Cheesecake, Godflesh, Codeine, Swans, Wedding Present. Gives me a touch of indigestion just thinking about it. It was about to change. Random example from 1993: Insides, Shara Nelson, Metalheads, Seefeel, Orbital. A lightening of the mood, a broadening of the palette, and a great many guitar bands would not survive the cull. One guitar band in particular, however, would still be appearing in my diary's weekly hit parade even in 1997, the last year that I kept.

For a brief moment, the Bardots were the music press darlings of cliché. Entirely unafraid of pomposity and pretentiousness, they were tailor-made for the Melody Maker of the time, and for an indie scene swooning to Suede and hungry for some post-Madchester glamour. They were rewarded with Single of the Week a couple of times, first for the chiming cascade of Pretty O and then for the barbed dream-pop of Shallow. A knack for flowing melody and extravagant melodrama was noted and would persist. They received a full-page interview, a high-profile live review.

My memory suggests that the live review sounded a somewhat disappointed note, complaining of the band's reluctance to engage with its audience, suggesting that success would require a greater generosity of spirit towards paying punters. Honestly, you couldn't have found a way to make them sound like a more perfect fit: for several years, I'd steadfastly (and yes, absurdly) refused to applaud bands, on the grounds that they ought to know whether they were any good or not without my assistance. I didn't want to be engaged with, thank you kindly, and would be delighted to accept the invitation to stand there with my arms folded looking unimpressed in return.

Which I duly did, at the Concorde on Brighton seafront on Wednesday 16th September 1992. "Pristine pop, for once, for always" says my uncharacteristically pithy diary entry. My recollection is that the audience comprised me and another bloke; we had a friendly chat, it would've seemed rude not to. The Bardots delivered their set shrouded in projections of red roses and razor blades, and they did indeed seem largely indifferent to our presence. Not hard to ignore an audience of two, it's true.

To my mind, falling in love with a new band requires that they tick precisely the right number of boxes. Too few and it's all awkward silences, nothing in common; too many and there's no nervous tension to play with. I fell in love. Tried not to show it too much, obviously.

The belief that everyone else would come to love them too has not weathered well. I've tried, God knows. I'm still trying, evidently. A comprehensive history of the band, having detailed its roots at the University of East Anglia and the lightly fey stylings of early material and that initial music press interest, would inevitably hang much upon the fact that Cheree Records went bust at the point of releasing debut album Eye Baby, and that the album therefore received almost none of the promotional fanfare that it deserved. Disastrous timing, cruel fate. We'll never know what might've happened in different circumstances, but I feel that the argument in favour of thwarted superstardom would be on more solid ground if a single bastard one of the countless people upon whom I've foisted the Bardots over the years had shown even the merest interest.

No matter. Perhaps I wouldn't hold them so dear if I'd had to share them. In truth, I'm not wholly convinced about selling Eye Baby to you as some kind of lost masterpiece: it's got a rather one-size-fits-all production, cavernous and cloudy, which doesn't necessarily do favours for its best songs. Those best songs fill up most of the second half and they're remarkable, to my ears: Gloriole, for example, is a hot mess of a thing, constantly stumbling and stalling and then launching itself off again and only just making it over the two minute mark. Caterina begins in a similar vein before slowing down to admire its own elaborate swirls of guitar. The tortured waltz of Obscenity Thing has always been the one for me, descending as it does into an oddly dubby, lightly flagellating middle section before reviving its chorus for one last turn around the dancefloor. It's absurd, and complicated, and ambitious, and sublime. It's everything I wanted indie pop to want to be. Still do.

That first clutch of records gives the impression of a band with songs to burn, yet without a really clear idea of how those songs ought to sound. That never encumbered them live, but the studio can be a treacherous place: even their sole Peel session leaves the sense that the very best versions of these songs stayed in their writers' imaginations. There's no absence of execution: Neil and Steve Cox were a lithe, fluent rhythm section; guitarists Andy Murphy and Krzysztof Fijalkowski, brother of Adorable's Pete Fij, never let pyrotechnics obscure the tunes; smartly-dressed frontman Simon Dunford had a gift for delivering his lyrics as if they were far simpler, and far more innocent, than closer inspection revealed. I saw them twice more, in venues of diminishing size, and they huddled together like an insular little gang before they took the stage. Wagons circled, like they were talking about us, judging us. I couldn't have loved them more.

Bar interim single We Are Fiasco - a delightfully celebratory take on their predicament - they disappeared from sight for the best part of three years. The album which eventually resulted, V-Neck, is one that I cherish deeply…and perhaps all the more for the fact that it's always existed in a total vacuum. The Bardots were, apparently, no more by that point, just a line in their label's newsletter to announce that they'd packed it in. Then and now, I'm not sure that I've ever heard any opinion of that record other than my own. No press releases, no interviews, no reviews, nothing. It's a funny place for one of your favourite albums to sit. Over the years, I've weighed every nuance of those songs, rejoiced in every revelation, dissected every flaw, and it's almost as if it belongs only to the six of us, them and me.

With one line-up change - Yves Altana replacing Andy Murphy on guitar - and some evident stock-taking, the Bardots finally had a sound worthy of their songs. Or mostly, at any rate: there are a couple of moments when the budget evidently doesn't stretch to an actual string section, something that's easy to forgive. But where Eye Baby was all very thoroughly coloured-in, sometimes outside the lines as well as in, V-Neck leaves plenty of room for the listener to do some of their own shading. It's a more minimal, skeletal record, and yet a more vibrant one too, and its use of subtle texture and sly detail and well-judged restraint seems to owe just the right amount to the likes of Magazine and Wire. It sounds like they've taken their self-absorption to its logical end: where once it was rather performative, now it just seems that they've spent months writing and perfecting songs simply to satisfy themselves. Almost nobody else would ever hear them, which is almost everybody else's loss.

When it does want to prowl and pout and preen, to be the Bardots of old, it does so with new-found assurance. It's a record which understands the power of a moment left to linger for a second or two. The Colony Room, for example, saunters lazily down the corridor, leans in the doorway with an eyebrow arched, holds the pose for a line before bursting into the room. Sole single Carrion does the same, screaming guitars held in check for just long enough. Elsewhere, English Lovers bides its sweet time for four minutes before a climax which tastes of summer rain, each element allowed to breathe pure fresh air with arms outstretched. Violent Love is all poison and pirouettes, and it chooses to close its eyes and turn faster and faster until everything becomes a soothing blur. Skin Diving is simply ravishing, and "We'll steal ourselves a car/And take us to the world" has always seemed the most romantic of lines.

It's a record of oblique angles and sudden openings and great tunes, and every song is a slim novella, and every chorus has a counter-chorus, and every line has a little bit of mischief hidden in it. Dunford constantly ties his words into grammatical knots and bows and I've never had much of an idea what he's on about half the time, apart from an inkling that it's probably quite rude. He never had such fun as he does here, his lyrics spinning their way around whatever spiraling guitar lines Fijalkowski and Altana have conjured up. Or maybe they're spinning around him. There's a lot of spiraling and spinning, anyway. They conclude, forever, with Feeling Juvenile - "Stop stop press/Life's complex" - and it fades into silence with one final gorgeous intertwining of all five band members, each flying their own streamer, trailing it into the distance. Not a happy ending, perhaps, but a fitting one.

Krzysztof Fijalkowski would form Polak with his brother, Simon Dunford joined their ranks for a bit; their tilt at stardom didn't quite make it into orbit either. The Bardots reformed for a one-off gig in Norwich back in 2009; I found out about it a month after it'd happened. There's been almost nothing but silence since, until a sudden flurry of social media activity recently leading to both albums being made available on Bandcamp and the usual streaming services. The records finally being out there again may or - oh, if you insist - may not secure their rightful place in history. It does at least give me something tangible to refer you to, something to prove they existed.

Because - and I do appreciate that there are far greater injustices - I find myself slightly alienated by a world in which Suede have ascended to become alternative national treasures and nobody gives a flying toss about Dunford and co. It feels a bit personal, somehow. It requires me to accept that I'm wrong, to swallow my pride, and I still can't quite do it. World domination is too much to ask, clearly, but I'd love it if one person, just one, could find it in their heart to cherish this band half as much as I do.

Perhaps it could be you.

[awkwardspontaneity]

Battle for the Sky

Link x GN!Sheikah!Reader

Part 4 of Memories of You

Prev | Next

Summary: Link and Y/n are called to Rito Village when a dark beast has taken over Vah Medoh and Y/n’s biggest fear finally comes to light.

AN: I finally finished this part. May have gone a touch overboard with this one it’s like 2500 words. I just had a lot of fun writing the battle and the characters. Its got a lot of fighting and mayybe a teensy bit of angst. I rlly like Revali so I had to feature him. bit of gore so just a warning

regular= present    italic= memory

Link stood atop Revali’s Landing, eyes closed as he enjoyed the cool breeze. There was so much to do before he could save Zelda, but after having to sneak through the Yiga hideout and his fight to free Vah Nabooris he relished this quiet moment. Even if it was only a few minutes under the light of the moon, he would take the time to think.

So many memories were coming back in a jumbled mess. Like pouring the pieces of a puzzle out of the box. But he hadn’t been given the full picture yet. So much of who he was was in those few precious moments he had with his friends, all he wanted was to have that back. At the very least he wished to remember those he had lost 100 years ago when calamity struck.

And yet, a part of him almost didn’t want to remember. The more he recalled his friends, the more he was reminded that because of his failures they had been lost. Trapped within their Divine Beasts with no escape for 100 years. Forced to watch as the very things they were supposed to use for protection wreaked havoc across their beloved homes. Maybe Revali had been right about him not being up to the task.

Revali.

The last time he had come to the Rito Village had been for a monster attack on Vah Medoh too hadn’t it.

“Impressive, I know.” 

Revali hovered softly before landing on the railing. A smirk stretched across his beak as he looked down at Link. Although this level of bravado was normal for the Rito warrior, Link suspected he was playing up his capabilities in response to their presence.

“Very few can achieve mastery of the sky.” So this was how the trip would be then. “Yet I have made an art of creating an updraft that allows me to soar. It’s considered to be quite the masterpiece of aerial techniques, even among the Rito”

At this point Link was discreetly looking for Y/n. They had said something about asking the village chief for the key to Medoh before running off and leaving him alone. He was sure that they had done this to avoid Revali’s complaints. Still, Link wished they would hurry and save him. Revali responded better when they were present. Or at least, he was more capable of tolerating Link with Y/n around to deflect conflicts.

“Now then,” Revali hopped down from his perch, drawing Link’s attention back to him, “my ability to explore the firmament is certainly of note, but let’s not- pardon me for being so blunt- let’s not forget that I am the most skilled archer of all the Rito. Yet despite these truths, it seems that I have been tapped to merely assist you. All because you happen to have that little darkness- sealing sword on your back.”

Link looked down with a clenched jaw. Hylia he wished Y/n would come save him. 

“There you are!” He felt a breath escape him at Y/n’s call. There was only so much of the Rito warrior’s ego one could put up with. 

Y/n skipped over to stand beside Link and gave the two Champions a grin, “I got Medoh’s key from the chief so if the two of you are ready, we should head up.”

Recali scoffed at the smaller Sheikah, waving his wing in a dismissive manner, “There’s no such need for the two of you to board Medoh. As a matter of fact your presence here is quite redundant, so why don’t you run along back to the princess like the good little hero’s you are.”

Link stepped forward to stop Revali from taking off but was stopped by Y/n placing a hand on his arm. “If you’re flying off to the archery range to get in more practice you can meet us back here. We’re fully prepared to wait until you feel ready.”

“Excuse me?”

“The chief told me you haven’t been able to enter Medoh for nearly a week due to this monster.”

“I assure you I can kill it on my own.”

Y/n sighed, reaching out to carefully lay a hand on Revali’s wing. “We only want to help. There’s no shame in working alongside your comrades. Besides, consider it a favour from us for your future help in defeating Ganon.”

“I suppose, I have no choice.” The Rito warrior hardly looked pleased with them forcing his hand, er, wing. The feathers on his neck were ruffled up as the trio looked tensely at the flying beast above. “I’m sure that even if I were to fly off at this moment, the two of you would still go on up to Vah Medoh and end up getting thrown over the sides.”

Y/n let out a nervous laugh at his snide remark and Link found himself wondering if the tightness in their voice was due to Revali being correct in his assumptions… or maybe something else.

------

Link and Y/n appeared on top of Vah Medoh in a swirl of blue light. They were swiftly met by Revali pushing them to stay hidden. He was quick to explain the winged beast, how it crawled across Medoh with sprawling legs. Y/n had mused about winged octopi only to be flicked on the head by Revali. 

As the trio emerged from their hiding spot the two Hylians found Revali had not given nearly enough detail on the horrific creature. It was as large as he had described, with muscled legs sprawling across the wings of the Divine Beast. Its body resembled a Lynel, thick arms ending in sharp claws. Possibly the most terrifying thing were the wings sprouting from its back. They were dark and feathered, each one dripping with malice that ran down its body before piling across the ground like muddy footprints. 

Link heard Y/n draw in a sharp breath as they crept along the edge in their approach. He reached out to place a hand between their shoulder blades, a simple motion they had developed in their journeys to signal they were with the other. Whether in physical danger or an uncomfortable situation, they would handle things together. He wasn’t sure how much comfort he could offer at this moment, but he’d make due with the promise to be by their side. Even if he was worried about the feeling of their shallow breaths against his hand.

After carefully making their way to the center terminal of the Divine Beast, Revali gave a quick signal before crouching to take off. As the wind picked up around the Rito, Y/n took in a breath before squeezing Link’s wrist and darting out from their hiding spot. 

“HEY SLIMEBALL!!”

Apparently that was extremely offensive to the beast because as soon as it located the small Sheikah it tore off after them. Y/n sprinted away sending a wink as they passed the terminal and Link. Y/n reached the first pillar and slid to a stop behind it right in time to take cover from the bomb arrows exploding against the creature's torso. Mangled wings came up to protect the beast from further blasts giving Link the opportunity to lunge forward and strike down its legs. He managed to slash through two of the muscular appendages before the creature let out a screech and spread its wings, and with them, an attack of razor sharp feathers. 

Y/n had come out from their spot behind the pillar, luckily just in time to slash a feather in half before it could hit Link. The duo exchanged grins before taking off to continue their plan. Y/n would lead the beast away with their faster speeds while Revali would circle above, waiting for the moment when the Sheikah would twist the monster around pillars where he could strike it with a volley of bomb arrows. Then while it wrapped itself in its wings for protection, Link would unleash a flurry rush, slashing away at its legs until they disappeared in a haze of dark smoke.

They pulled off their barrage of attacks until the final leg dissipated giving it one option. 

To fly.

Fortunately, they had planned for this, and Revali struck the creature before it could get far. It crashed to the ground with such a force, it shook the entire Divine Beast in the sky. Y/n let out a scream as they lost their balance, reaching out to grab the pillar they stood beside. He knew he had a goal to complete but, as he slashed away at the fallen creature, all Link could think about was how he wanted to rush to his friend's side. 

The creature seemed to sense Link’s hesitation because it began to spasm, forcing Link to jump back. It seized the moment and took off into the skies screeching as Revali circled too close.

“We must finish this quickly!” Revali dove closer to the two champions, being mindful of the writhing beast in the skies. “That thing is getting desperate, and I only have so many arrows left.”

Link gave him a terse nod as he rushed over to Y/n who was still pressed against the pillar. 

“Y/n.” Only a small hum escaped them, although there was a comfort in the way they leaned into his touch. “Y/n, I don't know what’s going on in your head right now, but we need you. Revali’s almost out of arrows and I don’t think I can take it down alone.”

Their hand curled around his, shaky but tight. “I’m okay.” He was sure neither of them believed the grin that pulled at their lips. “Its wings are the only thing it has left to attack with, right? Keep its attention and I’ll take them out.”

“Are you sure?”

“I have to be.”

He nodded, although his expression betrayed his concern, something Y/n took note of. They smiled softly, albeit weakly, and out their forehead against his. “Relax Hero, we can do this.”

Link sighed softly, pressing his head against theirs with a little more force. They pulled away sharing nervous grins before Link took off. 

Fortunately, the beast had been distracted by launching feathers at Revali, who had been swooping around it with practised expertise. Link gave a shout to signal he was ready for Revali to shoot down the monster and, with an audible scoff, the Rito notched his arrows.

With a thunderous crash the beast landed on Medoh once again and, fighting the urge to look back at Y/n, Link rushed forward with his sword drawn. Link slashed and chopped away at the creature's muscular arms, trying to force it to spread its wings. It took longer than he had hoped for with far too many close calls before wings spread, throwing sludge along with it. If it weren’t for the glint off Y/n’s twin blades, Link almost wouldn’t have seen the young Sheikah sprint past. Before the monster could register their presence, Y/n had hopped from its arm, up to the shoulder, and flipped over to land on its back. 

What came next was a flurry of silver blades and the tearing of malice dripping flesh. The monster attempted to rear back and reach Y/n with its arms but it was stopped by Revali and Link each attacking an arm, preventing it from being able to knock off their partner. 

With a final flourish, Y/n thrust both blades between the beast's wings. A harrowing shriek escaped the beast as it trembled from the blow. The malice surrounding it began to bubble and swell up. With a grunt, Y/n placed a foot against its back and tore their blades free. They looked up at Link with a grin but, just as they opened their mouth to shout, the monster exploded.

The moment Link uncovered his face, he was met with the sight of Y/n sliding off the edge of Vah Medoh. Link took off as fast as he could, watching as they scrambled for a grip along the edges but came up with nothing. Link hit the ground, sliding towards them with an outstretched hand. The two made eye contact and Link’s heart twisted at the terror within their ruby eyes. He felt their fingertips touch before Y/n was gone, their desperate cry as they slid over the edge carrying across the wind.

Link stared at his empty hand. He would have thrown himself over the edge after Y/n had he not seen the flash of blue following Revali as he shot after the Sheikah like an arrow from his bow.

The moments Link lay there waiting for Revali to return were spent forcing himself to breath while his lungs were crushed under the weight of guilt. He could still feel his fingertips brushing against Y/n’s. See the expression of fear that had torn the grin from their face as they cried out.

Wind swirled around Link, forcing him to sit up as Revali soared past him. The Rito landed on Medoh and, in a surprisingly tender moment, laid a wing upon the Sheikah warrior clinging to him like a koala.

Link was quick to approach the two, getting a glimpse of the way Y/n’s brow furrowed as they hid their face in Revali’s feathered chest. Noticing the way Link watched the two, Revali scoffed before grabbing at Y/n’s arms. “You’re not falling anymore, you can stop tugging at my feathers.”

Y/n mumbled an apology as they shakily detached themselves and stepped to the ground. They managed a wobbly grin that was interrupted by Link crashing into them. Y/n let out the faintest sob as they buried themselves deeper into his arms. Link tightened his grip, carefully pressing his nose into their hair. The two heroes held each other tightly, hoping to ground themselves in the other. To remind themselves that they were together still.

“Ahem.” The bubble popped around the two heroes as Revali looked on in barely hidden irritation. He tapped his talons against Medoh, sighing as the two looked at him with wide eyes. “As wonderful as it is that we are all, in fact, alive. I would appreciate it if you could use whatever it is you brought to seal away that creature.”

“Right.” Y/n stepped towards the terminal, Link’s hand still held tightly in their own. They pulled a seal from one of their pouches before mumbling a few phrases. Deep violet tendrils of malice swirled around, collecting in front of Y/n. The seal they held began to glow blue, spreading its own tendrils of light outwards. The lights seemed to dance through the air around them. Gathering together until they spiraled into the paper seal in Y/n’s hands.

“That should be it. Now can we please get off this bird?”

“I couldn’t agree more.”

[roguish-gallery]

Can you do a headcannon for the rouges on halloween?

Saved this one for the right time! Also!!! TW for some NS/FW mentions!

Rogues + Halloween HCs!!

Bane:

He might hop around from party to party, just for kicks! He doesn’t stick around any of them for too long, though.

You know those unsourced facebook articles that your aunt and your mom share each year about the guy who apparently lives in every neighborhood in the country who sticks razor blades into the chocolate bars he hands out to kids? That’s Bane, but he doesn’t even give out any candy. Just knives. He tells every child that knocks on his door how they can properly defend themselves should they ever get imprisoned for crimes they didn’t commit, or how to properly gut that one bitch who keeps hogging the good kickball at recess.

He dresses up like a Roman gladiator! It’s cool and gritty, and he doesn’t have to worry about finding a shirt that fits his body. Plus, he looks really good in gladiator sandals.

Catwoman:

She’s either attending some boring Halloween party with socialites she’s planning to rob, or watching some shitty scary movie with the rest of the sirens.

That being said, she makes sure that every child that knocks on her door gets the full-sized candy bars. 

She dresses up like a witch! Classy and simple, but lots of opportunities to add her own creative touches!

Harley Quinn:

She’s out there living her best life, being a grown-ass woman... and still trying to Trick-or-Treat. Anyone who gives her a toothbrush or a bag of pretzels is gonna get a brick thrown through their windows later that night.

She managed to convince Basil to lend her some of the horror films in his collection, and despite the fact that none of this shit is scary, she loses her goddamn mind during every mildly frightening scene.

She’s wearing one of that inflatable T-Rex costumes!!! Mostly because they’re really funny and because she KNOWS that people are expecting her to dress up as something “sexy” and this is her way of giving them a middle finger. (also if she’s in a big t-rex costume then it’s harder for the people handing out candy to realize that she’s a grown-ass woman).

Joker:

He’s the annoying bitch in the morph suit that shows up to every party. He thinks that people won’t be able to recognize him but. Everyone knows it’s him.

Killer Croc:

He has a genuine love for Halloween because it’s one of the few times of the year where he can walk around in public without anyone freaking out.

Fdskjfhskdj he shows up to costume contests and tells judges that he’s “Godzilla” and he leaves with some cool ribbons and a nice chunk of prize money for his “life-like costume”

Like I said, he’s either Godzilla or Kaiman from Dorohedoro. Whatever sounds more fun at the time!

Mad Hatter:

The only person here who made their costume entirely from scratch. It will be a cold day in hell when he gives a cent of his hard-earned money to a Spirit Halloween.

Surprisingly enough, he does not dress as an Alice character (he already does that every other day, and it wouldn’t be fun to do it for Halloween too). Now he’s dressed like a Victorian-style ghost!!

“Boo!! Give me your candy, and complement how dashing, smart, and spooky I am, or I’ll... uh- I’ll haunt you!! Boo!!!”

Penguin:

Surprising no one, he throws an excellent Halloween party at the Iceberg Lounge and he somehow prevents any of the other Rogues from setting any fires. A successful night!

He’s honestly not super festive when it comes to Halloween? At least in comparison to the other Rogues. He decorates the Iceberg accordingly for the party, but it’s more for the sake of entertaining his guests.

Tbh, he’ll just wear one of his regular suits, apply extra eyeliner, and slap on some fangs and tell everyone he’s a vampire. He’s glad that he finally has an excuse to wear one of his capes in public. Might fuck around and go as the Phatom of the Opera or some shit.

Poison Ivy:

Spends the entire month fuckin around with the pumpkins, as one with plant powers is ought to do. If the pumpkin you’re trying to carve into a jack o’ lantern suddenly grows arms and stabs you back with your knife, Pamela probably had something to do with it.

Harley ate all of the candy she bought a week ago, and she forgot to grab more so Pam awkwardly hands out leftover food from her fridge to any trick-or-treaters who come over. Pam hopes that the toddler in the Paw Patrol costume enjoys the hummus he got because Pam was really looking forward to eating it.

She dresses as Demeter! I love Pammy so much and I’m sorry to say this but she is 100% the type of person who gets huffy whenever people (or children) don’t immediately recognize who she’s dressed as.

Riddler:

Jon rents all of the Exorcist films and bets Eddie 100 dollars that he wouldn’t be able to watch through the entire series. Ed promptly accepts that bet… and quits 30 minutes into the first movie.

… He’s dresses as Captain Kirk for Halloween. Ed is a shameless Trekkie and I will die on this hill.

He individually texts every Rogue and officer of the GCPD this exact copypasta, and then he… turns his phone off for the rest of the week and refuses to respond to any calls :) or death threats :) or warrants for his arrest :)

Scarecrow:

Ahhhh…. Do you hear that? The shrieks of terror?  That crisp autumn air? Those Pillsbury sugar cookies with the pumpkins on them? Yes, Jonathan Crane is in his natural element.

Sdasdfsdfkj He sneaks into the local haunted house and corn maze attractions so he can upstage the actual scare actors.

He just wears his scarecrow outfit; if it’s not broken, don’t fix it. (that, and Jervis made him swear to not buy a cheap costume at Spirit Halloween.)

Two-Face:

He’s just chillin!! Having a fun spooky time!! He can buy apple cider back at the store again, and life is good!

Harv will make trick-or-treaters flip a coin, and based on what it lands on they either get a full chocolate bar, or a box of raisins and a toothbrush.

He’s dressed up like a biker! Leather jacket, cool shades, and tight jeans- he and Bruce used to dress up like bikers for past Halloweens!

[winter-soldier-vibes]

But words can never hurt me... (Sebastian Stan x reader)

Sebastian Stan x depressed reader

Warnings: negative self image, self harm, worthlessness

Word count: 2386 

Summary: Reader is an actress alongside Sebastian. She knows how cruel the media can be, but sometimes it just gets to be too much for her. 

-------------

It had been a problem for longer than you’d like to admit. Your entire life you had to deal with negative feedback from various groups of people. When you were growing up, it was from your family. In school, it was all your peers. And now, it was the media.

You had been an actress since you were in middle school. It was one of the only things that made you happy. Ironically, you felt the most like yourself when you were trying to portray a character. Something about it made you feel alive. You fell in love.

But despite your acting skills and your passion for the job, the media was absolutely relentless. Telling you all the microscopic things you did wrong or ways you offended people. It was funny sometimes, the things they would come up with to make a headline. But most of the time their words, true or not, cut deep with you.

Back when you were at school and you had bullies to deal with, you turned to the blade to help you numb the pain. This too, made you feel alive. You felt like you were finally doing something right, like you were fixing the problem that was yourself by hurting yourself. It started in places that were easier to hide, your torso and upper thighs. But as time went on, you moved down to your wrists. 

Now, years later, you still struggled to put down the knives and razors. It was a battle you fought every damn day. No one really knew about it; as long as your makeup artists could hide it, it was no big deal to anyone. You’d tell them it was from a long time ago.

You had landed a role in the new Avengers Infinity War movie, and you were beyond excited. You got to meet some of your acting idols, the people who inspired you to pursue acting as a career. You were quickly taken under their wing, seeing as you were one of the youngest on set. Most of all Sebastian. 

He was impressed by the way you handled what came along with being in the business. The media, finishing school on your own, the inevitable rejection that comes with being an actress - he didn’t think he could’ve handled it that well at your age.

He quickly became like your on-set dad. You didn’t mind this at all, in fact you cherished it. You and your dad had never been close, but you never really complained. He wasn’t mean to you at all, just distant. It was nice to have someone fill that role, even if it had to wait until now.

He never knew about your little secret. On set the makeup artists worked wonders doing cover ups, and off set you were always in some sort of cardigan. The rest of the cast would often give you shit for it, since it was Atlanta, or as Downey and Evans liked to call it, “hotlanta”. You would go along with it, always claiming that you ran cold. No one batted an eye.

Things had certainly gotten better when you joined the cast and became a part of a new family. But that didn’t stop the negative feelings from creeping in or the thoughts from running marathons in your head. And it certainly didn’t stop the media.

You always tried your best to avoid the headlines, but there were some days you couldn’t help yourself. You would think “I’ll just read this one,” only to find yourself still scrolling down a rabbit hole hours later with a tear-streaked face.

Tonight was one of these nights.

You were in your trailer, sitting on your bed. One hand held your phone, and the other you rested your head in with your elbow on your knee. Some of the articles made you laugh. Is this some kind of joke? But others would hit you harder.

‘Nobody’ gets role in new Avengers movie

Who even is this chick?

Why is she even here?

You didn’t want to keep reading, but something in your mind egged you on. You kept scrolling only to find your eyes pricking with tears. You just let them fall. It wasn’t like anyone was going to see them. You were done for the night.

You keep reading until you can’t take it anymore. These freaking reporters… Do they have any idea how much words can hurt a person? No. They don’t. Frustrated, you toss your phone on the bed you were sitting on and put your head in your hands, unable to stop yourself from shaking.

You were at a crossroads in your mind right now. You knew exactly how you could help this whole situation, but you really wanted to be stronger than the urge. 

Just fucking get over yourself

It's just words. They don't know you, get a grip

No one loves you. You’re a nobody who got lucky

No one would notice. No one would care. 

Just do it you bastard!

You stood up and went over into your bathroom, closing it and locking it behind you. Force of habit. You pulled out a box from its hiding place and opened it: razors and bandaids. It was all you needed. 

You rolled your sleeves up and clutched a blade between your fingers, toying with it for a few moments. Did you actually want to do this?

An image of the articles pops into the forefront of your mind. You try to shake it out.

Absolutely. 

You press the blade into your wrist and swipe it across, blood beading to the surface almost instantly. You felt it sting as the air greeted your open wound, but it wasn’t enough. Not yet at least. You repeated your actions, stopping when the numbness started to kick in.

You took a deep breath and tilted your head back, dropping the blade on the ground with a clink. You looked back to your wrist - blood was dripping down and pooling in your hand, but you didn’t care. You just wanted to breathe in the peace for a few moments.

What you didn’t know was that this whole time Sebastian had been texting you. You had left your phone on your bed and was silent, so you missed his calls and texts. They started out innocently enough, asking if you wanted to grab dinner with him and some of the others. You were usually quick to respond, so he was a little curious why you hadn’t gotten back to him after 5 minutes. He decided to try and call you

Voicemail. 

Now that's surprising. He had never known you to miss a call, you even sometimes would rant about it waking you up in the middle of the night. He texted you again

Hey. are you okay? Why aren’t you answering?

He knew you could’ve just fallen asleep, but he had a feeling in the pit of his stomach that he hated. After a few more texts and unanswered calls later, he decided to come check on you.

He knocked on your trailer door, but there was no answer. He knocked a little harder. “Y/n? You in there?”

You couldn’t hear him through the doors and due to the blissful peace you were feeling. He let himself in, taking in how you weren’t there. But then he noticed your phone on your bed, notifications lighting it up. His eyes then fell on the bathroom door, which was shut.

He made his way over to that door and knocked again. “You okay in there?” he asked, you gasped. How did he get in? Why was he even here. You looked around at the scene. The blood was drying on your arm, and the blade sat next to you, dried blood also on the floor. How long have I been sitting here?

He spoke again, taking you out of your thoughts. “Y/n?” You could hear worry filling his voice and you cleared your throat, moving to stand. “Yep! Just give me a second…” you said as you scurried to clean up the mess you had made. You flushed bloody napkins down the toilet and cleaned off the blade and your arm before tugging your sleeve over in and opening the door. 

He smiled at you, and then worry overtook his features as he looked at your eyes. “Are you okay?” he asked.

You crossed your arms and walked around him. “Yeah, I’m fine. Why do you ask?”

He sighed as you sat down on your bed and he leaned against the doorframe to the bathroom. “Well, I’ve been trying to get a hold of you for the past 30 minutes, and your phone was out here. Which leads me to assume you were in there,” he tilted his head back to the bathroom, “for longer than that. And you’re not wet so you weren’t taking a long shower.”

You fiddled with the ends of your sleeves. “Very observant, Seb,” you said, avoiding eye contact.

He crossed his arms and looked at you. “You wanna tell me what’s wrong?” he asked.

You looked up at him and put on a fake smile. “Nothing’s wrong Seb.”

He looked at you, unconvinced. You looked back down at your arms and noticed that blood was starting to spot your sleeve, and you started panicking. You quickly crossed your arms over your chest again, praying he hadn’t noticed something.

But he had followed your gaze and saw something on your sleeve right before you covered it up he pushed himself off of the door frame and came to sit next to you. “Y/n?”

“What?” you asked innocently, not liking where this conversation was going to end up.

“Can I see your hands?” he asked gently.

You widen your eyes at him and crossed your arms even more tightly. “What? No - what are you on about?”

He asked softly “What are you hiding?”

You shook your head. “N-nothing.”

“Then let me see your hands,” he said, holding out his own for you to take. 

You shook your head. “Please Seb -”

“Y/n.” he said with adamacy and you knew there was no way to talk him out of this.

Sighing, you shake your head and stand. “I can’t…” you say softly. 

He stands up and puts a hand on your shoulder. Your eyes had started tearing up again, and he took note of this. Something was seriously wrong and he was going to get to the bottom of it.  He ran his hands down your arms to your elbows, and looked you in the eye. You felt safe with him. Looking down, you drop your arms down, letting him take one in each hand.

He practically froze when he saw blood. He had some ideas but he had hoped he was wrong. Tugging up your sleeve, he saw the new cuts along with some older scabs and breathed in sharply. He looked back at your face and the tears that were making their way down your cheeks. “Y/n…”

You started crying harder, and he quickly wrapped his arms around you. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

You shrugged. “It’s not exactly easy to talk about, Seb.”

He sighed, afraid to ask his next question. “How long has this been going on for?”

You shook your head against his chest. “A few years.” 

Sebastian now felt tears pricking his own eyes. You had always been so strong, all the time, for everyone he had no idea you were hurting, nonetheless hurting this badly. And you never said anything to anyone. “I’m sorry,” he said.

You pulled back, confused. “What? No, it’s not your fault.I’m the one who did this to myself, there’s nothing anyone could have done. I guess that’s why I don’t talk about it. Like it either happens and no one knows about it or people are worried and they get disappointed that you’ve done it again.”

He shook his head. “That’s not true, hun. We all care about you so much, especially me. I just felt like I could have done something, said something, just been there in some way. What brings you to do this to yourself?”

You rubbed a hand over your face. “It’s literally so stupid.”

“Y/n, look at me.” you met his gaze. “There is nothing you could say right now that wil sound stupid. If it’s making you want to hurt yourself like this, then it’s obviously important to you.”

You let out a shaky breath before grabbing your phone and unlocking it, showing Sebastian the page you had just been on, with the worst article in the collection. He looked at it for a few moments, before his expression softened even more and he wrapped his arms around you protectively again.

“You know they make money to make us look bad, right?”

You nodded against him. “I know.”

He sighed. “Doesn’t make it hurt any less though, does it?”

You nodded again. “Yeah. whoever said “sticks and stones can break my bones but words can never hurt me” was either naive or deaf.

The two of you laughed a little for a few seconds. Sebastian said, “You know you can always talk to me, don’t you?”

You took a deep breath and let it out. “It’s just not a problem you should have to deal with -”

“Y/n.” he pulled back and looked at you again. “I don’t care where I am, or what time of day it is. You ever feel like this, you can call me or text me. I’ll always be here for you.”

You shook your head at him. “Why are you so nice to me?”

He gave you a half smile. “Because you’re so nice to everyone else. You're an amazing person who has so much ahead of them. It’s hard to think a person could not be nice to you.”

You laughed dryly. “Tell that to my entire hometown.”

He smiled sadly and tightened his grip on you. “Please let me know if you ever feel like this again.”

You nodded a little. “I will.”

“You sure about that?”

You nodded again, smiling a little to yourself. “Yeah. I am.”

[ollieofthebeholder]

leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall): a TMA fanfic

Tumblr tag || Also on AO3.

Chapter 35: Sasha

“Are you sure you’ll be all right?” Jon asks anxiously.

“I’m fine, Jon,” Sasha says for what feels like the tenth time in the last three minutes. “Phone’s fully charged, so is my laptop. The trapdoor is unlocked and I can get there from my desk in fifteen seconds flat, I’ve timed it. And if all else fails”—she waves her tape recorder at him—“I’ve got this, so there will at least be a record of whatever happens to me.”

Jon frowns. “That’s not funny.”

“It wasn’t meant to be.” Sasha sighs.

It’s not that she doesn’t appreciate that her boss has her best interests at heart. She does. And they’re all friends, and that helps too. But Jon’s paranoia has been back in full force since his encounter with Nikola Orsinov. Tim and Martin are fairly good at tempering it, from what she’s noticed, but he still jumps at small noises and insists they stay together in pairs whenever possible. She doesn’t blame him, especially after they tell the Primes what happened and Jon Prime nearly has a panic attack before he manages to pull himself together. The situation feels like it’s balanced on the edge of a razor blade separating a lake of fire on one side and a bottomless pit on the other—like their choices are to maintain the balance and risk bleeding out before they can get to the other side, or fall to one side or the other and trust in a rescue.

Sasha can admit, if only to herself, that she’s curious about what a lake of fire might feel like to swim in, or if a bottomless hole is truly bottomless, but she’s not going to doom the whole world just to see what happens if she does.

“Jon. It’s okay,” she repeats. “It’s ten in the morning. The building is full of people. I’ll be as safe as I can be. Besides, someone’s got to be here in case someone wants to see what we do in the basement or Elias decides to stop lurking in the shadows and come down to cause havoc. You three have had this planned for weeks.” Raising her voice a little, she adds, “And someone’s got to stop Tim from attempting to fistfight the waxworks because he thinks they’re going to attack.”

“Shut up, Sasha,” Tim calls from the other side of the Archives, where he’s reshelving his files.

Jon smiles, if a bit reluctantly. “And we do both need to be there, if he’s serious about…all right. Just promise you’ll be careful.”

“Cross my heart.” Sasha returns the smile. “You three be careful, too. If I hear about any of you on the twelve o’clock news, I’ll—”

“Disavow any knowledge of us and refuse our phone calls from jail?” Martin supplies as he returns from wherever he’s been and picks up his jacket.

Sasha snorts. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m going to milk my association with you for all it’s worth. Can you imagine how much the media would pay for an exclusive interview with a close friend of the Waxwork Assassins?”

Jon’s laugh sounds a little unwilling, but from the slight easing in the tension in his shoulders, Sasha guesses she hit the right note. She can’t make him smile as easily as Martin or Tim can, but every once in a while she manages it.

“Don’t work too hard,” Tim says, clapping her on the shoulder as he passes.

“I intend to break out the champagne as soon as you leave,” Sasha shoots back. “Go. Have fun. Try not to punch anything.”

“See you tomorrow, Sasha,” Martin says.

Sasha walks them to the door of the Archives and waves as they set off, Tim on one side and Martin on the other. It’s one of those arbitrary Saturdays Elias has once a quarter where he declares the Institute open to anyone, not just academics, which means they’re all supposed to be in until noon. He always declares them less than a week in advance, though, and Sasha’s fellow team members have already made plans to spend a few hours at Madame Tussauds; partly it’s that they want to see if they can figure out what the Not-Sasha was doing there in the Primes’ time, partly it’s that none of them ever really go off and do anything fun outside their house and they frankly deserve it. Sasha also knows that Tim is going to practice what he’s been learning, about targeting his vision. She’s not sure if that’s knowledge granted to her by the Eye or if she just knows Tim well enough to have figured it out; either way, she wonders if Jon and Martin are aware of it and if she should have warned them. Then she recalls Jon’s half-finished sentence and mentally kicks herself. Of course Jon and Martin are aware of what Tim’s planning. He’s trying to be better about communicating—they all are—so of course he would have told them, probably when he booked their tickets for today. He probably just forgot she hadn’t been part of the conversation.

She heads back to her desk and tells herself not to worry. They’ll be fine.

Settling in at her computer, she goes back to the research she’s doing on this current statement. Martin’s new cross-indexing system pulled up several potential matches, and she’s digging to see if any of it pans out. (Although, considering the nature of the statement, maybe she shouldn’t use phrases like that.) It’s definitely a Flesh statement; unlike the others, which can be more subtle, the Flesh is blatantly obvious when it turns up.

After a few minutes, though, she gives up. She does not have the stomach for this, not today. Instead, she clicks through a few layers of security until she’s in her private, hidden part of her laptop and her private research project. She’s got a few notes to dictate, and she doesn’t like taking work home with her, so she scoops up her laptop and the new tape recorder that matches her nails and retreats to the depths of Document Storage. They prefer doing their unofficial tapes…not on the main floor. It makes them feel a little better, she supposes.

It’s Martin who carved out the space in the boxes, carefully shuffling them around until there’s a little niche just wide enough for a comfortable chair, with an extra box missing from the layer so there’s somewhere to set drinks or notes as the case may be. It’s Tim who found the worn but sturdy armchair at a charity shop, and, surprisingly, it’s Jon who bought what is possibly the world’s tackiest slipcover, what Sasha can only class as “electric paisley”. Tim claims it looks exactly like what he sees when he looks at the shelves in the Archives, but only to Sasha and Martin; he doesn’t even joke about it in front of Jon. Sasha can’t decide if it’s sweet or something she should be concerned about.

She settles into the armchair, legs folded into the lotus position beneath her, and sets her laptop on the note box, then clicks on her tape recorder.

“Research of Sasha James, Archival assistant at the Magnus Institute, regarding the heads of the Institute, past and present,” she says. “Recorded eleventh February, 2017. Notes on Director Thomas Fitzwalter, fourth Head of the Institute, tenure 1940 to 1941.”

At least she doesn’t have a lot of people to look into. In some ways, her self-appointed task is easier than Tim’s or Martin’s, just because the scope is so much tighter. In other ways, of course, it’s harder. Tim only needs to work with himself, and Martin’s index is entirely self-contained within the Archives and their ongoing research. Sasha may only have a total of seven people to actually look into, but they’re hard to pin down. Partly it’s their age; records that predate digital record-keeping are trickier to search, as she has to hope they’ve been indexed online or find a library that might have the resources she needs. Partly it’s the fact that, well, they’re men who were only nominally themselves and were actually Jonah Magnus. Naturally he wouldn’t want people looking too closely at them.

But she’s struck, as she describes the details she’s been able to pull up about the man who had the shortest tenure as Institute Head due to what was either a poorly-timed or well-timed German bomb, by just how unremarkable all of the people she’s looked into were. None of them were standouts in their field, students from prestigious universities, or the scions of powerful families—which has to be a first in academia. She’s working her way backwards, so maybe she’ll find something different with the two men between Jonah Magnus and Thomas Fitzwalter, but so far, not a single one of them has been remotely distinguished, and in any other institute it would be a shock for them to ascend to head it up. Especially so quickly.

“I’m kind of curious as to why the Eye didn’t warn Fitzwalter about the attack in time to get under cover,” she muses. “I’m still doing research into him, so it’s possible he just wasn’t very likable or intelligent, but—”

“Hello?”

“Shit,” Sasha hisses. It’s not one of her boys—or Elias, which is a plus—but that means it’s someone she needs to deal with. “End recording.”

She snaps off the tape, pockets the recorder, closes her laptop, and hastens out to the main Archives with a smile plastered on her face. It falters when she sees who’s standing there—none other than P.C. Basira Hussain, arms folded tightly across her chest. Sasha is ready to get defensive, but then she takes a closer look at her face. She looks…grim is one word for it. Haunted is another. Gutted might come closest.

“Officer Hussain?” she says cautiously.

Basira makes a good effort at glaring at her, but it’s not particularly intimidating. “Was looking for J—Sims.”

“He’s out today,” Sasha answers. “It’s just me, I’m afraid. Can I help you?”

Basira makes a noncommittal noise. “That happen often? Them leaving you to hold down the fort on your own?”

“No, usually there are at least two of us around at all times, especially these days. But we’re also not usually here on Saturdays,” Sasha says. “Open house. Director Bouchard”—she says his name in the clipped, precise, tight-lipped manner of a woman in a male-dominated industry speaking of a superior who would like to keep it that way—“scheduled it somewhat last-minute, and the others already had plans for the afternoon.”

“And they made you stay, did they? Typical men.”

“Actually, I offered. I’ve taken more days off in the last year than all three of them put together, not counting when Martin was out on medical leave after his stint as a colander.”

Basira almost smiles. Sasha sets her laptop on her desk and comes closer. “Okay, I’ve got to ask—is this a professional visit or a personal one? Not like that,” she adds quickly when Basira stiffens. “I know you’re not—Jon doesn’t seem like your type. I just meant—are you here as a cop or…?”

“No, it’s…” Basira sighs heavily. “Just needed to talk to him, I guess. I called yesterday and—”

Sasha remembers now. Jon came out of his office and had Martin pull up all the cases they’ve come across involving the name Maxwell Rayner. “Yeah, I—he mentioned that.”

“He did,” Basira says flatly.

Shit, they’re not supposed to know Basira is feeding him those tapes…but then Sasha thinks, to hell with it. “Yeah. It’s hard to keep secrets around here, you know? Turns out we’re all developing spooky supernatural powers, and mine is that sometimes I know things without knowing how I know them. I mean, sometimes I can Know things on purpose, but mostly it’s just passing by someone and accidentally plucking a secret out of their brain without meaning to. Let me tell you, I did not need to know that the man behind the counter at my favorite coffee shop has a foot fetish.”

“I dunno, that might be useful in the summer if you’re the type to wear sandals.” Basira relaxes, just a fraction, which surprises Sasha more than a little. “What did he say?”

“Just that you’d called and asked about Maxwell Rayner. Look, have a seat, you look like you’re about to fall over. Can I get you anything? Coffee? Tea? There’s some peppermint hot cocoa, too, if that strikes your fancy.” Sasha means it—Basira does look like she needs some fortification, and maybe to talk and get something off her chest—but if she’s being honest, she’s also burning with curiosity about what happened. She’s got to be careful about bringing that up, though. “Sorry we don’t have anything stronger, but, you know, we’re pretending to be professional.”

“Actually, that cocoa doesn’t sound too bad,” Basira mutters. She drops into Tim’s chair and leans her folded arms on his desk, staring at the surface like it holds the secrets of the universe.

Sasha hurries over to their tea station and pulls out one of the spare mugs they rarely use, along with the mug that long ago became hers. Cocoa sounds good, actually. It was grey and overcast when she came in, and she Knows without meaning to that it’s just barely warm enough that it’s raining instead of snowing, so it’s a good day for cocoa. She gives a fleeting thought to wondering if the Primes are warm enough in the stone tunnels, then goes back to making the cocoa.

“Here,” she says, handing the guest mug to Basira. “Made with water, not milk, but I mix a little bit of creamer into it. Works a treat.”

“Thanks,” Basira mutters.

As Sasha takes her seat, she notices her tape recorder sitting on her desk. It was definitely in her pocket a minute ago, and she definitely didn’t take it out, but there it is, innocuously resting next to her laptop. And, she notices, it’s running.

It’s not really a surprise, in some ways. Obviously Basira has a statement, and obviously it’s the real McCoy. It just startles Sasha that the tape recorder turned itself on…and for her. She sort of figured that only happens for Jon. It’s honestly a bit of a thrill, knowing that whatever is behind these tapes recognizes her.

She collects herself. “I take it that…whatever you were asking about Rayner for didn’t go well?”

Basira takes a long drink of her cocoa. “We lost Altman. Just…wasn’t paying attention. Don’t know what they’re going to tell his family. Guess it could have been worse, though, if I hadn’t talked to your boss first, so…tell him I said thanks.”

Sasha reaches over and squeezes Basira’s free hand as comfortingly as she can. Surprisingly, Basira grips it back. “Do you want to talk about it? I mean…I know you’re probably bound by all kinds of confidential agreements and all that, but you can ask any of the others, I’m really good at keeping secrets. We’re trying not to keep secrets from each other, but if you tell me not to say anything to them, I won’t. Just between you and me and whatever’s at the other end of the tape recorder that I absolutely did not turn on myself, by the way. Did you?”

Basira stares at it. “Fuck. Didn’t even notice it was on.” She takes a deep breath. “You know, I—I think I do want to talk about it. Don’t even care if you tell the others, or play them the tape or whatever, just…I need to talk to someone, I think. And with all those Section Thirty-One forms, this is probably the only place I can talk about it. Sure the only place I can talk about it and not feel crazy.”

Sasha nods. “Be glad you didn’t come in a year, year and a half ago. Jon’s skeptic act was legendary.”

“I’ll bet. He looks like a skeptic who got thrown in the deep end.” Basira makes an attempt at a smile. “Where do you want me to start?”

“As the King of Hearts said to the White Rabbit, ‘Begin at the beginning, and go on until you reach the end: then stop.’”

“Alice in Wonderland. Fitting. That’s about what it felt like.” Basira sets down the mug on the table. “Well then. I guess the beginning is with the disappearance of Callum Brodie.”

Sasha keeps her eyes on Basira’s face as she describes the events at the Outer Bay Shipping industrial complex in Harringay. There’s just a little bit of static in her ears as she listens, but mostly it’s just Basira’s voice and the story she’s telling. It is…objectively terrifying, to be honest. Sasha’s always been just a little bit afraid of the dark, or at least of what might be hiding in the dark, and although she never says anything to the others, the Dark statements get to her. She’s never heard one live, though. Never sat with someone and felt their terror coursing through the loop of the shared space between them as they describe coming face to face with one of the two entities Sasha is willing to admit she genuinely fears (the other, obviously, being the Stranger, and she’s still not sure if that’s because of what it did to her Prime counterpart or because of what it did to Tim or just because it’s the natural enemy of the entity she’s bound to). It’s compelling, and the air seems charged with something, but she can’t say what.

“I think they were connected to that cult group from way back, the Church of the Divine whatever,” Basira says at last. She sounds drained.

“The People’s Church of the Divine Host,” Sasha supplies. “Rayner was their leader back in the nineties. We’ve had—God, how many statements about them? I can probably pull them for you if you want.”

“I don’t,” Basira says firmly. “Not even a little. I’ve been thinking a lot over the last few days, and…I’m done. With the police, with Section Thirty-One, all of it. Was going to tell Jon in person, but if he’s not here, this is the best I can do. Anyway, you all have my statement. I felt like I owed it to you.”

Sasha tilts her head to one side. “You’re really quitting?”

“Yeah. And you should, too. All of you. This place…it’s not right.”

Sasha can’t help the soft snort of laughter. “No kidding. I can’t, though.”

Basira raises an eyebrow. “Have to see it through? Or is it loyalty to your coworkers?”

She sounds bitter—like she’s talking from personal experience. Sasha wants to probe at that, but throttles it back. First of all, Basira is a lot pricklier than the rest of Team Archives, she won’t respond to her the same way. And second of all, she is actively trying to be less of an arse about that sort of thing. Instead, she decides for complete honesty. “No, it’s the sort of thing you’re done with. I’m being literal when I say I can’t quit. We’re bound to the Institute—to the Archives. If any of us try to leave, we’ll die.”

“I’ll keep that in mind if I ever get offered a job here,” Basira says dryly. She squeezes Sasha’s hand—it’s only then Sasha realizes they’ve maintained that physical contact throughout the entirety of her statement—then stands up. “Tell Jon I said to stay safe.”

Sasha stands, too, and watches her head to the door. Before she gets there, though, she calls out, “Basira.”

Basira stops and looks back over her shoulder. “What?”

Sasha should ask about the tapes—Jon’s going to want to know, they all want to know, and if Basira quits the force they might have to ask Daisy to bring them and nobody wants that—but what comes out of her mouth is, “Keep a light on for a while. It—I don’t want it to come after you, too.”

Basira studies her for a moment, then gives a small half-smile. “I will. Thanks, Sasha.” With that, she leaves the Archives.

Click! The tape recorder shuts itself off. Sasha stares at it for a moment, then swears. Unlike the others, she didn’t grow up functionally bilingual, so her profanity is limited to English and the smattering of dirty words she and her classmates looked up in French class, but she makes good use of them. She hits the button to rewind the tape with one hand and fishes out her phone with the other. Calling up the obnoxiously-named group chat, she hastily thumbs a message: [Let me know when you’re done.]

That done, she opens her laptop again and sets into some serious research.

Nobody ever visits the Archives on Open House days; the only people who ever come down here anyway are students doing dissertations who need firsthand accounts, especially older ones, and no self-respecting student works on a Saturday morning. So there’s no one to interrupt her as she clicks through Martin’s index, then switches her focus to the onerous task of following the twists and threads of corporate ownership. They haven’t done much research into Maxwell Rayner, either, or at least not as much as they should, so Sasha broadens her search for the name. What she comes up with nearly steals the breath from her lungs. It’s a coincidence, it has to be…

“Sasha?”

Sasha jumps, nearly flipping her laptop across the desk, and whips her head around to see Jon, Martin, and Tim coming towards her, looking worried. “Jesus, you three scared the hell out of me. What are you doing here?”

“You weren’t answering. We got worried,” Martin says, pointing at her phone.

Sasha looks and sees that she’s missed fifteen texts in the group chat, starting with [We’re done. What’s up?] and devolving from there into mild panic. She flushes. “Sorry. I guess I got a bit wrapped up in my research…didn’t expect you to be done so quickly. Um, how did it go?”

“Fine. Stranger-free,” Tim answers. “One of the staff members has something, though. Jon smelled the statement on her—”

“That makes it sound worse, somehow,” Jon mutters.

“—and I’m pretty sure it’s a Desolation,” Tim continues. “Hopefully she stops by at some point so we can confirm that. What are you still doing here?”

Martin looks over her shoulder at the page called up on her screen. “Max—? Basira. She called back?”

“She was here,” Sasha tells him. She points at her recorder. “The operation she was on went sideways. It’s all on there, but if you’re going to listen, I need to be somewhere else.”

“No, it’s—some other time, maybe.” Jon rubs his forehead. “Summarize for us?”

“Rayner and his…cult, or what’s left of it, kidnapped a boy named Callum Brodie about three weeks ago,” Sasha answers. “The police apparently got a tip-off as to where they’d taken him—a place up in Harringay registered to Outer Bay Shipping. They had a raid yesterday and it was pretty much entirely sectioned officers. Basira called you as soon as she realized that, and by the way, she says thank you for the tip about the lights, because it’s probably the only reason they didn’t all end up dead.” She pauses, wondering how to wrap it all into a neat package, then finally says, “Details are on the tape, but the long and the short of it is that some…really dark stuff came pouring out of Rayner’s mouth and tried to go into Callum Brodie. The officer who shot him probably stopped that from happening, and from the sound of it, the kid’s going to be okay. Rayner is dead. So are three other cult members and one officer. And Basira’s quitting the force. I get the feeling this was kind of the straw that broke the camel’s back for her.”

Jon exhales, hard. “Christ.”

Martin is still studying the screen over her shoulder. “Sasha, this is—does that say what I think it does?”

“Yep. It doesn’t look like Mr. Rayner was particularly subtle.” Sasha looks up at Martin and can see in his eyes that he’s reached the same conclusion she has. Turning to Jon and Tim, who both look confused, she elaborates, “Maxwell Rayner, and the People’s Church of the Divine Host, are associated with the Dark, right? And darkness was flowing out of him into Callum Brodie.”

Jon’s face goes ashen. “Are you saying they were trying to initiate him into their cult? To—to mark him? Christ, how old is he?”

“Twelve, but…no, not exactly. Worse.” Sasha taps one fingernail on the edge of her laptop. “I widened my search for Rayner to before the nineties, especially in conjunction with…weird stuff, and I found this buried in a site about Edmund Halley. The description tallies pretty damn closely with the description of the man in the nineties, so either it’s a family line that doesn’t use suffixes—”

“Or,” Tim says, his eyes going wide with horror, “Maxwell Rayner has been extending his life by taking over new bodies as he ages out of the old one.”

“Or,” Martin adds softly, “stealing the life force of other people. Christ, I’d think that’d be more a Terminus power, but…I guess it’s possible?”

“Darkness. Like—” Jon breaks off the rest of the sentence, but he doesn’t need to say it. They all know what he’s thinking of. Sasha just hopes Elias isn’t paying attention to them right now. “I suppose that’s something we’ll have to…run down.”

“Good idea.” Sasha closes her laptop and stands up, palming the recorder. “Let’s go do that right now.”

[a-perfectly-screwed-up-heart]

three years clean.

Today officially marks 3 years since I've touched a razor blade to my skin; a feat most people never have to think about, because that very idea is foreign to them. For me, however, it was a lived reality that I dealt with. Some people have asked me if talking about this part of my past is triggering, because talking about it means thinking about it. In all honesty, there are days when dwelling on it for too long is triggering, but I believe talking about it is important because if something can be talked about, that means it can come out of its usually dark space and be understood. If it can be understood, it's less scary to think about. If it’s less scary to think about, that makes it easier to help someone who is also going through it.

So, no… thinking about my past today isn't triggering. Some days, if I dwell on the feeling of cutting myself for too long, it can be triggering, but today isn't one of those days. Besides, today doesn't remind me that I used to cut myself—like that's something I can even forget; it reminds me of the fact that I no longer depend on it. I no longer crave something that is so unhealthy for me, but I do respect the period of life I was in when I felt like I didn't deserve any better. Today is not about sighing in relief because I've made it another year without a slip-up; it's about celebrating because, this year, it was so much easier to say no. Today isn't about remembering pain and suffering; it's about the joy that follows, in the recovery.

I won't lie, this is something that sticks with you. The hard days can be really debilitating, and the urges can sweep you off your feet and set up camp underneath your skin, if you’re not prepared… but it’s also something you grow comfortable with. I still have my razor blade and I don’t plan on getting rid of it any time soon; it's been with me for longer than most of my other friends have been. For the longest time, it was setting inside of a locket, hiding in the bottom of my makeup box. Now, it's setting in a coffee mug on my shelf, that says, in bold letters, "Love Yourself."

It's funny, I didn't even realize what I was doing when I swapped its location. I needed the locket (for a Halloween costume, of all things) and needed a place to put it, where I wouldn't lose it—because, again, it’s been with me for too long for me to go misplacing it now. How fitting, to realize this today, on my 3rd anniversary, because this past year has been about the journey I've taken to a place where I could Love Myself.

I won’t lie; on bad days, I do still think about it, and the idea of it is tempting… but what's even better than giving in is the power I now possess by being able to say no. Being in a frame of mind where I can acknowledge why the feeling is there and consciously decide to do better is a new kind of power, one that came with this new territory. For so long, I wouldn't give in to the temptations because I thought, “It’s already been so long… my friends know how well I’m doing. What would happen if I slipped? What would I tell them?” The shame in and of itself kept me on this path, for far too long. This year, though, it became something bigger than shame. This year, I realized that I loved myself too much to listen to the voice in the back of my head, whispering that tempting idea, like a siren call. I didn't fully realize it until recently, but it's true; I do love myself too much to drag a razor blade across my skin. Besides, I'm a different person than I was, and I know it wouldn't serve me in the same way it used to. When I came to that realization, it was bittersweet. I know that sounds odd, but it was. It was like losing an old friend or finding out your favorite ice cream has been discontinued—or that the owner of your favorite ice cream shop is racist, so you can no longer eat there (and if that sounds a little too specific to be hypothetical you’re right, and it sucks and I miss my monkey bread ice cream). Anyway, my crutch was gone.

This year has been all about losing my crutches and comfort zones. Over the last year, I left a church I had basically been born into because it was no longer serving me in a healthy way. I had to find security outside of the approval of my family and close friends. I dealt with tough situations with a classmate at school. I had my first big girl job with a boss who made me cry in the bathroom on my lunch breaks (which wasn’t entirely on her--I am pretty sensitive and find it difficult to communicate with authority figures without crying after or during the conversation). I had my first car wreck and concussion, all in the same day (somehow, unrelated). My great grandfather died the week before school started in the fall, and his funeral was the day before classes started. I pushed myself in school and I made the president's list every semester. I got into the university I wanted to get into, and then I found out I had to postpone going to that school. I finally made it to a place where I could stop taking my antidepressants, and, later that month, I found myself at a Lizzo concert with three of my best friends. I faced a guy who shattered my heart and shared a few laughs with him, and it didn't break me. I became an aunt but, instead of waiting in a hospital waiting room, I had to wait to meet my niece until she was two months old, because of the pandemic. I've had financial struggles, mental health struggles, familial struggles, and multiple clumsy accidents, and I’m still here, showing up for all of it. As I'm writing this, I've been pretty much totally quarantined for about three months.

This year has been a kaleidoscope of messes and triumphs and failures and fear-facing and hope and community and love. This year has been a year of clarity and sacrifice and grief and acceptance.

Some people might read this and judge me and wonder how in the world someone can be so stupid and reckless and wonder how someone could possibly rely on something so obviously harmful… and that's okay. Think whatever you want, because today's not about you. Today is about the past 3 years and the journey I've taken to become the woman I am. Today is about finding the freedom to take a different path—in more than one area of my life—one that might hurt and be scary and lonely, but is, ultimately, more rewarding. Today is about joyful moments and faded scars and beautiful friends who have become family. Today is about God giving me the strength and resilience to get here, to a place of clarity.

Today, I'm proud because I'm here and I'm living and I'm choosing to choose better for myself, in all areas of my life. I'm choosing to keep my razorblade in the mug on my shelf. I'm choosing to keep hope in the heart that's beating inside my chest and to keep my feet moving down this path, towards even more hardships and blessings.

Here's to today.

Here's to my journey.

Here's to yours, whatever it may be.

[indecisiveroomtempcola]

The silence is a great friend

Chapter 1:Despair Upon One's Heart

His thigh burned with every step, drenched and tired. He was out of his mind his only goal was to reach the station, from the extraordinary golden gilded homes of the noble district to the run-down mills and houses of the lower class plebeians, townsfolk dressed in shabby outfits, rags and cloth nothing more over the top than sheep wool. The mundane colours of the plebaien’s homestead are uncomparable to the aristocrats’ distinguished estates. 

Going through a crowd, the Central Market. All the townsfolk sell their goods here but some sell more valuable merchandise in the darker corners of the Central Market. Today had more hustle and bustle than the others, a coming festival, an event? Miller could have not given a single hint of interest as he pushed through the hoards of people trading and haggling. An even larger crowd stood in his way. Stumbling while dragging his body through the crowd into the centre while he kept running pushing something aside as it crossed his path and he struggled through the other end, one more turn and he’ll reach the station. Adrenaline filled his veins and he made one last dash for it, a loud hiss could be heard yards away from the hunkering orange bricked building.The last locomotive, he could not afford to miss it, no he can’t miss it. The sound of the whistle made a nerve racking hiss, it stung Miller’s ear every single time. His hand instinctively went up to his ear, trying to block the irritating sound. Someone could be heard shouting at him, multiple steps of boots stomped against the stone brick floor.

 A few more seconds from the edge of the entrance, bursting through the brass coloured gate onto the locomotive platform, he searched frantically, the locomotive just started moving. Hope filled him as he was so close, forcing the last of his strength into his bare bone legs he jumped grabbing the pole on the back of the locomotive, his shoes skimming on the edge of the railroad, a troupe of guards could be seen at the corner of his eyes, edging near the end platform. They seemed confused but one of the guards pointed towards Miller as the locomotive sped off into the cold evening.

Using both of his hands he grabbed the metal pole and climbed on to the end of the locomotive, a small platform with red railings surrounding the edges with a small metal roof covering the top. He laid wasted against the backdoor, his chest heaving, breathing in mouths full of air. His body began to tremble but the sense of dread that hung onto the back of his mind was washed over by a wave of relief, the air seemed calm with a breeze that danced around Miller, while droplets of rain tapped the top of the roof, pitter pattering. The earthly scent filled his nose, his eye blinking wanting to be close, but that moment made him feel everything around him. The sweat that soaked his clothes, the wretched smell of raw fish and pig, his thick brown hair was a mess, strands splattered against his forehead and the grinding of each metal wheel when the train stopped. Today’s unlucky streak would come to an end when he reached the small cottage on the edge of a clearing, his cozy little home.

                                                                        ---------    

A ruined warehouse, half of its roof coming in on itself but the other still stayed intact, signs of cracking traced the building. Even some parts of it were covered by green ivy, an old dark oak tree looming above the warehouse, its leaves rustling against the soft wind while the branches sway lazily. 

The serene atmosphere’s melodious tune of nature is as though being orchestrated by a masterful conductor each wave of the baton creates another symphony interrupted only by a low hum coming from the warehouse, gradually becoming louder and louder. The inside of the warehouse was lit only by the translucent light bulbs that hung idly with a thin silver metal cord, each hung at different lengths giving the room its on esthetic, the middle, sat a monstrous machine. The hull made out of translucent Ceilium glass, its engine bare, showing the conductor booth that sat behind the hull, a grey box, enough to fit only one man, its was shape after a locomotive but its design’s stand out, with exhaust pipe lining the sides of the machine, its cool thin frame that curve down when it meets the hull and a large mechanical orb that was hung loosely from where the furnace would be, it was only a hole that fits the orb. 

The orb had an intricate design, lines and shape that was engraved into, a man walk into the booth, he took out a flask containing blue liquid, and poured it into one of the holes, closing the lid he grabbed the orb jamming it back, it clicked into place, the circular metal spun and stop on a dial. 

“That's the last of my supply, hope this baby works.” his hoarse voice echoed through the room. He patted the top of the machine and got to work, like clockwork he started pulling levers and pushing buttons on the frame.Each cathartic click,  deafen by the sound of the engine finally roaring to life,” Yeah!” He yelled in triumph. Jumping down with a clunk when his steel toe boots touched the grey concrete floor. “After decades of wor-” he stopped mid sentence as something felt wrong, he realized he forgot to turn on the stabilizer, the engine’s roar turned into a high pitch whistle, while the entire frame started to shake uncontrollably. He stared helplessly as the machine exploded into pieces, each individual part shot out in flames around the workshop.

He fell to his knees, with his mouth gaping wide. His head hung low and he let out a deep sigh. He rose slowly walking outside the ruin of a workshop and leaned against its brick wall, his palm rested on his greasy face, how could he be so careless. A vital instrument missing from a machine is as though one loses their own organs, a huge setback.The setting sun told the conductor it was about time to head on his way home, staring vacantly at the lavender field that range over the hills, “It never gets old doesn’t it Hannah” The conductor found his hand caressing the golden locket that hung around his neck, he gripped it tightly reminiscing how it all used to be… different. “Ahem.” someone cleared their throat ruining the moment the conductor had.” Was I interrupting something Agner?`` The high pitched voice imitated the whistle from before, giving Agner a headache. Agner recognised that distinct voice,” Leong, hasn’t it been too long since your last visit?” Leong pounder, then spoke “ Wasn’t it yesterday?” Agner rubbed his temples, clearly too exhausted. “Oh, i am just cracking a joke, Agner, did it really get on your nerves.”

“As a matter of fact your very existence gives me a fit every time you’re near me” still leaning against the wall Agner gestured to the Bishop asking him what he wanted this time? “ Oh c'mon Agner we’ve been going at it for weeks and the Pope isn’t at all happy”  The urgency in his voice caught Agner off guard for a bit,” How so, Leong?”  He was cautious now, eyeing around his surroundings. 

“He’ll send Hunters if you cease to cooperate with us.” Leong said smugly, he walked around Agner trying to intimidate him like a tiger circling its prey.” Death threats aren’t uncommon, when coming from you Leong,” Agner’s arms are crossed, his chin held high.”The two clergy you sent didn’t seem too threatening for me.” the air between them was tense, both of their composure remained unwavering, not willing to bend to one’s own accord. “FIne by me then.” Leong stopped dead in his tracks, he shrugged. A blurry image headed straight for Agner, he rolled to his side barely dodging the attack, red dust swirled around them, the lights on its headpiece pierce the dust, pouncing once again at Agner. He was too slow as the massive hunk of metal crashed straight into him, the metal beast now on top of Agner, tried clawing at his neck but Agner held it at bay with his burly arms, swiftly he unsheathe a knife tucked underneath his thigh and struck it’s exposed neck.

The beast struggled while gurgling blood, Agner tossed him aside as the beast stopped moving.” I built those exosuits, Leong, I know where their-” Agner was cut short as he was completely surrounded by different kinds of mechanical animals, each eye glowed bright.” I did say Hunter’s’ Agner, not one but a whole squadron.”. Leong stood there with one of his arms on his hips the other showing the Hunters, one of them attached to the wall, four of its claws digged into the red brick. Another hovering over them, its wingspan large and wide with razor sharp ends, another with tusk the size of an elephant.

“Ironic isn’t it, its creator being forced to face against the machines he made.” Leong stroded towards him, Agner who was still holding his blade backed away into the warehouse. 

:”Oh Agner this isn’t the last of your troubles, I sent someone to deal with the unruly wench you have for a wife.” Leong knew he struck home because he never saw a man with such fury in his eyes,”Come at me you bastards!” He roared charging at Leong but the Bishop flicked his wrist and Agner was tossed aside into a pile of coal,”Don’t ruin our plaything,We need him alive.” Leong walked away. Hunters jumped onto Agnar. The only sound that still remained was the shouting and clanking of metal suits.

[hiddendreamer67]

Borrower Analogical (4)

Chapter Summary: November 16th, 2019. Virgil has a plan- get the key and get out.

(Check my reblog for links to previous chapters)

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Virgil had a plan. Oh yes, he had a plan.

...but Logan wasn’t going to like it.

Truth be told, Virgil didn’t like it either. He had been avoiding it, but with the way things had been escalating Virgil knew it was time to take risks rather than play it safe. Logan didn’t deserve to spend even a single night in that cage, and now he had spent three. 

Virgil watched through the vent bars as the human, Patton, entered the bedroom where Logan was still held captive. The human offered Logan some food, then locked the cage door back up, the key hanging from his lanyard appearing in view only briefly before being tucked back under his shirt. Virgil leaned forward, watching Patton exit the room. Then Virgil stood, hurrying down through the vents to follow. 

Much of the day was spent like this. Every time Patton traveled from room to room, Virgil was sure to follow; albeit at a much slower pace. By the end of the day Virgil was panting from all the exertion. It was quite a feat, trying to keep up with the human’s much larger steps.

Unfortunately, this was a necessary step to Virgil’s plan. He had to keep an eye on Patton as much as possible, tracking his movements. Well, more specifically, the key’s movements.

Strictly speaking, keys were an item never, ever to be touched by borrowers. Humans always noticed when they went missing and were willing to go to desperate measures to find them, sometimes including tearing up floorboards or drywall. And these humans were bound to notice the instant this particular key went missing, which meant Virgil would have to be quick.

But it was the only plan Virgil had. Simply picking the lock didn’t work. If the borrower had the actual key he could rescue Logan easily. They were bound to leave some evidence behind in their haste, but the humans already knew Logan existed. Would it really be so terrible for them to find a misplaced key if it meant Logan could go free? Virgil was certainly willing to pay the price.

However, it seemed Patton was very attached to this key. The human never took it off, and only rarely did Virgil actually catch enough of a glimpse of it to confirm the human still was wearing it. Virgil was beginning to doubt his own plan, trying to think of any alternatives, when it happened. 

“Well, I’m heading to bed.” Patton yawned, waving goodnight to his human roommate. He returned to his own bedroom, unaware of the tiny footsteps following him in the walls. Patton got ready, changing into pajamas and brushing his teeth. He crawled into bed, setting his glasses onto the nightstand. Patton paused, but ultimately decided to keep the lanyard on as he slept. Roman’s paranoia was starting to get to him; it almost felt like Patton was being watched.

Patton shuddered, not wanting to entertain that idea any further. Instead he reached over and turned off the light, plunging the room into darkness. Then Patton laid back against his pillows. After a few minutes, his breathing began to even out as the human fell asleep.

“Oh, come on.” Virgil groaned, realizing the human even slept with the key on. Were humans really so obsessed with their keys? Virgil was always a worst-case-scenario kind of borrower. So, even though he had really, really hoped it wouldn’t come to this, Virgil still had a plan.

Virgil climbed through the wall tunnels, his feet sore from the long day of racing between rooms. He arrived at the outlet just below the nightstand of Patton’s room. With a strong push, the outlet cover gave way and revealed an exit. 

The borrower peeked his head out, allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness. Looking up, he could see the shifting form of the snoring human, still fast asleep. Good. Virgil could only hope he stayed that way. 

Virgil swung his hook up onto the nightstand, knowing that it would be impossible to get the hook to catch on the blankets of the bed. He climbed up, avoiding the various objects placed on the wooden surface. Virgil stood, facing the human’s sleeping form. Virgil tried not to feel nervous, but that was difficult when every instinct inside him was screaming that this was a terrible idea. After all, what borrower in their right mind would go towards a human?

Trying not to think about what Logan would say when he inevitably found out about this, Virgil took a running leap onto the bed. He grappled onto the thick fabric with a death grip, refusing to be shaken as the blankets moved beneath him like a ship caught in a storm. Virgil scrambled up onto higher ground for better footing. With a slight jolt, he realized that in his haste to stay afloat Virgil had ended up on the human’s chest.

Virgil shuddered, trying not to think about what lay beneath the many layers of fabric under his feet. He took a few wobbly steps, making sure to keep his footing light. One false move could wake the giant and this would all be for naught. 

It was a slow process, and Virgil kept his head down to focus on his own movements rather than face the very real danger he was heading towards. With every inhale and exhale Patton made, Virgil had to be careful not to be thrown off balance entirely. As he neared Patton’s face, Virgil could also feel a warm breeze that he realized was Patton’s breath. 

“So weird.” Virgil whispered to himself. It was terrifyingly freaky being this close to a human. Virgil had never dared to do something this insane before. And he never wanted to do it again.

Virgil stopped, finally reaching his destination at the base of Patton’s neck. He knelt down, crawling on his hands and knees to where the lanyard rested. Virgil pulled on the strap, pulling the key out from under the blankets and into view. First he tried yanking it off, but the necklace was too sturdy. All the borrower got for his efforts was a groan from the human, and the floor shifting beneath him.

The hairs on the back of Virgil’s neck stood up. Quickly, Virgil took out his knife and began to saw at the lanyard. His hands were shaking. Virgil couldn’t stop thinking about all the things that could go wrong. What if the human was waking? The giant would probably be furious, especially if he figured out Virgil was trying to take his key. Would he just bite Virgil’s head off? Virgil knew that sort of thing wasn’t usually what humans did, but-

Lost in thought, Virgil’s hand slipped. His knife, made of a discarded razor blade, missed the thick strap of fabric entirely. Instead, Virgil could only watch in slow motion as his hand continued down as if of its own accord, slicing down across the human’s skin and leaving a scarlet trail.

“Ow!” Patton quickly sat up, and Virgil’s entire world was suddenly spinning. He tried to keep hold on anything in sight, trying not to fall. Unfortunately, this only earned him a startled gasp as the human became fully aware of his presence. A hand larger than him came up and swatted him away, sending Virgil careening across the bed as a thunderous shriek filled his ears. 

“Patton!” The other human’s thundering footsteps came rumbling in, causing Virgil to groan. “What’s wrong?” This was bad. Virgil tried to get on his hands and knees, ignoring the way his head pounded inside his skull. 

“I- there’s another one!” Patton tucked his legs close to his chest, pointing to the foot of the bed. “It bit me!” 

No, I didn’t. Virgil thought vaguely to himself, feeling a bit foggy. Weakly he began to crawl away, but his muscles didn’t seem to be responding. Was that normal? Was this a normal thing for him? Virgil couldn’t remember. 

“What? Really?!” The overhead light came on, leaving Virgil completely exposed as two humans gawked at him from a distance. “Well, then, uh, I’ll just-” There was a shuffling around the room, and a large shadow overtook Virgil. 

“No, don’t hurt it!” Patton protested. 

“I’m not!” A moment later, Virgil was plunged back into darkness. He felt around, realizing from texture alone the familiar feel of cardboard. A second later the wall came towards him, forcing Virgil back to the ground as his surroundings were once again in motion. As everything flipped upside right, Virgil realized he had been caught in a box. 

Virgil scrambled into the corner, gazing fearfully up at the giant faces peering down in at him. Patton had grabbed his glasses from the nightstand and seemed a bit anxious to peek very far. Roman, on the other hand, was looking at him with an unreadable expression that might’ve been some mix of excitement and anger. Virgil gulped. 

“What’re we going to do about you?” Roman asked, and though Virgil knew the human was talking about him he didn’t dare answer. Luckily the humans didn’t seem to want Virgil’s opinion anyways, turning instead to each other for advice. “Should I put him in with the other one, Pat?”

Virgil’s eyes widened at this suggestion, a small ray of hope in his otherwise bleak scenario. Yes, he was captured. And his head was foggy. But the fact that he would soon be reunited with Logan was a small blessing. Between the two of them, surely they could figure out an escape plan from the inside.

“No.” Patton’s words cut Virgil’s hope like a knife. Just like how Virgil had cut Patton with a knife just moments ago. As if replaying that event in his head, Patton rubbed at his neck subconsciously. “I don’t think that’s a great idea. This one seems too...violent. What if they fight? I don’t want our little guy getting hurt.”

...No. Virgil looked pleadingly up at the humans, but neither of them seemed to be paying him attention as they discussed his fate above his head. No, please, we won’t fight. I promise I’ll be good.

“Well, can you get another cage then?” Roman suggested. Just put us together. Please. 

“Yes, but not until the morning.” Patton glanced at the clock. “They don’t open until seven.” I didn’t even stab you that hard! 

Virgil pulled at his hair. The Universe just had to treat him so cruelly, didn’t it? It wasn’t enough for Virgil to be put into captivity, he had to be isolated as well. Unfortunately, there was nothing Virgil could do about it. His fate was sealed. The box lid closed, the humans thinking it best to keep him contained until his new prison was ready.

[bi-nick-carraway]

Maybe things can be okay

Author's note: This was a requested prompt from @loafdaloaf "it was three in the morning." I wrote this between math homework and reading The Shining so if it's bad I'm so sorry. If anyone else has requests, drop them in my ask box and I hope y'all have a lovely day.

    It was three in the morning. Nick had been drinking after he had a long, terrible nightmare about the night Myrtle Wilson died. It was the first time Nick had seen that much blood, especially on someone who, despite all her faults, did not deserve to die. Of course, that event had been three or four months ago (Nick lost count, although he did keep count for what felt to him like a very long time). At the present moment, Nick smelled of nearly the entire scotch supply in his cabinet, but it wasn’t enough to keep the dark thoughts away. It was never enough.

(Why wasn’t I in the car with them?)

(Could I have prevented it?)

(She didn’t deserve it, did she

(What if Jay had… what if he actually died…? What would I do?)

(What if I hadn’t ever come here?)

(What if I hadn't ruin Jay’s life?)

(What if I could’ve stopped all this from happening?)

    Some part of Nick recognized that these thoughts were not true, and if any inch of his mind was wober, he would have also recognized that these thoughts were useless and it did not do any good to ponder them. But he did; he pondered them and allowed them to plague his brain and his heart. This was not the first time this happened. On many other occasions, Nick had fished around for his razor in the bathroom cabinet and stared at the blade until he lost his nerve and put it away before he returned to bed and fell into a fitful sleep. This time, though, Nick could not bring himself to even think about harming himself, for there was no room for it in his mind. The one thought that filled his mind leaving no space for anything else was:

(What if Jay had gotten hurt? What if… what if…. )

    It was too much. It was too much for Nick have those thoughts alone in his bedroom. So he set the bottle of scotch on the shelf, threw on his coat over his night clothes, put on his shoes without bothering with socks, and walked out of the house as briskly as he could.

    The mansion next door was almost foreboding with its dark windows. The grass was slightly overgrown; Gatsby did not worry much over appearance in those days. There had not been a party since before the incident. A strange nostalgic feeling came over Nick when the memory of the parties arose in his hazy, alcohol-tinged mind. He missed those parties more in that moment more than he had in weeks. He missed seeing the great Jay Gatsby in his finely pressed suits and a glittering smile always on his tan face. Some nights, the light caught Jay’s dark blue eyes just right and made them sparkle like the night sky. Yes, Nick certainly missed those parties, and he missed Jay Gatsby. Nick missed him terribly.

It was no surprise to him when he ended up standing in front of Gatsby’s door despite the fact that Nick was not paying any attention to where his feet were taking him. And there he was, standing in front of his neighbor’s house at an unreasonable hour. The alcohol was a good enough excuse, Nick supposed. In reality, Nick would have done the exact same thing had he not touched a single drop. He simply could not help himself.

After taking several deep breaths, Nick knocked loudly on the door, willing his anxiety to go away. A few moments later, the door creaked open, and Nick braced himself for the scrutinizing glare of a butler awoken from slumber, but instead, Nick was met by a warm, tired smile that made his stomach do backflips.

“Old sport,” Jay said softly, and Nick could tell he was holding back a yawn. “What brings you here this early?  Is everything all right?”

For a moment or two (or three for that matter), Nick couldn’t think of what to say. The way Gatsby was leaning one shoulder against the door frame with his loose cotton shirt completely unbuttoned was causing Nick’s heart to jump into his throat. He looked so damn beautiful standing there in the moonlight. It wasn’t until those lovely laugh-lines appeared at the corners of Gatbsy’s eyes that Nick realized he said that out loud.

“Thank you for the compliment, my friend.” Then the laugh-lines faded, and a more concerned look appeared on Gatsby’s tired face. “Why don’t you come inside? I’ll make you some coffee.”

“No, no…” came Nick’s hesitant reply. “I’m… I’m sorry for waking you. I just had a bad dream, that’s all. I’m fine, really. I’ll let you go back to bed-”

“Nick,” Gatsby interrupted, not harshly. “Please, come inside. I doubt I could go back to sleep at this point, and I would be grateful for the company.”

    It took some convincing, but Jay eventually was able to practically drag Nick inside because he wasn’t going to let Nick spend a drunk night alone. Gatsby hated alcohol despite being surrounded by it constantly, but he also knew that it was often used to lessen negative emotions. No matter how late at night or early in the morning it was was going to stop him from taking care of someone important to him.

    Nick found himself sitting at a small table in the mansion’s giant kitchen as Gatsby busied himself making coffee for them both. Jay had the unfortunate decency to button up his shirt, and yet that made him no less beautiful. Nick may have said that out loud again, but Jay had not reacted to it if he did except for a hint of red on his ears. It felt wonderfully, and somehow also horribly, domestic. If Nick was not feeling ashamed and humiliated for his current state, the situation would have made him feel as giddy as a teen-aged girl. When Jay joined him at the table, he poured him a cup of coffee and one for himself. Clearly, Gatsby was not going to let himself fall asleep when his friend was troubled. Gatsby stared at Nick until Nick reluctantly took a sip of the bitter liquid. His face scrunched up against his will at the taste. He had a sweet tooth he would never admit to.

    “I would offer you sugar, but I’m afraid that wouldn’t help the headache you’re going to have tomorrow,” Gatsby said, as if reading Nick’s mind. Nick just made a face in response, causing Gatsby to laugh a low, tired laugh. It was childish, Nick knew, but he couldn’t help himself, especially when it made Jay laugh like that.

    “Now, old sport,” Gatsby continued a little more seriously, “would you please tell me what’s wrong?”

    “Was just a bad dream, I told you,” Nick said and averted his eyes. “Was just a bad dream is all.”

    “Nick, please…” The desperation in his voice caught Nick off guard, and his eyes were so pleading and worried.

    “I suppose it’s just that…” Nick started carefully, trying to organize his thoughts for the hundredth time that night, “It was a bad dream. About that night.” Nick did not need to specify what night he was talking about. “And I guess I can’t help but think… God, Jay, I can’t help but think how you could’ve been hurt.” His voice started to waver. “You could’ve died. Wilson was there, right there with a gun, and I wasn’t there to… I wasn’t there to do anything. If anything happened… If you got hurt, that would have been my fault. Christ, I can’t even go a week without seeing you. If you had… I think I would have thrown myself off a damn bridge by now if you didn’t make it out of that alive.” That last statement hung heavy in the air, and Nick couldn’t force himself to say any more.

    “Nick, that…” Gatsby started, a perplexed expression on his face, “that was months ago.”

    “And yet I think of it every day. I care for you much more deeply thank you could imagine, James Gatz.” Suddenly, Gatsby’s serious expression was shot through with ten different shades of pink and several layers of astonishment.

    “Are you at all sober?”

    “Not at all,” Nick’s answer was short as he studied his coffee to avoid any eye contact, “but I don’t need to be sober to know how I’ve felt about you since the day we first met.”

    It happened in an instant. Jay slid the table out of the way, it made a terrible screeching noise and the coffee that had gone cold sloshed out of the cups, and he grabbed Nick’s collar and kissed him hard on the mouth. A surge of emotions passed between them, and Nick would be lying if he said he didn’t shed a few tears. The kiss slowly became more gentle until it was soft and kind and loving. Neither of them knew how long it was when they parted, both breathing heavily.

    “I hope you know I’m not going to take advantage of you when you’re drunk,” Jay mumbled with his head on Nick’s shoulder, and Nick laughed.

    “I don’t have work tomorrow,” he whispered in Jay’s ear. “You’ll have all day to take advantage of me.” He laughed again when Jay just buried his head further into Nick in embarrassment.

    It was three in the morning. Yet another dream woke Nick from his sleep, with shallow breathing and perspiration gathering on his forehead. Then a warm body stirred next to him and rolled over to face him.

    “Nick?

    “Yes?”

    “Another bad dream?”

    “...Yes.”

    “I’m right here.” Then strong arms wrapped around Nick, keeping him anchored to reality. “Go back to sleep, my love.”

    “Jay?”

    “Yes, darling?”

    “I love you.”

    “I love you, too. Now please go to sleep.” A soft laugh came out of Nick before he settled himself into his lover’s arms, and, for the first time in months, he went back to sleep without any dark thoughts fighting to keep him awake.

[cryptidofthekeys]

May I present to you- the babs

Okay so let me start off by saying I legit worked on these guys ALL day yesterday, mind you a few breaks of course! even then uhh breaks... didnt do me much good... my arm hurt like a b i t c h- but im super proud- god, just, these babs are gonna be fun to write with ....eventually- not now- god no- arm machine broke- I’ll put this under a keep reading btw so it aint too much a hassle

Names: Ashton (Ashton is the Sniper), Vincent (Vincent is the Spy and he's the leader of the group), and finally Erwin (he's the Medic) | Nicknames: Ash, Vin (Ash loves to call him Vinny much to his dismay but eh he'll be fine), and Erwin doesn't really have any nicknames he cares for tbh- just call him by his name | Genders: Male | Species/Race: Androids/Robots | Heights: Ashton is 8'7", Vincent is 9'5" making him the tallest of the group, and Erwin is only 5'0" making him the shortest of our lovely little group here | Hair Colors: Ashton's hair color (not that'll ye'll see much of it, he usually keeps his hat on) but his hair color is: Hickory Brown and honestly its just super messy underneath that hat, Vincent's hair is Pitch Black and slicked back, annnd finally Erwin's hair is dyed a: Mint Green (his hair is a Messy Undercut style) | Eye Colors: Ashton's is an Icy Blue, Vincent's is Imperial Red, and Erwin has heterochromia, his eyes are a light pastel blue and a Mint Green color | Appearances: Let's start off with Ashton bc why not, first off I gotta say- despite what the normal tf2 bots look like, these babs ACTUALLY look like r e a l mercs, real people, there's only a few ways to tell their androids and that's by looking closely at their open wounds which I'll get to all their prominent wounds in a moment, first up... Ashton usually wears punk-like clothing, or something similar- he has leather jackets with TONS of spikes on them, gloves with spikes on them, pants with the chains that hang down and don't forget them sweet sweet combat boots, he also tends to wear some of those face masks, most of the ones he owns has sharp teeth patterns on it but one in particular that he owns has eyes all over it (all of them are black, his clothing is either black or just REALLY dark colors in general) However, when Vincent and them aren't doing business stuff or whatever, he usually wears again, its mostly dark clothing but he doesn't give a shit what he wears like, t-shirts, tank-tops, whatever- that's when you can PROPERLY see his wounds and this android has a TON of them, v e r y open wounds that expose tons of wiring and robotic-y insides as well, so many various parts, so many w i r e s... just o o f- oh and for all of them I'll say they ALL have facial hair, Ashton has a circle beard, Vincent has a short boxed beard, and Erwin's is REALLY just stubble to get that out of the way, ahem- anyways, Ashton actually DOES have sharp teeth, a few rows of them actually. Now... Onto big boss man Vincent, Vincent is a fancy man for sure, fitting considering he's supposed to be an android/robot of the Spy, like Ashton, he H A T E S bright colored clothing but its for different reasons aside from bright ones just being irritating to look at, it also messes with his sensors actually, he's the only one out of the group who has that problem- the other's sensors aren't bothered at all by bright clothing, anyways- Vincent usually wears dark colored suits, not just black n brown though he has MULTIPLE options, dark red, dark blue, etc- I could go on- he has a LOT of fancy clothing, even his s h o e s are fancy, oh and uh he wears the typical leather gloves and that balaclava/ski mask lookin thing ya know the usual spy attire there blah blah, he also sometimes wears fedoras or some sorta fancy hat n stuff, unlike Ashton he doesn't have rows of razor bladed teeth, his teeth are just- normal tbh but that doesn't make him any less dangerous- he has a few wounds actually, one on his back that reveals some robotic parts and has a few wires sticking out although it doesn't seem to bother him too much, a has a really large stab wound on his chest that has some wires sticking out of there as well and reveals some rather serious looking parts- this one actually bothers him a little bit but he tries his damnedest to keep it hidden. and finally... Erwin, he usually wears pastel clothing with cute designs on them long sleeved t-shirts, hoodies, sweaters, etc- even his p a n t s are pastel colors! He does try to make sure the pastels aren't TOO bright or anything, he doesn't want Vincent's sensors to malfunction nor does he want to irritate his friends! He has TONS of openings that'd reveal a BUNCH of tattered wires, its a wonder he's even still functional at this point, a lot of his parts and wires are tattered and not in a VERY good condition, but he doesn't seem to let it stop him! His voice box is a little... messed up but he's still fully intelligible, sometimes it DOES make him stutter, sometimes it cuts out completely but he always somehow finishes his sentences in the end even if he has to start over, he's self conscious about his voice box messing up sometimes and he's DEFINITELY self conscious about all the scars he has over him, its partially why he wears hoodies/sweaters the MOST out of all the other clothing, he doesn't want people to see all his tattered wires n scars! He does have four prominent canines but other than that, his teeth are relatively like a normal human's. oh and as a bonus he usually wears circle glasses, it CAN technically help improve his vision a bit more but also they look cute so he loves them shh. | Personalities: Ashton's up first, now I will say even tho their robots and technically powerhouses compared to humans ANYWAYS- he IS the true powerhouse of the group, the b r u t e- BUT he's not all brawn and no brains, he's not stupid by any means even if he can act like a punk or cold rude bitch, he has a l o t of intelligence in fact- and he uses that to his advantage for sure, he's not entirely a cold rude bitch- to his friends he's relatively well, friendly and nice- even if he does mess with them sometimes- he loves to get on Vincent's nerves the most because he finds it funny mostly, but he knows when to stop so he doesn't take things too far, Erwin... messing with him can be... difficult, he uh- its not that he CANT do it, he can! He TOTALLY can its just... listen, shut up- Spy's his fave to mess with- He absolutely hates humanity, their creators especially more so- if he ever saw em or hell humans in general when he sees em- it always takes e v e r y t h i n g in his power to hold himself back from tearing them to shreds, he wouldn't even w a n t to use a gun against them despite being based off a Sniper, he'll take them apart with his strength and teeth alone if he REALLY wants! After all, making them suffer first would bring him such joy, he's not evil, none of them REALLY are, but I'll explain that all in side facts, for now (tl;dr: Ashton gets along quite well with his friends even if he messes with Vincent a lot and gets on his nerves, in fact that's when you'll see him a bit more cheerier than he usually is, now... towards humans or whatever, he's a g g r e s s i v e- he'll strike them down then and there if Vincent gives him the command, but even if he c a n t, he'll still be cold or rude to em at the very least, terrify them a little bit even- he does NOT like humans at all whatsoever) Vincent... as I've stated, he's the leader of the group, he's DEFINITELY got the perfect personality to be a leader for sure, first off he has MAJOR confidence- he's a super confident dude, he REALLY kinda has to be- after all, his role was the leader of this little group- it was forced upon him so he decided to go along with it- they wanted him to be leader so he'll fulfill that position but if he e v e r gets a hold of them their gonna wish they hadn't e v e r done what they did, he DOES have some narcissistic tendencies but its nothing TOO major, he can be suave and gentlemanly but that part is usually just an act to trick people, he plays nice and makes them think he's trustworthy and then that's when they strike, its a m a z i n g to him how naive and so trusting humanity can be, he can't w a i t to get his hands on their creators, what a f u n day that'll be! Now he's not all big and bad, he can be nice to his friends- he does have a bit of snark and sass but its all in good fun, he mostly keeps it directed towards Ashton but sometimes he'll dish out some snark or sass towards Erwin ...he seems oblivious to that part tbh- but he... even though he doesn't show it a LOT he does care about them a lot, they've been there for him ever since the day they were first created, he absolutely loathes and despises humans- he always uses an act to just lure them to either their death OR, to a little interrogation room where he tries to find out if they know a n y t h i n g about their creator, I mean either way they do kinda die in the end so it really doesn't matter and finally Erwin, he's... a lot nicer than the other two, he doesn't hold a grudge towards his creators nor especially not to humanity, not ALL of them are as bad as Vincent and Ashton think surely... not that he'd ever tell them he doesn't hold grudges or whatever, he's worried he'd ruin their plans or worse, make them mad at him- so he pretends to hate humans when their around, he's actually helped his fair sure of humans escape from the others as well, now sure he DID try and ask a few of them about the creator, when they said they knew nothing he managed to lead them safely away without the others detecting them, now I won't say he's ALWAYS been lucky- sometimes the other two... catch him in the act and he almost had something equivalent to an a n x i e t y attack when they caught him but he played it off by telling them he saw this human wandering around and he also tried to play it off like he interrogated them and they knew nothing about the creators, but of course they uh... wanted to... "take care" of the human for him and he couldn't risk arguing against they'd suspect too much bc he's never been one for killing or whatever (despite being a version of a Medic lmao), there's been a lot of those times where he's felt so guilty for letting them take the human... They didn't know anything, they didn't even seem bad, why kill them? He knows their angry, they want revenge but something seems wrong... but, he'd n e v e r go against his friends, no matter how he feels- they've been there for him through thick and thin and he cares a LOT about them despite this (p much he's a good boy, he can get nervous/anxious sometimes, he just... wants his friends to be happy and rest easy really, he cares a lot about them despite all they do, he's deeply afraid if they find out what he's done or that he doesn't have grudges, etc- that they'll be a n g r y with HIM) | Side Facts: Alright, so... the best run down I can give is this... They didnt really wanna be created in the first place BUT they tolerated it- like ok chill, we gotta tolerate existing now- but then like they were pretty much abandoned bc they were discontinued, bc the tf2 bots look like actual robots, im making these guys more like androids as you already know im sure- closer resemblances to the actual human mercs n shit- but ANYWAYS- something happened and they didnt want to continue making androids like them so the three of them got left behind and of course were thought to be shut down but surprise surprise, their still active, their still out there and their. fucking. l i v i d- first they didnt really wanna exist in the first place, ok they could chill out bout that bc they learned to deal with it BUT- N O W their being discontinued? They dont even have a full t e a m!! its bullshit so now their a wee bit- okay no they are absolutely fucking livid at the creators and humanity in general- except, as you know- Erwin can't hold grudges or anything- he doesnt think ALL humans are bad or at least he hopes their not, but either way- Vincent and Ashton p much feel hatred n coldness towards the creators and humanity. | AU: So a best bud of mine suggested since I had like t w o really good ideas for these lads and couldnt use both of them bc it'd like conflict with many things, to make an AU outta the second idea- I- honestly gotta thank em for fuckin reminding me that AUs are a t h i n g that e x i s t s- but anyways, this AU is basically where Ashton, Vincent, and Erwin died and the respawn, sorta... well broke for em, dont know why or how but it just did, so they died for reals and just... their souls wandered the earth for a bit until they found the bodies of these robots and decided to possess them p much, and now since they died for real- they REALLY wanna return the favor to the ones who killed em (of course, not gonna tell who that was e x a c t l y not yet anyways), I will say their personalities will probably differ from canon a LITTLE bit in this regard, like their still- well in this AU their MORE vengeful than they could EVER be in canonverse- even Erwin in this AU is vengeful, only towards those who did em wrong of course. and with a conversation I had with my partner, there was more expansion that happened, essentially- it was questions of the teammates and what'd happen there (thank you darling, I appreciate this bc this just gave the AU more expansion that I really wasnt just thinking bout on my own), bc if they didnt go back to their teammates they'd be without the supports and ahem, the medic- but anyways, if they did wwweeeellll... their team wouldn't EXACTLY recognize it as them, to them its just potential enemy bots that they need to dispose of orrr at least run off, and that's what they'd definitely do at first, now I will say, there's the chance oh Idk, Erwin interacts with the Heavy (listen... I dont have canon names for this team... im- im too tired to figure it out rn for all the team sdjkajdj they will have to wait for awhile) but Erwin and the Heavy were VERY good close friends, and Erwin could show him that, he's... well, his best bud- they ALL had certain things they used to do or say to their teammates- and ya know if Erwin proved that to Heavy- he'd- well, a lotta emotions would be running wild in that case, of course im getting a head of myself- I should have clarified, bc the team k n o w s the others died and weren't respawning which of course they absolutely tried to deny- they'd be back soon ....yeeaahh they werent, and like now they do find it suspicious these three bots showed up that are designed like the supports but they'd never go that far to say its their dead teammates possessing these... robots, that's a little far-fetched for them. So unless Erwin goes and tries to convince his best friend, who knows what'll happen- oh and I'll also say, aside from the personalities- the actual human versions of Ashton, Vincent, and Erwin would look a LITTLE different- they still wear the same clothes n have similar features, they have scars but those don't reveal tattered wires since their humans you know, and their eye colors- Ashton's eyes are Cobalt Blue, Erwin's eyes are baby blue, and Vincent's eyes are a Caramel Brown, they also don't have those sharp teeth or fangs- oh and their heights are different, Ashton is 6'4", Vincent is 6'8", annnd Erwin- eh he's the same height the bots of course, still retain the same look as in canonverse however so try not to get too confused by different appearances!

[mickminehan]

Short Story: Weapons

As I shut the bedroom door, I keep the handle turned and brace the wood with a flattened palm. The damn thing creaks so loudly it doesn’t even matter.

“Hello.”

Her voice is forceful and sharp. The bedside lamp fills the room with light, and I can feel the heat of her gaze on the back of my neck.

“How was your night?”

Okay, either I misread her initial tone, or she just decided it wasn’t worth it to be angry. She asks the question flatly, and I can feel a lump growing in my throat. If there were more obvious sadness in her voice, it would be less heartbreaking.

I turn around. She’s staring at me from the bed, sitting up in her pyjamas. She must have turned the light off just to catch me sneaking in, because there’s a large book open on her lap and a glass of wine in her hand. She breaks her gaze to take a gulp.

“Didn’t I tell you not to drink on the bed? I had to change the sheets when you spilt the Merlot all over it last week.”

Okay, that brought the anger back. I shouldn’t have gone for the attack, it was just an attempt to claim the moral high ground. Her eyes narrow and her face distorts, but she looks to me with some delay and there’s a slight sway to her movements. I guess this isn’t her first drink.

“Spilt the Merlot?!” She spits. “Just say it’s wine, you asshole, you don’t know the difference."

I take my shoes off and sit gently at the end of the bed. As I get closer, I notice her face is reddened and puffy, as though she had been crying.

“You know how I know you’re about to lie to me?” She asks, finishing her glass and setting it down on the bedside table. My chest tightens. She’s looking directly at me as she closes the book and sets that aside as well. It’s like she’s clearing a space so she can storm out in a rage at any moment.

“What are you talking about?”

“I know, because you’re so calm and deliberate. The real you likes to kick his shoes off and fall onto the bed in one movement. The fake you unties his laces first.”

“What are you reading?”

Her posture deflates in a long sigh. She looks to her wine glass and she seems pained to remember that she’d finished it. I already know she won’t answer that question, but I’m really just trying to delay the inevitable. All of her books are the same anyway, about a bland, awkward girl who somehow tames an untameable bad-boy. They all seem to have happy endings, but she never seems to be very happy reading them.

Her silent eye-contact is too much for me, so I decide to avoid her and begin scanning the room. It doesn’t take much of a look to remember why I hate being in here.

On the bedside table, her phone is silently blowing up. She’s very good looking and quite skilled with a camera, so she's managed to accrue quite an online following. Unfortunately, for every nice comment there seems to be another five just full of jealousy and vitriol. I’ve told her to turn her notifications off, but she just thinks I’m jealous of all the attention.

Next to the phone, there’s a little heart-shaped box, heavy with pills. She tells me that she’s very diligent in taking them, but despite the insistence of a very hopeful psychologist, the box never seems to get any lighter. One night, a few months ago, the box was emptied all at once. She checked herself out of hospital the next day, and we haven’t spoken about it since.

Lastly, between the mess of makeup and brushes on her dressing table, I see a few balled up tissues and the corner of a razor-blade sticking out from underneath. If nothing else, this entire room is a testament to the fact that there seems to be nothing she will not turn against herself.

I stop delaying and meet her gaze once more. She’s been following my eyes the whole time.

“Can you just... can you just tell me? Tell me where you've been? Who you’ve been with?"

Her voice cracks quietly as she seems to be summoning courage for each proceeding word.

“Can... can you tell me who she is?”

The lump in my throat becomes a full blockage and I have to swallow to take a breath. I look to my feet, then back to her. All of the sudden, she looks so incredibly small to me.

I know what I could do. I could tell her the truth, that I’ve been seeing other women for a while now. I could tell her that she’s no worse off without me, that we don’t even get along anymore. I could tell her to stop wasting time on me when there are so many brilliant men out there who would treat her better.

I flinch at the thought, and push it aside as I always do. It’s in moments like these, I see that it’s not the weakness, but the honesty of this little room that bothers me. Here I am, cloak and dagger, while all her truth is spread out on a table for the world to see. Fuck, how is it that she can stand to be so exposed? So vulnerable? Whatever strength it would take, I know I don’t possess any of it.

It probably wouldn’t matter anyway. In the end, I think she would stay. I am no different from anything else in this room. She craves misery, she just needs a reason. She wants to be a victim, she just needs an oppression. Her comfort is pain, she just needs a weapon. I shuffle over, pull the covers over my legs and sit up next to her.

“Darling, you’ve just had too much to drink. Let’s go to sleep, okay?”

Her face falls. For a second, she looks like she’s about to say something else, but then she just reaches for my hand. She attempts a smile, tells me she's sorry and gives me a long, firm squeeze of reassurance. She turns off the light with her free hand and, pushing my palm deep into her chest, pulls my arm around her as she turns to go to sleep.

[psycho-slytherin]

Strangers ch. 11

When you fall ill, your cute coworker helps you. Plus, Yoongi reaches out in the only way he can.

Pairing: Yoongi x (female) Reader

Word count: 2.8k

Genre: Fluffy floof

|mlist|

<–– Prev   Next ––>

“Y/n! Y/n, for fuck’s sake– slow down!”

You screech to a halt, a meter from the door. The pain in your cut-up feet feels irrelevant compared to your constricted chest, and the whirling thoughts striking your vulnerable mind were jumping from conclusion to conclusion and giving you no room to breathe... your headache isn’t helping either.

He used me he used me he used me–

That was my poem–

Why didn’t he ask?

Why wouldn’t he apologize?

Why did he use me?

You turn to stare at Yoongi, and you haven’t the faintest idea why it hurts so much. To think that the lines in their new song– lines that he claimed credit for– were stolen practically word-for-word from the poem you recited for them...

It hurts and you don’t know why.

“Y/n,” Yoongi says, approaching you cautiously. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think–”

You whip around. “You didn’t think?” you hiss, stalking towards him. “When didn’t you think, Min Yoongi? When you were writing the lyrics? During recording? Through production?” you don’t know if you’re more furious or saddened. “When, in the month since you heard my oh-so-humble quatrain, did you think that maybe you should ask for permission?”

“We stopped talking,” Yoongi says. “I didn’t figure I’d see you again. I didn’t figure–”

“That I’d care?” you feel tears well up and force them to retreat; you won’t cry about Min Yoongi. Not now, not ever. “I didn’t write that poem for your fangirls, Yoongi. I wrote it for you.”

Yes, that was it: by making the lines less personal, he cheapened them, made them worthless. You were writing about your midnight rendezvous by the lamppost, and he turned them into– what, some mindless bop?

“I’m sorry, okay?” Yoongi says loudly. “What do you want me to do, name you as a producer? Scrap the whole damn thing?”

You rub your temples to quell your pounding head; it’s hurting so bad that it’s hard to see straight. In fact, the whole world is tilting sideways– or is it just you?

“Y/n!” And it’s Yoongi’s voice, but it’s muffled, as though he’s speaking underwater, and black spots cloud your vision... a lot of black spots, and–

“Unhf,” you squint at the sudden bright light, smacking your lips a few times. Your mouth feels so dry, and your feet feel like you’ve been dancing on razor blades, and your head...

“Y/n? Thank goodness you’re awake!” Lisa’s voice floats above you, and you feel a hand squeeze yours. “How are you feeling?”

“Hot. And cold.” you sneeze. “Everything hurts.”

“Can’t say I’m surprised,” she says. “You’ve got a fever, and there are some cuts on your feet that– I don’t know how this happened–  got infected, and the doctor says you’re fatigued. Basically,” Lisa summarizes, “everything that could go wrong did.”

You groan, propping yourself up on your elbows. “How did you know I was hurt?”

“Some lady named Irene called me, since I’m your emergency contact,” Lisa says, holding up your phone. “She said you’d been brought to the hospital. The doctor said you’ll be good as new in a few days.”

“Ugh.” you flop back on the pillow, feeling like absolute death. And where’s Yoongi gone? Not that it matters, you remind yourself furiously. Stealing your lines without permission... better a liar than a thief, you decide with a sneeze.

The thing is, you’d be ecstatic if he’d asked. But he’d just assumed that you’d be okay with him taking credit for your personal effort, and it makes your heart ache. 

A knock at the door, and it swings open to reveal Xiumin.

“Hey,” he holds up a box bearing the mark of the cafe. “I brought pastries. How are you feeling?”

You smile at your coworker’s thoughtfulness. “I’m doing okay, thanks.”

“I’m gonna talk to the doctor,” Lisa says, standing. “I called your mom, but she’s on a business trip in America–”

“Yeah, don’t worry about it. I don’t want to bother her,” you tell your friend as she leaves the room, and you’re left alone with Xiumin.

“So...” he says. “Any idea why I found a soaked dress in the corner of the storage room when I opened up the cafe this morning?”

You cough. “It’s a long story.”

“And the bloody footprints?”

“That’s an even longer story.”

Xiumin shrugs. “So long as you didn’t murder anyone. I cleaned up, don’t worry, and the manager won’t know anything.”

“Ah, you’re the best,” you rasp, accepting the muffin he hands you. When his finger brushes yours, he knits his brows.

“Your hand is so warm, y/n,” he says, and presses a palm to your forehead. “You’re burning up.”

“Don’t touch me, I might be contagious,” you warn him, sneezing again.

“Don’t worry about me,” he says before leaving the room and returning with a wet towel, using it to wipe your flushed face.

You sigh contentedly; Xiumin’s hands are gentle, and the cool cloth is refreshing against your fevered skin.

“You didn’t have to come,” you murmur, closing your eyes.

“Ah, morning shifts on the weekends are always slow without you there,” Xiumin replies cheerfully. “Besides, once Lisa told me you couldn’t make it because you were in the hospital, I figured you might need a pick-me-up.”

You take a bite into the muffin he’d given you; the familiar taste is comforting, although it does nothing to sooth your sore throat. Seriously, did everything have to go wrong? You feel like you’re a robot, and you’ve broken down.

He used me.

You wince at the thought, and your heart and mind are suddenly at odds: part of you is grateful for Xiumin’s presence, but another part wishes that it was a different man that had walked through the door. Although, of course Yoongi wouldn’t be seen here: a hospital is so public, and a celebrity of his caliber couldn’t make it through the front door without being swarmed.

That’s what made your night meetings special. There were no cameras trained on that tiny street, which was always deserted by midnight. Yoongi must’ve felt it too, right? That freedom to walk and chat freely under the stars, where the only noise came from your heart hammering in your chest– you relished in it. You had so much fun with Yoongi, even with the liar’s guilt weighing you down.

And you could tell that Yoongi also enjoyed your company. No matter how many lies you had to tell, you wanted to be there for him.

“Y/n?”

The summons frees you from your thoughts. “Hm?”

Lisa stands in the doorway, holding a small box and a card. “Someone left this for you.”

Xiumin takes Lisa’s appearance as his cue. “I’ll be off. Feel better, y/n.” he smiles warmly. “Can’t wait to see you back at the cafe.”

“Bye, Xiumin,” you reply, before a coughing fit overtakes you. When you look up again with watering eyes, the card and box are on your lap and Lisa’s smirking at you.

“So, Xiumin?”

“What about him?”

Lisa rolls her eyes. “Are you actually blind? The boy’s so into you.”

“We’re coworkers, he was just being nice,” you say.

“Uh-huh. Keep telling yourself that, girlfriend.” She motions to the box. “Gonna open it?”

You sigh, carefully opening the box and emptying its contents into your palm. A chain falls out and pools in your hand, attached to a heavy glass bead the size of quarter, painted with a familiar-looking scene. You’ve been to your fair share of museums, so of course you’d know the replicated painting anywhere: Van Gogh’s Starry Night.

Your breath catches. It’s a simple necklace, surely inexpensive, but the swirling colors and dotted stars– that light in the darkness feels so familiar.

You rip open the envelope to reveal a plain white card, upon which you see three words written in a familiar scrawl:

I’m sorry.

-Agust

“Who’s Agust?” Lisa asks, leaning over to peer at the card. “Girl, like Agust D? I was listening to Tony Montana, you know, the version with Jimin in it? Ugh, Jimin is so beautiful that I literally cannot. I think I would, like, actually give both my kidneys to meet him. Or like, any of BTS. And I wouldn’t have to meet them, just be within like, ten meters? I might actually die if I ever got that close to them. They’re just the most amazing people that have ever existed, I swear.”

Lisa sighs wistfully to conclude her monologue before turning her attention back to you. “So, who’s Agust?”

“Er– just a classmate,” you lie. Again. You adore Lisa, but she’s more of a fangirl than you’ll ever be. You’re worried that if she ever finds out you’re personal friends with Yoongi and the others, she really would have a heart attack... or twelve.

Are you and Yoongi still friends? You look at the necklace, the glass cool against your palm.

You’re not ready to forgive him yet, you decide as you fasten the thin chain around your neck. But this is certainly a good place to start.

You spend the next several days resting and recovering from your cold. The cuts on your feet heal well and soon enough you can hold an entire conversation without a single coughing fit.

But the hospital... you’re not looking forward to receiving the bill for your day and a half stay. Even with all the extra shifts you were taking, and the check for your work on the music video, you figure that you’ll be living off of cheap ramen for at least a month.

Xiumin’s been amazing, you realize as you ready yourself for your first shift at the cafe since before the music video. He’s visited every day, usually with muffins, and you’re certain that his kindness has helped you recover.

Although, you admit to yourself, you’re seeing Lisa’s point. Xiumin definitely seems interested in you. But perhaps that’s a good thing? His attention may help distract you from your completely nonexistent non-feelings for a certain rapper.

You get in just as Xiumin’s hanging up his apron. “Hi, y/n! How are you feeling?”

“Good, thanks,” you reply with a smile.

“Cool, cool.” Xiumin pauses for a second, fidgeting. “Hey, I was wondering... would you want to go out sometime? With me?”

“Sure,” you say readily. What harm was there in a date?

“What? Really?” A grin spreads across Xiumin’s face.

“Did you think I’d say no?” you tease.

“I mean... lately you’ve been acting like... and your ring...”

You roll your eyes. Has everyone in the country noticed your stupid, fake engagement ring? Why did one tiny piece of jewelry carry so much weight?

"I’m very single,” you assure him.

“Can’t say I’m not relieved,” Xiumin says. “So... are you free Saturday? I’d say that we can get coffee, but...” he waves his hands around at the cafe.

You laugh. “Saturday’s fine.”

“I’ll pick you up at three, then?”

“Sounds good.”

He leaves and you’re left alone to handle the late shift. It’s a quiet evening, and the cafe is emptier than usual by the time you close up shop.

You shiver as you make your way home. You know you really should just invest in a car, but you can’t help feeling drawn to the cool night air, the puffs of vapor escaping you with every breath. The world feels more beautiful, awash as it is in darkness.

You turn onto the street and blink a few times: your lamppost isn’t lit. Has the bulb gone out?

You pull out your phone to turn on the flashlight before sighing tiredly. You were in classes all day before rushing straight to work, and your phone is completely dead. You begin walking again, albeit much slower to avoid tripping in the total darkness.

By your estimate, you’re just nearing your lamppost when you bump into something solid. Huh? Did you miscalculate and run right into the lamppost?

No, wait. Lampposts don’t wear jackets. Or have arms, shoulders...

“Woah!” you jump backwards, cursing your own stupidity. “I’m sorry, I didn’t–”

“Hey, breathe! It’s me,” a familiar voice floats through the darkness and you feel a strong hand on your shoulder.

“Y-Yoongi?” You open your eyes wide to catch his silhouette. “Sorry, I can’t see you.”

“Yeah, that was sort of my doing,” Yoongi says quietly.

“What? Wait, you put the streetlight out?” A thousand questions are whirling about in your head, but you hold your tongue, waiting for him to speak.

“I wanted to talk to you,” Yoongi says, “and you seem more open when you can’t see me.”

“I–”

“In the car, when the divider was up,” Yoongi says quickly, as if desperate to prove his point. “And last week, in the cafe. You feel safer in the dark, don’t you?”

You open and close your mouth like a fish. “H-how...” he couldn’t be more right. Since childhood, you’ve loved dark spaces. Your mother called you catlike; Lisa said you had opposite-claustrophobia. How could you feel anything less than at home, swaddled by a natural blanket of darkness? But still... “How did you know?”

There’s a pause, and you reach out blindly to grasp his sleeve, to have some sort of physical proof that he’s really there.

“I’m the same way,” he whispers, and in the silence his words seem to echo. “I’m good at darkness. I’m good at sleep. And while I love the guys, I’m good at being alone.” you feel his sleeve rise and lower in what must be a shrug.

“I was twenty when we debuted,” he continues. “Before then I was a trainee, and I worked, and school... I never got a chance to make friends outside of a dog-eat-dog world. So, around you... I don’t know how to act, y/n, because I’m so scared of losing you.”

“Just be yourself,” you tell him, your voice near breaking. “Be Min Yoongi, the man that I–” Stop. What are you doing? The darkness is doing it again, lending you confidence.

You swallow. “The man that I... became friends with. Be him.”

Yoongi chuckles humorlessly. “Being myself... every day, that feels a bit harder. Oh!” he seizes your hands, damn near giving you a heart attack. “Did you get the necklace?”

Wordlessly you guide his hand towards you, so that he can feel the glass bead nestled against the hollow of your throat. Improper, perhaps. But it got your message across.

Yoongi sighs with relief. “Thank goodness. I screwed up. I really screwed up, and I’m beyond sorry. So, late as it may be...” he takes a deep breath, and you can hear a smile in his words. “Y/n... may I please have your permission to use and modify the quatrain you recited?”

You sigh dramatically, drawing it out for a good fifteen seconds. “I mean, I guess... You owe me though,” you add, blindly reaching for and then poking his arm.

“Well, it just so happens that since the music video is done filming, we get a few days off,” Yoongi says, grasping your hand where you poked his arm. “So I was wondering if you wanted to hang out? We can chill at the apartment, maybe watch a movie. Definitely eat snacks. I dunno which of the guys will be there, but it’ll be fun.”

He pauses, and when he speaks again the words are laden with hope. “So, what do you say?”

“Sounds fun,” you tell him, although your mind is racing. It’s not a date it’s not a date it’s not a date.

“Great. Does Saturday work for you? We’ve got a tiny bit of publicity to do in the morning, so how about three o’clock?”

“Sure.” It’s not a date it’s not a date it’s not a date.

“Good.” You hear Yoongi’s feet shuffle from side. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too,” you blurt out. "I’m glad you came to talk. Wait,” you cock your head, although he can’t see it. “How did you know I’d be working tonight?”

Yoongi laughs, embarrassed. “Well... I knew you’d start soon. I’ve actually been waiting here every night, these last few days.”

Your jaw drops. “Yoongi, you need sleep!”

“I could say the same to you. Hey, our ride’s here,” Yoongi announces, gesturing at the black car that pulls up out of nowhere– again.

You shake your head as you slide into the backseat. “You’re such a dork.”

“Whatever you say, y/n.”

[shookethbrooketh]

Scars to Your Beautiful

Description: Nearly a year after Dan got off his antidepressants, everything started coming back to him, and he turned to the only thing he knew to try and cope: a razor blade. Phil, left completely in the dark, was left to find out the hard way.

Genres: Fluff, Angst, Mild Smutty Theme (no smut though), Established Relationship

Warnings: References to Depression and Self-Harm

Word Count: 1063

A/N: Yes, the title is an Alessia Cara song. It just randomly popped into my head idk it’s not much of a part of the story though :) 

Read it on Ao3! Read it on Wattpad!

Phil’s warm, passionate kiss filled him with warmth as if he was stepping into a heated room on a snowy evening. Dan hadn’t felt that happy in what felt like years, although it had only been a few months. His hands in Phil’s hair, Phil’s mouth on his neck, the scene was a blur of heat and love until he found himself twirled onto their shared bed. Suddenly Phil was on top of him, his legs wrapped around the younger boy’s waist. Dan ignored the shooting pain through the fresh, unnoticed scars on his waist; they were unimportant. He was unimportant. All that mattered to him was Phil. 

Phil, the 31 year old man who the world viewed as innocent as a child. Phil, the amazing husband who had a completely different side to him that only Dan knew. Phil, the only reason he bothered to be alive. The only reason he bothered to try and be happy. 

And damnit, he should have told him that he was thinking about getting back on the antidepressants. He should have told him that he found a new, less obvious place to cut, and he’d been doing it for months. He should have told him he could feel a depressive episode coming. He should have let him help him, but instead, he just let him break down his barriers. Every fiber of his being told him not to let Phil get to him, not to let him see what he’d become. But a dinner meant to be his confession escalated to his passionate downfall. 

These were all thoughts in the back of Dan’s head as it hit the pillow behind him, Phil attacking him mercilessly. Dan let him take the lead; he usually did. But today it was less for that reason and more for the fact that Dan barely had the energy to do it himself. It had been so long since they’d had sex, and damn did he miss it, but his own body and mind was waging war against him, and his sex drive definitely didn’t have a chance at winning. 

Despite his internal battle, however, his one instinct that took over was the warm, happy feeling that came from Phil’s touch. He tried to push all other thoughts from his mind and focus just on the rough yet oh so soft, loving touch of his husband as he planted soft kisses down his neck. As he felt his jeans tighten, pure euphoria pushed his previous negative thoughts away, and although that was an exaggeration, it seemed to him after so long without true happiness to be the truth.

Dan buried his head in Phil’s neck, cradling Phil on his lap. He could feel a bulge pressing against his own as he pressed his lips to Phil’s neck. They’d done enough filming in the last couple of days to last a week or two; they could leave whatever marks they pleased on each other. His senses heightened as he felt a tug at the hem of his pants, and suddenly Phil had unbuttoned them. As Phil pulled down his jeans, everything rushed back to him. The negativity, the concerns, the confession... the scars. 

“Oh, Dan...” 

His emotion turned from overwhelming happiness to absolute despair at the snap of a finger. He flung himself against the pillow behind him, sighing and letting the tears he didn’t know he’d been holding in for so long flow. “I meant to tell you... tonight, actually. But everything was going so well and I was actually starting to feel a little bit happy for once and I just... I just couldn’t.”

“Dan, I-”

“Damnit, Phil, I was doing so well!” Dan cut him off. He didn’t mean to; it wasn’t like he was mad at Phil for anything. He’d just kept it bottled up from the entire world, from his husband, even, for so long that it finally just came barreling out. “It’s been nearly a year since I’ve gotten off my antidepressants. My mental health was better than it had been in years, and I had to go throw it all away.” 

“It’s not your fault.”

“That’s just what you tell me. Sure, maybe it isn’t technically my fault that it came back, but maybe if I had taken better care of myself it wouldn’t have. Maybe if I hadn’t given into it and bought a damn razor, we’d be having sex instead of me crying in our bed. Maybe if I had the fucking balls to tell you I wasn’t okay and get back on the meds, I would be getting better right now instead of worse. But I made all the wrong choices, Phil, and now I’m right back where I started.”

“Dan,” he said, taking the younger boy’s hands and pulling him upright, staring into his chocolate-brown eyes. “You are not back where you started. You are so much stronger now than you ever were then. And maybe you’ve been knocked down, but I assure you, you can get back up again.” Phil paused, taking a deep breath. “You know what we have to do, don’t you?” 

Dan gulped, nodding. Phil squeezed his hand before letting go and standing up, the bedsprings squeaking as he released his weight from the mattress and disappeared through the doorframe. He came back a moment later with a box that Dan knew contained his razor. Phil knew him well enough to know exactly where to find it. “I’m throwing this away, okay?” he said calmly, and Dan nodded. He left again and came back empty handed, as if the mere existence of the toxic box had been erased. Phil climbed into bed beside him, tugging on the waistband of his jeans. Dan knew he was taking in a full glimpse of his waist and upper thighs, lined up and down with countless cuts, many already turned to permanent scars. “Dan, how long?” 

“A few months. Phil, I’m so sorry.” 

“Don’t be sorry. I’m proud of you for even wanting to tell me in the first place. Tomorrow we’ll go to the doctor and see where we can go from here. But for now, I just want to remind you,” he said, wrapping his arms around Dan’s stomach, carefully avoiding his now forever imperfect waist. “I love you so much, and no matter what, Dan, to me you’re beautiful.” 

[asidian]

How about something about Gladio and Ignis or other Citadel-related people handling the fact that puberty turned Noctis from a cute kid into a really surprisingly attractive young man?

Author’s Notes: I’m… not sure if this is at all what you wanted? H-haha, sorry. orz Anyway, thank you for the prompt, and sorry this got so long and rambly. ^^

===

Notice

===

Puberty comes late to the crown prince of Lucis. At fifteen, he still looks like a child, with a certain softness to his face and a slenderness to his build.

He tries to beg his way out of school picture day, because he knows well enough that, when he stands beside his classmates, he’ll be shorter than all but a handful.

Then comes sixteen, and with it all the trappings of adulthood. Per the king’s instructions, Ignis begins briefing Noct in more expansive matters of state: in boundary disputes and diplomacy; in civic planning and rules of law.

It’s as though Noct’s body rushes to catch up with the responsibility.

He grows a foot in two months; his limbs take on the gangling, awkward look of adolescent puppies. He has to be measured for an entire new wardrobe, and then another, several months after that.

Ignis notes the razor that rests by the bathroom sink now, a point of pride, though he doubts that Noct has much call to use it. He notes the frequency with which the maids have to change His Highness’ sheets, and he sighs, reminds himself of the hormone-driven days he was more than happy to leave behind, and sits Noctis down for the most embarrassing conversation that he has ever had call to engage in with another human being.

It lasts for half an hour. It focuses primarily on responsibilities, and the importance of maintaining the royal lineage. It covers the unpleasant effects of certain sexually transmitted diseases, and what measures should be taken in order to avoid scandal. 

It ends with Noctis in possession of a box of condoms. 

It ends with the knowledge that Noct can turn that peculiar shade of dahlia pink, heretofore unseen.

===

The damn kid has a fan club. 

Gladio’s not sure when it happened, but hell if it isn’t the funniest thing he’s ever heard.

Iris comes home from school one day, all worked up about it, and Gladio knows by now exactly which way to prod to get his sister to talk about whatever she’s excited about. She’s bad at hiding it; that’s just the kind of person she is. If she’s into something, it comes bubbling up out of her.

So he prods, and she begs off answering, and then two hours later, she comes back around while Gladio’s reading in his father’s study. She sits herself down on the couch, and she says, “I wasn’t the one who started it,” and Gladio feels his eyebrow go up.

Iris launches into a tale of intrigue and betrayal, one that ends with two of the most popular girls at their school founding the Prince Noctis Fan Club.

And what else was she going to do? She has to keep an eye on them, to make sure they’re not doing anything that’ll be bad for Noct’s good name. So she joined, too. She might not be first in line to be Shield, but she can shield the prince from some things, at least.

Gladio tells her that she did the right thing.

He agrees that it’s best she keep tabs on membership, for Noct’s sake. 

He sees her to the door, and he closes it behind her, and he sits back down with his book.

Then he laughs so hard tears roll down his cheeks, and bites his thumb to keep from being loud about it.

And when Iris’ class comes to the Citadel on their field trip, he cajoles Noct into playing tour guide.

===

Noct’s new apartment looks like a space that can be lived in, finally.

The cardboard boxes scattered haphazardly across the floor have long been unpacked. Their contents fill the shelves. Ignis saw to most of it, fiddling with considerations such as convenience and aesthetics, while Noct played games on his sofa.

That’s months in the past, now. On the occasions when the space is clean, it actually looks quite nice.

The young man that stands in the center of it, in his trim black suit and sloppy tie, looks at home here. It’s done Noct a world of good, getting some space for himself outside the Citadel.

The new living arrangements come with several specific unfortunate downsides, however. Among them: the time between coaxing Noctis from bed and him walking through the door to the Council’s chamber has dramatically increased.

Ignis glances him over, with a critical eye.

He looks half awake, still. His hair has been gelled, but there’s a certain sloppiness to the way it’s been teased into its peaks and valleys. His face is washed, but the concealer and eyeliner the prince sometimes takes pains to apply is conspicuously absent, abandoned in favor of a few more minutes in bed. The tie knotted at his throat, a beautiful silken blue, looks as though it’s been arranged by a five year old.

“Honestly, Noct,” says Ignis, and steps forward to straighten it up.

His fingers slide against the silk; his touches are brisk and businesslike. But he’s aware of Noct’s eyes on him, that curious shade of night-sky blue. He’s aware of long lashes that truly don’t need the help of the eyeliner. He’s aware of the way Noct’s lips curve up at the corner into a smile, fond and familiar.

Suddenly, Ignis isn’t certain when the chubby toddler he played with as a child turned into this young man before him, who looks every inch the dashing prince from the pages of a fairy tale.

“You do it better, anyway,” says Noct.

Ignis steps back and admires his handwork; the tie is crisp and even, and Noctis looks very much the young gentleman.

“There,” he says. “That will serve.”

It will more than serve. 

His Highness has a photo shoot for a popular girl’s magazine next week. Ignis makes a mental note to ensure they fit this tie into the wardrobe.

It complements the blue of Noct’s eyes quite nicely, indeed.

===

They’re in the middle of training when Noct loses the shirt.

Gladio doesn’t blame him; it’s hot as hell, and they’ve been going at it for damn near an hour and a half. He stripped out of his own at the start of the session, and he’s still sweating buckets.

But Noct hardly ever ditches his.

If Gladio had to guess, he’d say it probably has something to do with the mess of a scar halfway down the kid’s back. It’s pretty badass, honestly, but he there’s no telling what’ll set someone off. 

Whatever the reason, Noct keeps the shirt on, most days. He hasn’t taken it off in training for – hell, probably almost four years now.

He was a scrawny scrap of a thing, last time Gladio saw him without it, but those days, it looks like, are long in the past.

He’s filled out, that’s for sure. The shoulders are broader, and the abdomen is all lean muscle. However much Gladio gets on him to lay off the pizza, he doesn’t need to. Sure, he’s not ripped. Gladio knows for damn sure he can bench press four times what Noct can pull off, easy.

But Noct’s trained in just about every weapon in the armory, and it shows. He’s built like a gymnast, all sleek power. 

It’s a good look on him. No wonder his fan club’s having its three year anniversary next week.

When Noct glances up and catches him looking, Gladio gives an unimpressed snort.

“Gonna have to step up arm day,” he says. “Can’t have the crown prince flexing with those noodle arms.”

“Noodle arms,” says Noct. “Right.” There’s a flash of blue, and the biggest great sword in the Armiger flickers to life in his hands. It’s as long as Noct is. When they started, he could barely lift it, but now he falls into his stance, massive blade out before him, head tipped up in challenge. “That sounds to me like an invite to knock you on your ass.”

Gladio feels himself grinning. He calls up his own sword in one hand – uses the other to crook his fingers, the world’s universal come-get-some gesture. “Bring it, princess. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

===

The Accordan ambassador is tall and amiable, and entirely too familiar with the prince.

At dinner, he’s seated to Noct’s left, and he spends the meal leaning in closer than is proper. After, he blames the drink; Lucian wine, he claims, is far more powerful than what he’s grown accustomed to.

Ignis, who counts himself something of an expert on vintages, knows very well that the alcohol content from most Accordan wines is much higher, but for propriety’s sake, he presses his lips together and says nothing.

After the meal, King Regis and his son retire to the lounge to entertain the visiting diplomat. There are certain concessions in the upcoming trade deal that His Majesty hopes to lay the groundwork for, off the books.

Ignis won’t be needed for the remainder of the evening. He’s free to retire to his own quarters, and nothing pressing requires his attention. It could be one of those rare few early nights, if he so chooses.

Instead, he lingers in the grand hall, seating himself where the tour groups pass to and fro, during daylight hours. Now, the there are no curious eyes about to see the sights. Now, the Citadel is nearly empty.

He’s not certain what he’s waiting for.

He idles there far longer than he can excuse as fancy, tapping notes to himself neatly into his phone for tomorrow’s meetings, for want of anything better to do.

That’s where Gladiolus finds him. The man’s in a suit, hair slicked back. He had a tie at one point, but it’s been removed from its spot around his neck, crammed into a pocket haphazardly.

“What,” says Gladio, slowing to a stop before him. “You don’t have anywhere else to be?”

“Not at the moment,” says Ignis, primly, and taps in the last of his notes before looking up.

Gladio sprawls onto the bench without waiting to be invited, legs spread casually in the manner of ill-behaved thirteen-year-old boys. Ignis spares him a lingering glance. 

“Never seen you not in a rush to do something or other,” says Gladio, bemused.

“There’s nothing wrong with keeping a tight schedule.” Ignis adjusts his glasses, though truth be told they don’t need it. “What of yourself? It isn’t like you to linger after hours.”

Gladio lifts one big shoulder and lets it fall. “What, can’t a guy feel like hanging around?”

It would be hypocritical for Ignis to argue the point, and so he doesn’t. He only opens up a new document for his three o'clock with the minister of finance and begins tapping in something new.

He’s written barely two words when his phone buzzes.

It’s a text from Noct, and it reads, “you still around?”

Ignis replies immediately: “I am.”

There is a moment’s pause, during which Ignis pretends to add to his notes but makes no alterations of any value. Then a new text arrives. “can you come here pls.”

He’s on his feet before he’s finished reading, turning toward the elevator that leads up to the higher-security levels of the Citadel.

Gladio says, “What’s the rush?”

And Ignis, thoughts on the Accordan ambassador blaming the wine, says, “Noct,” and his tone is a bit tighter than he intended.

Perhaps Gladio can read his inflection. Perhaps his posture, more closed off than usual, gives him away.

But Gladiolus is on his feet an instant later, falling into step beside Ignis as he makes for the elevator. “On my way,” Ignis taps into his phone, as the doors slide closed behind him.

They arrive at the king’s lounge barely five minutes later. Ignis knocks on the door, brisk and businesslike, and calls out, “Highness?” in a voice loud enough to be audible through the elaborate paneled wood.

There’s a pause, and then Noct opens the door.

He’s decidedly more disheveled than he was half an hour ago. His hair is askew, and the knot of his tie is sloppy. But more than that, his eyes are flat and guarded, in the way they get when he’s upset about something.

Ignis takes in the scene: a room empty of King Regis, empty of anyone else save the Accordan ambassador leaning casually back against the couch, a glass of half-drunk scotch in his hand. His face is redder than it was before, and he looks a touch disheveled, as well.

And Noct. Noct catches at Ignis’ cuff and stares up at him, and then toward Gladio, standing there in the hall. His grip is too tight, and his fingers are trembling.

That tells Ignis all he needs to know.

“Terribly sorry,” says Ignis. “I’m afraid the Council has announced an emergency meeting. His Highness is required elsewhere.”

Then he holds the door wide and says, “Gladiolus, if you’d be so kind as to see the ambassador out?”

He doesn’t think he imagines the way Gladio’s eyes linger on Noct. He doesn’t think he imagines the tightness in the man’s jaw. “With pleasure,” says Gladio, grimly.

“Highness,” says Ignis. “Shall we? The timeline is rather pressing, I’m afraid.”

Noct nods, and lets go of Ignis’ sleeve. He says, “Lead the way.”

He follows Ignis out into the hall, toward the Council chamber. They walk in silence until they reach the first turn in the hallway. Then Ignis changes his route, circling back around to veer toward the Citadel’s private suites.

It takes them just shy of five minutes to reach Noct’s old room. It’s maintained in his absence, for when an official function runs late and he wishes to stay over instead of returning to his apartment.

He stands there in the doorway, looking somewhat harrowed, until Ignis says, “If he tries to reschedule, I’ll shift his appointments around until his ship sails. After he’s safely off our shores, the authorities in Accordo will receive a request for a new representative.”

“Thanks,” says Noct. He swallows. “My dad had to beg off. His leg gets bad, you know? But I thought, it’s just groundwork, right? I’m okay at negotiating.”

Ignis waits for the rest. He hopes that Gladio was rather less gentle than usually warranted, in seeing the ambassador out.

When the silence stretches too long, Noct says, “He got kinda handsy. I would’ve punched him out, only I thought dad wouldn’t appreciate a diplomatic incident.”

Ignis feels a strange swell in his chest at the words. He says, “The right ties in the Accordan media make certain diplomatic incidents all but disappear, you’ll find. As it so happens, I have the right ties in the Accordan media.”

“So you’re saying I should have punched him out.”

“I’m saying,” says Ignis, tone more fierce than intended, “that it would have been no more than he deserved.”

Noct thaws a little, then. The guardedness slips from his eyes, and from his posture. He looks like he means to reply, but Ignis’ phone buzzes before he can. “Go on,” says Noct. “It’s probably Gladio.”

It is, in fact, Gladio.

“How is he?” the text reads. “Does this guy need to accidentally fall down the stairs before I cut him loose?”

Ignis stifles a smile. “Your Shield,” he says, “is considering something of a diplomatic incident of his own.”

Noct leans over to look, with a huff of something very nearly a laugh. “Call him off. And tell him I’m fine.”

Ignis taps his reply into the phone and then slides it into his pocket again. “Are you?” he says, when he looks up.

“I am,” says Noct. But the longer Ignis stares, frank and even, the less Noct seems able to meet the gaze. “I just didn’t expect it, you know?”

Ignis takes a breath in and lets it out slowly. It’s a rhetorical question, but he finds himself answering, anyway. “Nor should you have had to.”

They stand there for a moment, in silence. At last, Noct says, “Thanks, Specs.”

“I would say any time,” says Ignis, “but frankly, I’m hoping we’ve never cause for a repeat occurrence.”

Noct smiles, wry and crooked. “You and me both.” He turns from the door, toward the couch where he used to play video games at twelve years of age, and sits himself down on the indent that still indicates his favorite spot. “Hey,” he says, almost as though it’s an afterthought. “You mind giving me a ride home, when we get out of here?”

“Not at all,” says Ignis. “Although I suspect we’d best wait for Gladio. Unless I miss my guess, he’ll be along shortly.”

Gladio is along shortly, and he brings with him some choice words about the Accordan ambassador’s parentage. Ignis adds a few thoughts of his own, decidedly less crude but every bit as cutting.

By the time they see Noct from the building, through the meandering back hallways of the Citadel and into the private attached garage, that shaken, uncertain look has been chased from his face entirely.