#it's just a small conversation between them about sharks as a metaphor but

[beanghostprincess]

About sharks and birds

Relationship: Sanji & Nico Robin (platonic)

Rating: General Audiences

Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Sanji-Centric, Wano/WCI Spoilers,

Summary:

“Why would they do something so cruel, I think?” “To make them stronger.” “Or maybe they didn’t have anybody to rely on.” - After the events of Whole Cake Island and Wano, Sanji tries to prove he deserves to stay in the crew, unable to stop doing stuff for everybody around him. Robin offers him a moment of peace for him to breathe.

[Ao3!!!]

More of my works!

[coreymichaelsmithson]

The Lights of Treasure Island

For the past few years, I've been living on a barrier island named Anastasia. A sandy, sleepy, slow place, just off the coast of our nation's oldest city, Anastasia Island features tall palm trees and gorgeous beaches, along with excellent sushi and a surprisingly active arts scene. Its most splendid attraction, though, is an old lighthouse, one striped with a black and white spiral and crowned by a bright red lamphouse. It towers commandingly over the dunes, casting a long beam that can be seen from nearly anywhere in town.

I've always liked lighthouses. In days of old we set these magnificent lanterns on the edge of the sea, to guide sailors through dark and treacherous waters, to show them the way home. Lighthouses represent so many things we need: safety, comfort, reliability, navigation. But in my mind, these structures hold the magic of candles, the magic of illumination itself. When we speak of enlightenment, we may be speaking specifically of rationality and discovery, but we are also conjuring images of light prevailing over darkness. And in this way the lighthouse emerges as a powerful symbol of the spirit.  

This February, for my 47th birthday, I explored the Outer Banks of North Carolina, where I saw several amazing lighthouses. Impressive as they were, I did not think they quite compared with the singular majesty of the structure that stands on Anastasia Island. After a harrowing return journey, one in which I drove with no working alternator (and sometimes without headlights or windshield wipers) through nearly 700 miles of tornadic thunderstorms, I felt the most profound relief when I finally crested the peak of the SR-312 bridge, which connects my island to the mainland, and I saw those familiar black and white stripes in the distance, signaling that I had made it home. Less than half a year later, my feelings about this special lighthouse of mine would be forever changed by a chance encounter.

Just under two months ago, I received a brief and rather unremarkable message from a stranger on Scruff, a queer dating platform that I use. One might charitably call Scruff "a social club for discerning gentlemen" ... it appeals to men who are hirsute, meaty, perpetually horny, and even a few of us freaks who defiantly straddle the line between "butch" and "nancy". Since this man's profile didn't really offer all that much information, and his one available picture wasn't particularly compelling, I promptly tucked his message away and forgot about it, and went for my customary sunset walk on the beach.

I live exactly one mile from the southern boundary of a state park, which offers a four-mile stretch of pristine dune habitat, completely undeveloped and sparsely occupied. The only man-made objects in sight are a few empty lifeguard stands, the city's sightseeing pier, a radio antennae, and our lighthouse. Dolphins gather here, their dorsal fins rising and falling between the breakers. Squadrons of pelicans fly in tight formations, gliding only a few feet above the water's surface. Terns and sea turtles nest in its sands, and I've found many shark teeth among the sea shells and ghost crab burrows. This is a special place, a holy place, and I've made a daily ritual of enjoying its cloudscapes and crepuscular glow as I explore the edge between land and sea.

After a pleasant stroll, maybe an hour or so of blissful meditation, I turned around and started heading back towards my car when I caught sight of a man who had just walked out of the water and was now drying himself off. We locked eyes.

He was the most beautiful man I had ever seen. Arrestingly beautiful, the kind of handsome that stops you dead in your tracks. I just kind of gulped for a second, and then walked right up to him, with an audacity that I didn't even know I possessed, turned on every damn bulb in my Christmas tree, and murmured, "Hi!", making the word shimmer like tinsel. In a short amount of time, I learned that he was a Russian artist, born in St. Petersburg but living in Moscow. I had met him during a brief pause on his long drive from Jacksonville to Key West; he had only intended on stopping in St. Augustine long enough to explore our old Spanish fort and take a swim on our nicest beach. He possessed a keen intellect, a quick wit, and a laudable command of English. As we spoke, he kept giving me flashes of the most mischievous smile, and so when I finally asked him what he was grinning about, he revealed that he was the same man who had messaged me earlier. This came as a surprise, for I hadn't recognized him at all ... I had only been drawn in now by his gorgeous movie-star looks, the undeniable sex appeal of his dripping wet body, and some weird sense of destiny.

We talked. We talked some more. We went to dinner. And then he stayed for the better part of three days.

In my bed, we enjoyed the most astonishing kind of communion. Our nights and mornings were filled with such tenderness ... soft eyes, soft caresses, fearlessly sustained gazes, the kind of kisses that tell a hundred little stories. One by one, various secrets were brought to light. We shared toe-curling carnality, thunderous climaxes, an unalloyed and unembarrassed intimacy. We shared joy.

On our second day together, I took him to the top of Anastasia Island's lighthouse. We lingered on each landing to kiss and giggle, and our embraces grew more intense. We felt a stronger and stronger pull towards one another. I knew that this was more than just a simple infatuation. By the time we reached the lantern's round balcony, and stepped out together onto the most spectacular view of St. Augustine, I knew that I was falling in love.

I don't blame you for rolling your eyes at this. You may, in your justifiable cynicism, think it ridiculous for a man to utter such a powerful phrase within such a short time. But if you've ever known me, you've come to recognize by now my considerable capacity for love. My passions and appetites may rise to the surface with little interference, and will I admit some recklessness in how I've invested my energies, but I am no fool. I am neither naïve nor desperate. And I can say in all sincerity that what we felt then was, at least for a short while, genuine love.

From the top of the lighthouse we could see everything. The old downtown, with its mixture of colonial and Spanish Renaissance buildings. The Matanzas River, named for the 1565 massacre of shipwrecked Huguenots, separating my island from the mainland. The harbor of St. Augustine, crowded with sailboats and pleasure craft, a forest of masts. And then the sea, blue and inviting, the sea that would soon separate us. We held each other tightly and looked upon the Atlantic together, casting our dreams towards the horizon, into this vista of seemingly endless possibility and hope.

On our last night together, we took a naked midnight swim in my pool, which is lit from above by a row of blue lights. A light and warm rain fell on our heads as we twined our legs underwater, and our ardor cast a web of rippling refractive patterns on the pool's concrete bottom. He looked me in the eyes, kissed me with the utmost gentleness, and formally invited me to come stay with him in Moscow. I accepted with my new magic word, "Да."

The following morning, our parting was so sweet, and so warm. We solidified our promise to be reunited. He drove down to Key West, enjoying a music playlist I assembled for him, and then he flew up to New York for a week's visit with old friends. After he returned to Moscow, we embarked on a passionate long-distance affair via telephone and social media apps.

I plunged right away into the Russian language, practicing for hours a day, rediscovering my knack for linguistics. I bought books on the cities of Moscow and St. Petersburg, books on Russian verbs, flashcards, a portable dictionary. I subscribed to online learning programs, put apps on my phone, read up on the country's history. I was all in, bringing every available bit of my enthusiasm, work ethic, and inventiveness to the challenge. Every day, I would send him sweet little videos or text messages ... sharing good news, conveying small but significant events of my daily life, showing off my rapidly accelerating grasp of Russian. I sent him notes of encouragement, pictures of me looking my cutest, small but enjoyable details of my life on Anastasia Island. I sent him a short clip of the black skimmers that sliced back and forth across the thin swash of the surf, their beaks dipping into half an inch of water. I sent him pelicans, beach crabs, waves, paintings, difficult words, idioms, cute terms of venery, sunsets, clouds, kisses, evidence of my changing body. I sent him love, every day. "каждый день," I promised him, placing my hand on my heart, "каждый день." Every day.

My love deepened by the hour. I know this is going to sound so gushy and gross, but I really pushed the lighthouse metaphor pretty hard, calling myself "твой смотритель маяка" or "your lighthouse keeper". I meant this in all sincerity, without a drop of bathos or schmaltz. Our time atop the lighthouse was sacred to me. I promised him that I would keep its light burning bright.

Over time, however, things shifted. As my interest grew, his began to dwindle. He sent less and less of himself, slowly removing from our conversation his humor, his sexuality, his warmth, his trust. It was like seeing a fully assembled jigsaw puzzle get lifted into the air, and watching all the pieces falling out ... at first only a few at a time, then more and more, until there was only a jagged perimeter where there had once been a lovely picture.

The nadir came when he lost his temper with me over my visa. I was confused about the process, as the Russian consulate and other sources were providing patchy and often conflicting information, and his own explanations changed from day to day. During our last video chat, I asked one too many questions, and he snapped. He rolled his eyes, effectively called me stupid and childish, and hung up on me three times. My many attempts at reconciliation were completely rebuffed. It was both baffling and extraordinarily painful.

Two days after our fight he was in a terrible car accident, one from which he miraculously escaped unharmed. He posted on social media an impassioned paragraph about the event, and how it drew into sharp focus all the love he had in his life, how he felt that he wasn't deserving of such love, how grateful he was for his friends. Yet instead of contacting me, inviting me into this experience, or trying to repair our frayed connection, he spent his evenings logging back into Scruff, the aforementioned dating app. He continued to ignore me, choosing instead to pursue (or perhaps refresh) other opportunities. I tried in vain to reach him, to restore our bond, but was met with only the most chilling silence.

How had I been so wrong? Had my desire devolved into mere obsession, albeit one artfully disguised as love? Had my zeal somehow suffocated him? The irony for me was that this disastrous affair unfolded during a period of rapid and positive transformation. In the space of the last seven months, I'd already changed my diet, fixed my teeth, joined a gym, paid off a chunk of my debt, reorganized my home office, purchased a standing desk, resumed my daily beach walks, started seeing both a psychiatrist and a therapist. My relationship to my body was improving, I was working at a higher level of professional responsibility, gaining new clients, writing my fourth novel, and churning out the finest paintings of my career. A recent experience with ayahuasca had given me valuable insights into my adulthood. It seemed only right that this Russian should be the cherry on my sundae, a prize I had been working so hard to deserve.

And so, after admitting my own disenchantment, I surrendered. Reeling from an overwhelming feeling of loss, I wrote him a heartfelt letter in Russian, one in which I explained the hurt his indifference was causing me. I poured a lot of benevolent energy into this letter. And then I said to him the saddest word I've learned in Russian, "Прощай", which is the type of goodbye you use when you think you are not likely to see someone again. It translates, literally, into "forgive me."

Here is the letter I wrote to him, translated into English:

***

"V_____, beautiful V____:

Okay. I give up.

Your silence gave me a very clear and very painful answer. You have been entrusted with something rare and beautiful, and you have shown that you do not want it. So now it's gone.

I'm sorry my heart bored you so much. I will no longer annoy you with my desires.

The love that I offered you ... pure and strong, given without demands or jealous limitations ... does not come often.

It pains me to realize that you do not appreciate what I have tried to give you. It is even more painful to realize that I may have aggravated the situation with my zeal. But the distance that you put between us is your choice, and I must respect that.

It seems that the epiphany you experienced in the car accident, the moment you thought of all the love in your life, did not include my love for you. Your priorities are yours, and I accept that. But you almost died yesterday, V_____. And instead of choosing to bond with a man who cares about you so much, your focus shifted to Scruff. Your indifference is so obvious now. Please do not say anything ugly or cruel in response. There is already enough sorrow on my island. I feel both grief and embarrassment, but not anger. I've always wanted the best for you, and it's still true.

I sincerely wish you a long and happy journey. I hope you enjoy many successes and find many pleasures. I hope you stay healthy. I hope the man you choose deserves your best gifts. I hope you find a better lighthouse. I must direct my light now to those who are really looking for it. So now I must tell you the saddest word that I have learned in your language.

Goodbye."

***

Please allow me now to rewind a few years, and tell a correlative story.

In the autumn of 2019, during a period of intense sadness and frustration, I fled from Anastasia Island and drove impulsively across the state to the Gulf Coast. I didn't have a clear destination, I didn't pack enough clothes or supplies, and I was so blinded with tears and unexpressed rage that I didn't know where I was, or even care much about where I might land. While getting lost somewhere in the vicinity of St. Petersburg, I glanced at a map, dragged my finger along the squiggly coastline, saw the name Treasure Island, and thought, "That's gotta be the place."

I don't know what I was expecting to find there. Something about the name sounded so exciting, so exotic. And as the evening wore on, my anticipation grew. I thought, in my desperation, that everything would be all right once I got to Treasure Island. Over the next few hours, I convinced myself that I'd finally feel good again in such a place, that my pain and confusion would certainly evaporate once I reached this safe haven. I'd check into a nice hotel room, preferably one with 300 thread-count sheets and a coffee maker, and I'd dream about pirate ships and gold doubloons, and when I opened my eyes and yawned and stretched against the sun-dappled pillows my life would basically feel like a commercial for some bougie brand of almond milk. When I arrived, however, I was deeply disappointed to see another narrow stretch of high-rise hotels, littered beaches, rank seaweed, and greyish-brown water. I found the cheapest hotel room around, one of the few remaining vacancies on the shore, and there I found neither crisp bedsheets nor good coffee. The view from my balcony, however, was utterly amazing: I could see not only a broad curving swath of the beach, but also a glow of distant resort hotels, some of them reflected in the waves. It was strangely romantic, seeing these twinkling lights ... red, gold, green, blue ... and their silent conversation with the stars, a dialogue of jewels above the warm churning waters of the Gulf. But it wasn't the salvation I had been hoping for.

When I got up the next morning, I was still facing the same problems, the same irritations, the same heavy sorrows. Treasure Island would not, could not, rescue me from myself. So I drove back home to my own island, back to my lighthouse, and was relieved to discover that it was in fact even more stirring than I had remembered. During my absence Anastasia Island had become a magical and restorative place, quite different than the one I had left only days before.

What I should have learned back then, but have only come to realize now, was this: I didn't need to travel to a distant island of treasure and twinkling stars, for my own island already had plenty of both. I didn't need to seek the incandescence of a handsome man to light my way, as my own inner flame was at last beginning to shine without the shutters of inhibition or profligacy.

I am now recalling my disappointment with Treasure Island, while concurrently considering my grief over the Russian. At first, I wanted to hate him for his carelessness, for how he squandered my gifts. But I don't hate him. Not really. There's no need to wring my hands any further over his callousness. I don't even mourn his absence anymore. My mood has shifted today, and I no longer choose to see this abortive liaison as being so devastating. For I know, deep down, that the failure here was not really mine. I am not a loser for investing myself unreservedly in someone who could not fully appreciate me, nor I am not the weaker man for feeling injured. I will not be permanently depleted for having offered all that kindness to an undeserving recipient, as my wellspring of love remains inexhaustible.

I tried to share my lighthouse with the Russian. But he did not recognize how special it really was, and he declined to follow its beacon to a rewarding harbor. And thus, our romance was destroyed, and his memory became just another broken boat littering the shallows.

I have seen so many ruins in my years: bad relationships, lousy jobs, soured opportunities. My life story reads like a ledger of dashed hopes. It seems sometimes that both the island I occupy and the more elusive island I am eternally seeking are surrounded by shipwrecks. Yet the lighthouse of my spirit still stands, sturdier and stronger than ever. The waves may batter its bricks, salt may scour its surfaces, it may occasionally groan under its own weight ... but it will not crumble, it will not fail, and even in the darkest of hours this lamp of mine will continue to shine: bright, focused, undiminished.

[cowtale-utau]

Can I call it CowTale? Please?

So names are still not all settled. But, I thought if I started fleshing out everyone’s roles, and a little bit of personality, maybe that’d help. So here’s what I’ve got so far. Undertale Sans - Ace. The skelle in charge, a job he isn’t always fond of, but handles well enough. He makes the final decision on when they move and where they go. He has the last word in inter-camp conflicts. Occasionally he’ll disappear for a day or two, needing to get away from the responsibility he’s been saddled with. His return is always just as quiet and unacknowledged. He never wanted this but hes doing his best to handle not only the surface but also keeping track of all his and his brothers alternates. He tries his best to settle things peacefully, but isn’t afraid to use force if needed.  Undertale Papyrus - Lief. Charming and friendly, hes the one who secures their place in any given location. They try to stay settled as long as they can in one camp, and he’s very good at becoming a quickly beloved member of the nearest town. Getting an in with all the locals, and making them less likely to flip should the law come looking. In camp he helps keep the peace between the various conflicting personalities. Rival gangs and law enforcement tend to underestimate him because of his kind nature, this allows him to play “hostage” until the perfect moment arrives and he is more than willing and able to strike, and he always hits exactly as hard as he means to. Underfell Sans - Chisel. At first glance, he’s just muscle. An enforcer of sorts. He can come off brutish and careless, but like his counterparts is actually highly intelligent. He keeps everything with moving parts working properly. From wagons to weapons. Everyone handles their own basic gun maintenance, but any alterations or customization is usually run by him. He’s unafraid to get his hands dirty, by any definition, and so takes on a lot of the work the others might balk at. A social creature at heart, he can often be found in saloons, bars, and inns, and while he might seem to be a drunken layabout, its rare anyone moves through their area that he doesn’t know about. You hear a lot when people think you aren’t listening.  Underfell Papyrus - Spur. Cut throat and ruthless. Or at least, its how he often presents himself. Being around him often feels like being around a sleeping mountain lion. Elegant and dangerous. He can be quite charismatic, and falling into the role of “the gentleman” is easy for him. He draws people in with an easy confidence but it always feels like you’re taking a risk. One wrong move, one poorly chosen word, and its over. He’s damn quick in combat, choosing not to draw things out. Hit them fast, and hit them hard. Put the enemy down as quickly as possible, not out of any dislike of combat, but rather a learned caution.  Underswap Sans - Scout. His name really only partially covers his role. He’s fairly small, and physically and mentally quick. Sneaky and perceptive he can suss out exits/entrances/who’s where when, without ever being noticed. He also makes an excellent “scout” out of the wilds as well. Much like Lief, hes sociable and easy to like, but also quite a bit more manipulative. He resents being considered childish or cute, but knows how to play a role to get what he wants. Many assume because of his smaller stature he’s a stealth combatant, or stay out of fights altogether but Scout is a powerhouse front-liner, never afraid to dive right into the fray. Underswap Papyrus - Piper. You would think with how much he despises liars that he himself wouldn’t be one. You’d be wrong. A smooth talker, this skelle can spin a story like no other. There’s a good reason for any and everything, and hes quick to provide one. His lackadaisical nature makes him easy to underestimate, but he’s got a quick hand a quicker mind. If there’s a chance for the gang to talk their way out of an altercation he’s the one handling the talking. Has a side gig as a writer for several publications. He does mostly fiction, all written under a pseudonym. There’s a “monster only” publication that hes done a good bit of writing for as well, guides and warnings to help others navigate the surface.   Swapfell(Red) Sans - Whip. A master manipulator with a strong understanding of the law. He knows the laws, down to finest detail, not that it usually means much. But on the gang ends up dealing with the courts, and not outright corruption, he’s the one to get them out of it. He can twist anything too his favor, and isn’t afraid to play dirty. He’ll gas-light, triangulate, and manipulate to get his way. While he knows when to take it seriously, he has been known to “play” a bit when fighting. Taunts and tricks are his bread and butter. He’s extremely confident, and has the skills to back it up. Swapfell(Red) Papyrus - Coyote. A hunter by nature and training. He can find damn near any one and anything. Whether this is fresh meat for the camps dinner, or a person of interest needing brought in, or even something someone lost, he’s got it handled. When not working he prefers to stay close to camp or in the wilds. Crowds make him uncomfortable when he doesn’t have his mind set to “work mode”. As a combatant he prefers to stay at the fringe, picking off anyone who thinks they can slip away. Horrortale Sans - Tender/Ten. Minds the camp and animals. Horses, any livestock they may have, even a bit of gardening if they settle for that long. He gathers wild plants as well, though he tries not to wander too far if they're fairly new to an area. His memory isn’t the best these days, but Cook helps him keep track of what still needs done each day. He struggles to sleep at night so usually takes at least a partial watch role, stalking the edges of camp to keep himself alert. Tries to stay out of combat as much as possible, as it is very much a trigger for him, and the only one guaranteed to be safe if he frenzies is his Papyrus. Horrortale Papyrus - Cook. Rarely leaves camp. His appearance is... Jarring to most, and he hates making people uncomfortable. His social nature has been tempered by his past, so he tends to be more cautious than his “classic” counterpart. He does however still enjoy a more quiet social interaction, a light conversation while doing the washing or gentle chatter while he cooks. He handles most of the cooking for the camp. A few of the others enjoy jumping in when they get a chance, but are often busy with other their tasks, leaving the bulk of the work to him. It took him awhile but he’s gotten comfortable with handling meat again, so long as he butchers it himself. There’s a sense of discomfort that lurks in the back of his mind, but he can push through it so long as he has certainty exactly what meat it is and where it came from.

Swapfell(Purple) Sans - Doc. An absolute control freak. Took a bit for him to accept that, no, hes not the head honcho here. Once he settled though he found himself easily sliding into something of almost administrative role. He keeps track of the camps supplies, who has what, who needs what, what needs doing. While he may not make the orders, he sees to it that they get done. He’s also the primary healer of the gang, although most try to avoid needing it as his rants are near legendary. Swapfell(Purple) Papyrus - Flint. Finds most of the jobs for the gang. He always keeps a metaphorical eye and ear out for ways to make more money. Is also a cutthroat loan shark. Knows how to navigate the underbelly of society and a master of playing people against each other. While he’s certainly more than competent in a fight, don’t be surprised if he didn’t poison everyone at the poker game before hand to get that leg up. His movements are always economical and every attack carefully calculated to do the most damage with the least effort. Fellswap Gold Sans - Haze. Is rarely seen with the gang. He handles the gentry side of things. Playing politics and working to keep the authorities off the gangs back. Politics and diplomacy are his bread and butter, though it tends to be a darker kind of diplomatic. Threats and blackmail are common, but often unable to be traced back to him. He’s highly intelligent and manipulative, he has something on everyone and knows exactly what to say when. Its often hard to read the true intent of his words on the first pass. Because most people are clueless as to who’s really pulling the strings, he is well loved in high society and moves in important circles. Fellswap Gold Papyrus - Cirrus. Mostly kept out of things. His brother is more than a little overprotective, and prefers to keep him out the fray. He doesn’t mind this much, as he has severe anxiety and is highly introverted. This does mean, however that it is very rare he is recognized. He fades into the background easily making him excellent at stealth work. This often used by him acting as something of a “runner” between his brother and the rest of the gang. He’s also unmatched as a sniper, but it is extremely rare he is ever called on for it, as it is heavily emotionally taxing for him. Underlust Sans - Mab Underlust Papyrus - Calico These two almost always work as a pair. Often posing as prostitutes, they can run several cons this way. Get ‘em drunk and rob ‘em blind is pretty common. They also work well as the “designated distraction”, and its a job they greatly enjoy. They’re both a quick hand with knives and tend to prefer ambush combat.

This got... long. Any thoughts or opinions are welcome. Obviously there’s still a few that need a bit of work. I really hadn’t originally wanted a cast this large but I’m a sucker for Skelles. Its my own fault. A few got names from their roles, but there’s still several I need to work on.

[necroarchy]

Father’s Day

   SUMMARY: In the wake of the Second Battle of Light’s Hope, the Lich King contemplates his Deathlord in a strange, rare moment of camaraderie. Except not really.

   OR a conversation that doesn’t end with anyone dead for once, but just barely.

    NOTE: Reposting 'cause we live that life around here and also it’s got lines I needed to find.

   WARNING: This is from Arthas’ perspective, so it’s just all kinds of awful. Mental and emotional abuse, as well as references to past physical abuse. Manipulation, intimidation, victim-blaming, etc. etc.

     “ What’re you doing, Lich King? ”

     The unsettlement of air announced his Wraith just before her voice, the syllables carrying with them the distinctive sensations that made up the patchwork of her presence - the whisper of ice, of shadow, of wolf’s teeth and bottomless hunger. He did not turn to the child as she leaned irreverently against the balustrade that wrapped around the overlook they stood upon, the hollow thunk of saronite striking saronite muffled by the material of her coat. He had forgone his helm for a short while today, and she stood just at the edge of his peripheral vision if he focused on her. ( He didn’t. ) The wolf, cleverly, settled between Lord and King. While the barrier of fur and bone and blood would not be enough to make Arthas so much as hesitate should things edge towards violence, it would stop Zoen in her tracks.

     Idly, he wondered why she was here.

     “ Observing. ” Beneath them, knights-in-training battled furiously against one another while instructors waded fearlessly amidst the fray, shouting threats and criticisms. The din was almost pleasant, yet another form of background noise to join that of the endless clamor of murmuring souls that echoed through Arthas’ skull. “ You could benefit from doing the same. ”

     He heard the shift of metal and leather as she turned to split her attention between him and the knights. “ They’re awful. ”

     “ You were worse. ”

     She scoffed in disdain, and he glanced at her just in time to catch her unconsciously raising a hand to rub at where her throat had been sawed open barely a week following her rebirth. He did not try to suppress his smirk. “ Inaccurate, and not the point. ”

     “ Isn’t it? ” He tilted his attention further to her, both approving and condemning how she rocked back on her heels away from him.

     Wariness of him was smart, was right in a knight of his, no matter their errancy - especially due to their errancy. The Ebon Blade yet had treasons to atone for, sins whose punishments he’d flay from their souls as soon as they had returned, properly, to the heavy fold of his sovereignty. Amusing though it was to watch Acherus’ children scurry around doing his bidding while stubbornly clinging to their delusion of independence, he ached for when they’d kneel in reverent, dutiful loyalty at the foot of his throne, minds reconnected to the grand nexus of the Scourge and the chains of their wills wound firmly around his wrist.

     From beneath came an especially loud shout, followed by a gradual decrease of noise. Arthas looked down and saw a rough circle of acolytes forming around what appeared to be a newly-disarmed initiate who stood clenching his lone fist whilst an instructor shouted at him. At their feet lay a severed, leaking limb. The instructor roared for a few more moments before apparently dismissing the acolyte, who took the chance to snag his arm off the ground before stiffly making his way towards the doors that would lead him to the nearest necromancers’ hall. The clamor from before rose back up, knights fighting knights with renewed vigor.

     “ See? ” Zoen murmured, tone edging irritatingly similar to smug. Was she closer than she’d been before? “ Awful. ”

     “ If any of them surpass you, Deathlord, I’ll replace you. ”

     “ If any of them surpass me, Lich King, I’ll deserve it. ” She twisted around to rest her back fully on the railing, dismissing the knights below with silent contempt. The consequence was that she now no longer had anything to really focus on save Arthas himself, which she seemed to only truly understand at the end of her little rotation. To his entertainment, she seemed incapable of regarding him for any protracted length of time, as though he were the sun and to look directly at him would burn her eyes. No, not the sun, he thought. A god, his divinity too darkly radiant for a creature of such profound imperfection as Zoen Mith to gaze upon without suffering vastly for it. The idea pleased him enough that he magnanimously declined to call out the weakness for what it was.

     The moment extended awkwardly --- for the girl, of course, not Arthas, who really couldn’t care less about her dilemma except the ways it may compliment him --- wherein Zoen shuffled between gazing down at her dozing wolf and sending furtive, disturbed glances at the sculpted skull of his right pauldron. Her eyes dropped to her feet and her hands fell from the railing to inside her coat’s pockets. She pulled out what looked to be an old, brass pocket watch and frowned briefly at it before curling her fist tighter around it and jamming them both back into her coat.

     They fell into silence, leaving one another to their distractions: Zoen her growing unease, Arthas his supervision of his knights’ training. Nothing so gruesomely inconvenient as dismemberment plagued any of the remaining acolytes, though such mercy could not be attributed to hesitancy or consideration on behalf of their brethren; indeed the tide of their ferocity and bloodlust seemed to rise higher in concurrence with the growing length of time that their mock battles stretched on. Except mock began to seem too trite a word, now that he thought about it, its connotations almost too passive for the crashing violence that swept across the floor below - as though it was not a legion of fallen, desecrated heroes pitted in a dozen vicious wars but a pack of squealing children artlessly swinging sticks at one another. Puerile, even - and of course thoughts of puerility inevitably drew his attention (and eyes) toward the child leaning artlessly against the balustrade at his side, one of her hands curling loosely around the hilt of her overhyped stick.

     It dawned, suddenly, that he had never before shared any moment of remarkable length with this child of his that did not involve violence of either a physical or mental capacity. He would not call what they dwelled in currently peace, aware as he was of the literal and proverbial wolf slumbering between them, and the blades they both carried at their sides should the metaphorical beast awaken. But it was not violence, nor teeth-clenched toleration that would only last the very bare minimum of time until they could hastily part ways. It was, temporarily, a state of coexistence.

     Arthas seized the opportunity to really, truly look at Zoen. His child was a mess of poor construction, avian bones wrapped up in lambskin with shark’s teeth jammed into a too-small mouth, her own weak jaw muzzling her better than any man-made contraption. Lordship had settled heavily on her shoulders, rounding them until he wondered for a moment if they had been wrenched from the sockets. He could see the tension in her neck, how the tendons were taut as bowstrings beneath the skin. The dark shadows that clung to her eyes spoke of an exhaustion she could not even experience anymore. Her cheekbone was splattered with the telltale discolorations of a nearly-healed bruise, and below her jaw, just above the line of her coat’s collar, a sloppy row of stitches ran diagonally down her throat.

     “ You look atrocious. ”

     Candid, but he had never been the liar between them. She grinned sardonically, and at the corner of her mouth he could just make out the faint, silvery line of where a blade had broken through the skin long ago, trailing from the edge of her lips to the swell of her chin. The scar was unnotable enough on its own, but compounded with his intimate knowledge of the mutilation that destroyed the other side of her face, its inconsequence was practically insulting. Arthas entertained the thought of taking a blade and digging through that pathetic blemish, turning it into another emblem of ruination. Another lesson.

          Perhaps this time, she would learn it.

     “ Do I? What a shame. ” Her voice was a desert. “ Somewhere between slaughtering demons and leading armies I suppose I let my skincare regimen fall to the wayside. ”

     “ If you crumble, child --- ”

     “ Yes, you said, ” she snapped, and he so dearly desired to reach forward and pluck out those teeth she dared turn against him. Petulance could be amusing, and spite had its charm, but little mitigated such outright disrespect. “ You’ll replace me with one of your pets. I’m very sure they’ll have better luck attacking the paladins than I did. ”

     “ That would not be difficult. ” He rounded on her, paying no heed to the growl building up in the wolf’s chest as it scrabbled to its feet and backed up against his Wraith, its fangs bared uselessly at him. “ Your failure was a spectacular display of the incompetence characteristic of your Ebon Blade. ”

     Below them, the din of battle lessened as distracted knights turn from their combatants to the storm quietly brewing on the overlook. Arthas lashed out at their minds in painful chastisement, disgusted at such a large-scale lapse on their part. He would not allow his loyal servants to succumb to the same weaknesses that crippled his traitors - crippled his daughter, who for all her snarling, sputtering outrage could inspire only a swell of disgust in the Lich King.

     “ We aren’t --- ”

     “ Maxwell Tyrosus and Liadrin were at your mercy, ” he spat viciously, “ and rather than bring them into --- ” my “ --- your fold, you chose to leave them crumpled on the ground, battered but alive. Tirion Fordring rests peacefully in his grave still, because you were too weak to claim him. Time and again, you are given chances to prove yourself, and time and again, you fall short of expectations. You disappoint me. ”

     The effect was immediate; Zoen reeled back, face crumpling in a way that brought to mind Archimonde’s destruction of Dalaran; the experience of watching something vaunted be brought down by a power so totally beyond its scope that resistance was completely inconceivable. She built herself back up, brick by brick --- swept away her horror and dismay behind a curtain of rage and hatred, but he could still see it through the gossamer threads, he still knew how fragile the foundations of her construction were.

     “ I disappoint you, ” she sneered, shaking her head, as though that might bolster the illusion enough that he couldn’t see through it. “ I disappoint you how, Lich King? ‘Cause I didn’t slaughter my way through Light’s Hope? ” And he could kill her for the ghost of guilt he saw cross her face. “ It only took me four knights and a handful of ghouls to reach their Sanctum. You sent ten thousand soldiers and you didn’t even get through the door! ”

     “ Tread lightly, ” he warned softly, taking a step toward her. His Wraith almost tripped over herself in her attempt to not mirror him with a step back, and this was godhood, was sovereignty, was power, this ability to dominate with nothing more than a twitch and a breath. “ Mograine died for you, Deathlord. Don’t throw that sacrifice away out of petulance. ”

     But godhood, sovereignty, power --- none would be nearly so gratifying if the whole world simply rolled over, quavering in fearful submission, meekly accepting his dominion without giving rebellion a fleeting thought. Zoen tilted her chin up, the line of stitches across her throat stretching, and Arthas delighted in the defiance as much as he loathed it. There was incredible satisfaction in possessing something that had once fought tooth and nail against being owned.

     “ I’m right, though, ” she said coldly, hollowly. The lack of arrogance ensured that his loathing did not outweigh his delight for now. “ Other than bringing back Tirion, we’ve done everything right. Got the weapons, got the Horsemen, got a couple mountains’ worth of dead demons behind us, got a… glowy, floaty, singin’ thing hangin’ out in the corner of Acherus that I should probably throw back into the ocean or something ‘cause it’s giving everyone a headache and it clashes with everything and we’ve got a bloody aesthetic to maintain --- ”

     The wolf chuffed, breaking the flow of Zoen’s ramble. She spared it a blank, indecipherable look before returning her gaze to Arthas.

     “ So --- so you could kill me ‘cause I’m petulant, and replace me with one of those --- those unborn brats down there, and see how that goes. Or you could… not kill me, and not replace me, ‘cause so far that seems to be working out pretty well. ”

     “ Is this a plea for mercy, Deathlord? ”

     A laugh tore its way out of her throat. “ Mercy’s a sin. I’m asking you to be practical. ”

     It was not pride that unfurled, sleepy and disoriented, beneath his rib cage, but its precursor. The acknowledgement that pride could exist within him, that one day it might settle in his bones, that looking at his Wraith would not inspire frustration and betrayal and and a sinking, clawing feeling that he could not name. And if she could scrabble her way towards such glory as the Death God’s approval, imagine what the rest of her brethren could accomplish, those whose only disappointments had been betrayal.

     A crooked grin crossed the Lich King’s features, and that precursor must have bled through because Zoen lowered her chin, looking somewhat disturbed. “ Then consider yourself forgiven, Deathlord, ” he said with all proper magnanimity of a god. She wasn’t, really, wouldn’t be for a long while, but if she could offer candor, he could offer lies. “ I’d suggest returning to your knights before you need seek it again. ”

     His Wraith, for all her faults, was not quite foolish enough to dare stay when a clean exit was offered; and thus with a short whistle to her wolf, she lurched away from the balustrade, hands raised and wreathed in shadow as she wrenched open a death gate. The wolf padded obediently through the portal, and she had nearly taken her first step through when:

     “ Though I do wonder, Zoen, why you came here today at all. ”

     With her back to him as she stood before her gate, Arthas could not see what sort of emotion might have twisted her features, but he knew enough from the stiffening of her shoulders, the way her hands curled into fists before she shoved them into her pockets, that it would have been interesting. And as the silence grew between them, festering like an infected wound, he began to consider reaching forward, yanking her around that he might find out.

     “ It’s Father’s Day, ” she said at last, and that strange, sinking feeling clawed at his insides. “ Thought about just sending a card, but I’m pretty sure the postage would’ve bankrupted me. Suffer well, Arthas. ”

     And then she was gone, the gate sealing neatly behind her, nothing left behind to indicate she had ever been there at all. Arthas found himself staring at the space she’d occupied for a moment too long before finally returning his eyes to the knights training below, clashing in their mock battles like a pack of children.

    Father’s Day.

    The claws sunk deeper.

    He should have carved up her face again.

[simkaswriting]

I’m in love with my car-(Roger Taylor)

Pairing: Roger Taylor x Reader

Word Count: 2.2k

Warnings: swearing, Roger being an all around clueless ass really

Summary: in which Roger finally admits his love for (Y/N) after some soul searching with Brian

A/N- can be read as both irl Roger and BohRap Roger, the story doesn’t specify.

“Please give a warm welcome to her majesty, Queen!” the venue owner shouts into the microphone, a beaming smile present on his lipstick-stained face. He’s rocking a moustache of a true 70s pornstar that he’s no doubt very proud of, and bright red bell-bottoms that could potentially put Freddie to shame. 

As he walks off stage, the people around me erupt into a cacophony of whoops and yeahs. Tonight the venue is packed, not that it usually isn’t filled to the brim with fans. But tonight, it seems like the capacity has more than doubled. 

Brian and John walk on first, smiles on their faces as they adjust their instruments. The crowd goes wild once again, causing John to flash the general crowd a bashful smile. He’s always been the more reserved one when performing live. Brian finds my face in the front of the crown, and I offer him a supportive smile. Roger walks on stage next, and before he even has the chance to wave at the fans and take his seat, the people all start cheering for him, the distinguishable voices of many women ringing out above all else. But that’s not unusual, Roger has always been quite the ladies man, to my annoyance. Though before the crowd has a chance to catch their breath, Freddie strides out onto the stage, his hands high in the air, a shit-eating grin on his face. He’s wearing sparkling silver platforms and a checked leotard, one he made himself. 

Pride washes over me as the guys dive head-first into their first song, ‘Keep Yourself Alive’, and the people immediately start jumping and pumping their fists in the air. 

As the guys play through their songs, the crowd gets more wild and into the moment, until Freddie announces that Roger’s going to be singing ‘I’m In Love With My Car’. I can see the teasing smile on Brian's face, and I can’t help but recall the hilarious conversation the guys had at the farm a little while back. Freddie sits down at the front of the stage, knowing well he won’t have to be singing much for this song, just backing vocals. After all, it’s a song Roger wrote as an ode to his beloved cars, so this is on him. Rog rolls up his sleeves to his elbows and winks at the general audience, an act enough to drop the panties off of 90% of women in the room. An act that annoys me, for no apparent reason, other than my deeply-buried adoration for the blond drummer.

As the song goes on, through the many raw vocals and metaphors for sexual acts, I notice more and more women pushing to the front of the stage, flirty smiles on their lips, no doubt wanting to get noticed by the one and only Roger Taylor. And I honestly can’t blame them, he is a sight for sore eyes. 

The band finish playing the last few songs, and spend a few minutes at the front of the stage, talking to their fans and signing whatever gets passed their way. I use this time to make my way out of the crown and stand at the bar, watching them with admiration in my eyes. If you’d told me a few years ago that the crazy guys who’d sold out pubs in our home town would become my best friends, I’d have laughed in your face. They were, or rather still are, four misfits who don’t fit together yet despite this call themselves family. 

My eyebrows furrow as I see a blonde girl hand Roger a piece of paper, no doubt with her number on it, and press a chaste kiss to his grinning face. The acrid feeling in my stomach worsens when I see him whisper something into her ear before sending a quick wink her way as the guys start heading off stage. I close my eyes for a brief moment, taking some calming breaths. Sure, logically there’s no reason for why I should be acting the way I currently am, all bothered about what I see at almost every gig. Roger is my best friend, an attractive guy who clearly knows it and takes advantage of it. At the end of the day, we aren’t together, despite how much I crave it. 

Opening my eyes, I make my way out of the venue and round the back, where the guys are already packing their gear away. Freddie welcomes me with a grand smile, his platforms making him a lot taller than me to my disdain. “How did you find the show, darling?” He asks, stepping out of Rogers way so he can get his drums in the tour bus as soon as possible.

Ignoring the blond, I grin back at Freddie. “Amazing, even better than the Glasgow gig last Wednesday. You guys really know how to get the crowd going.” 

John nods to himself. “She’s right, this venue was way more packed than Kings Merchant.”

Roger and Brian lock up the instruments and walk over to the three of us. Roger casually slings his arm around my shoulders, smile not leaving his face. “(Y/N) is always right, you should know this by now.” 

Brian and John exchange a look I don’t quite understand, but I dismiss it. Instead, I turn my head to look at the drummer who’s still got his arm around me with a proud smile, and find myself instinctively leaning against his side for support, not that I need it. “You should suck my dick like this more, it suits you.” I tease Roger, looking into his gorgeous eyes with a mischievous gleam in my own ones. 

Just as Brian’s about to say something, I assume along the lines of ‘lets get on the road I’m tired of talking about sucking dicks’, there’s a distinct voice begging for our attention. Or rather, Rogers. 

The blonde girl from the gig is walking towards us, her smile as bright as this bands future. The arm around me slowly slips off, as if he was ashamed to be in such close proximity to me, and I don’t bother looking at Roger before heading into the bus. I really don’t want to deal with my best friend flirting with someone tonight. The man I’m pretty sure my stupid head has decided to fall in love with. I beeline for my bunk and pretty much dive in, not caring that I’m still wearing the dress I wore to the gig. My capacity for dealing with constant unintentional rejection has reached its peak, and I’m over it. It tires me just trying to be around Roger at this point, when all it does is hurt me. And worst of all, I can’t be mad with him. It’s impossible. With a small huff, I burry my head in my pillow and slowly drift off to sleep just as the bus begins to move.

Rogers POV

“What’s gotten into (Y/N) tonight? She never goes to sleep so early. She should be drinking us all to shame right now.” I ask Brian, who’s trying to read one of his books on stars or whatever. Probably something nerdy. He looks up at me from between the pages of the thick book, watching as I light a cigarette and take a slow drag, before shaking his head. John decides to opt out at this stage and go sit with our driver, whereas Freddy walks away to sit at the back of the bus. They’re probably tired of hearing me talking about her so much. 

Did I do something to piss her off? Should I have dedicated my car song so her, like I usually do? Am I not spending enough time with her? Perhaps that’s it. Brian shakes his head, heavy hair shaking like some sort of palm tree amidst a windy day in Hawaii. He sets the book down on the small centre table, before crossing his arms and leaning back against the sofa with one of his signature ‘shits about to get personal’ looks.

“I would really love to take a look inside of your head, just to see what goes on in there. Because by the looks of it, not much.” He sighs, cocking his head to the side. 

I scowl at him, standing up and beginning to pace in the limited space we have. Almost obsessively, I take drags of the cigarette until there’s nothing but the burnt filter left. If he thinks he can just insult me without even minimal help, then he can go fuck himself. 

“You know what? Fuck you and your self-righteous ass.” I growl and brace myself against the kitchen counter. Why are women so difficult? No, let me rephrase. Women aren’t that difficult. But (Y/N)? It’s like she’s her own specimen at this point. I can’t keep up with her mood swings. If I didn’t know better, I'd go blaming the sudden change of attitude on shark week. 

“Roger, calm down. What I’m trying to say is, the answer is as obvious as Freddy’s love for cats. Think about it. When does she get all bothered? What usually happens around that time?” Brian prods further, obviously knowing the answer, but wanting me to figure it out for myself. 

With a small breath, I sit down opposite him and begin to absentmindedly fiddle with my fingers. Is there a tell-tale sign? It’s been getting worse with her recently, she’s more moody and doesn’t let me touch her as much anymore. She’s my best friend, I’d do anything to make her happy. 

“I don’t know, May. I can’t crack that girl.” I sigh in defeat, officially one step away from taking Fred’s white lizard-like jacket and waving it as the white flag of surrender. 

Brian sighs. “Why do you think she gets so hurt the majority of time we play?” It’s quiet for a few minutes, just the humming of the tour bus and the distant sound of John talking with our driver, and his question hanging heavy in the air. 

Something that happens when we perform? I try to think of what I said, or did, tonight. I analyse every single thing that happened that could have upset her. She was fine before the concert, and during it. It was just after that she became-

“Holy shit Brian you genius!” I exclaim, shooting up from the couch so fast I almost trip over my own feet. How did I not realise before? I mean, I know I can be clueless, but to this extent? How have I not noticed that the best girl for me was hiding right under my nose?

Brian’s eyebrows shoot up, but a smirk of dare I say pride takes place on his face. “Feel free to say that again.” He chuckles, before making a ‘shoo’ motion in the direction of the bunks and picking his book back up. 

“In your dreams mate.” I call over my shoulder, before walking with determination to the bed I know has (Y/N) in it. Sleeping or not, I have a lot of apologising to do, and if all goes well, I’ll be dedicating the next performance of ‘Love of My Life’ to my best friend of 5 years.

I quietly pull aside the curtain, a small smile fighting it’s way to my lips when I see how messy her hair is. It’s like Brian’s on a bad day, but times ten. Gently, I brush some of it out of her eyes, the smile now impossible to stop. She’s beautiful.

“Hey, sleeping beauty, wake up.” I whisper, slightly blowing wind at her face in an effort to get her up quicker. It just so happens to be my lucky day by the looks of it, as her eyes flutter open, momentary confusion settling in before an annoyed expression appears on her beautiful features. 

“Would it kill you to brush your teeth every once in a while, Rog?” She hisses, rubbing sleep from her eyes. Always one for snappy comments, no matter the time of day. 

I roll my eyes at her, definitely making a mental note of what she said for later. “Yeah, I get that a lot. Listen, (Y/N). I’m not what one calls a good man. I hurt you, and I will forever be sorry about that. I wish I could take it all back, all of those women, the one night stands. I can’t keep kissing strangers and pretending that they’re you.”

She’s quiet, absentmindedly biting her lip, as if trying to digest what I just said. And I don’t blame her. I seldom voice feelings like these, especially towards women. 

“I didn’t realise that I’d had my Aston Martin here, in front of me all of these years, and I was just a dumbass chasing after some off-season Morris Marina in the colour beige.” I ramble, frowning and gesticulating left, right and centre. She looks at me in confusion. 

“Hold on. Did you just compare me to a car?” She asks, her voice laced with sleepiness and incredulousness. Her eyes scan my face for a few seconds, presumably looking for a hint of amusement or mischief. But when she doesn’t find any trace of it, her demeanour suddenly becomes serious, almost amorous. 

I crack a small, nervous smile. “ Well, yeah I did. ‘Cause I’m in love with my car.”

[queenbirbs]

waiting game | Ethan Ramsey x MC

AN - Literally couldn’t get this oneshot out of my head last night, so therefore I spent most of my last day off before Easter Hell Week writing it out. Because of course, why not? WC 3701 There’s a special place in hell for Harper Emery.  

It’s the fourth time the phrase has entered his head, but it hasn’t lost the fire behind it. He’s the leader of one of the country’s best diagnostics teams, he’s done a few tours with Doctors Without Borders. Last year, he even went back home for Christmas dinner with a family who would honestly rather receive more postcards from Mozambique in lieu of seeing him in person.  

And yet, this is possibly the most stressful thing Ethan’s ever dealt with. Wading through feces and garbage in a rural country would be more preferable at this point.  

The event room around him is gilded to the tee. Every table is draped in the finest cloth, the silverware sparkling in the light of the chandeliers, the plates filled with the highest quality catering. Extravagant centerpieces explode from the center of the tables, white orchids and white hydrangeas and white lilies spilling out from crystal vases. Some type of curly branch winds up toward the ceiling, breaking up the overwhelming glare of white.  

In the beginning, he tried to position himself just so, hoping the floral arrangement would hide him. Sitting down only served to make him an easy target, though, where any of the sharks could circle his table and feast upon him at will.

Glancing down at the scotch in his hand, he wonders how many more metaphors he can make before he has to cut himself off.

His current strategy is to keep moving, keeping himself between them with large, immovable objects. He learned his lesson with George Kadinskee, who shoved a table and chairs out of the way to get to him. It’s like being in a furniture store or a car dealership, watching the sales people discreetly chase after him.  

It’s all rather pathetic (and childish) of him, but he didn’t become a doctor to get hounded by insurance reps. And yet, here he was at a Banner Health function on a Friday evening, dressed in one of his finest suits, waiting for the earth to swallow him up.

He really just wants to go home to his dog and a documentary.  

“Doctor Ramsey!” a voice calls from behind him.  

Allotting himself a wince and a sip of his drink in preparation, he sucks in a breath and straightens his spine. It’s a good thing, too, because when he turns around he needs to cling to all the composure he can.

“Rookie,” he greets, taking another sip to wet his dry mouth, “what are you doing here?”

Sloane raises an eyebrow at his tone, but doesn’t comment on it.    

“Doctor Emery invited me. She said that the hospital could use some... younger representation.”

It’s his turn to shoot her a look.  

“Are you calling me old?”

“I think the polite term is ‘experienced’ now,” she responds with that low, pretty laugh of hers.  

He doesn’t choke on his drink, but it’s a damn near thing. “I’m sorry I’m late, though,” she continues, saving him from responding, “I had to get cleaned up and get all…” she trails off, waving a hand over her ensemble. “And my post-op was having some complications. I wanted to stick around until he got settled.”

Clinging to the life-raft of shop talk she’s handed him, he asks her about the patient, relieved when he catches the glint in her eyes, that bright flicker of discussing something she loves. Hospital talk saves him from making the inevitable ‘you look nice’ comment, which would be a paltry choice of words. She looks absolutely gorgeous, wearing a royal purple gown with a deep vee neckline. The material looks soft to the touch, the rich color complementing the russet shade of her hair. She normally wears it up, but it’s nice to see it down. His eyes follow the soft curls to the waist of her dress, where a section of thin lace does little to cover her pale skin, before the rest of the skirt continues down.  

“You should go get us another round.” At her stilted tone, he glances at the half-finished glasses they both hold.

“Why?” he drags the word out, blaming the alcohol for how playful it sounds.  

“Because there’s a middle-aged man that’s been eyeing you across the room for the past two minutes.”

He’s definitely blaming the next sentence out of his mouth on the alcohol.

“Are you sure he isn’t eyeing you?”    

Something akin to delight crosses her face, before she breaks into a chuckle and shakes her head.

“Oh, no, trust me. He’s definitely been admiring your backside this entire time, not mine.”

Ethan pointedly keeps his eyes up, because he’s a grown adult, and shouldn’t be tempted with the idea of admiring hers. (He’s done so before, but only from the comfort of the nurses’ station, and only when she’s distracted enough not to catch him. He is a grown adult, after all.) 

“Does he look like he plays golf instead of attending mandatory meetings?”

“Oh, yeah,” she nods, her gaze narrowing just beyond his left shoulder. “And his idea of a good time is yelling at wait staff.”

He chuckles at the matter-of-fact tone.

“You can tell that from across the room?”

“I waited tables in the Upper East Side in college. A sizable chunk of my debt is from buying new white button-downs when people like him threw food at me. I can read people like him a mile away.” Her eyes widen when she adds in a rush, “And he’s headed this way. Here!”

He takes the glass she all but shoves at him, steps around her, and tucks himself into the crowd hovering around the bar. Chancing a glance back, he sees her intercept George with an enthusiastic handshake. He watches as she lets herself be pulled out to sea into the awaiting sharks.

+

The bar takes longer than anticipated, but Ethan manages to secure two fresh drinks (and seven new business cards, which he will promptly throw in the recycling bin when he gets home). Fifteen minutes is a long time in the world of work functions, though, and he has lost sight of Sloane by the time he makes it back to the dining area. Across the ballroom, a live band has replaced the jazz playlist, and couples are moving across the dance floor.

Scanning the crowd, he finally spots a flash of purple, then a curtain of red flickering between bodies. She’s dancing with Anthony Fenton, Banner’s HR assistant and owner of three Teslas, which Ethan only knows because Anthony told him four times within their twenty-minute conversation earlier.

The song that’s playing crescendos, then eases down, the couples slowing as it peters out to a calmer song. Anthony’s hand moves from her waist to the small of her back, gathering her close to sway with her. Sloane settles a hand onto his chest, pushing back to make some space between their bodies.

It’s funny, because Ethan doesn’t see the venue change the lighting, but everything goes red for a moment.

He moves closer to the dance floor, trying not to feel like a chaperone at a school dance. Sloane is an adult, and a smart one at that, and is capable of making her own decisions. So, if she wants to dance with annoying assistants, or flirt with visiting paramedics or the other diagnostic interns, then she’s perfectly free to do so.

It doesn’t matter to him at all. (It does.)

He’s glad he’s watching them, though, because he gets to see the moment Sloane notices him. It’s been a few months since she started at Edenbrook, but it still gives him that same little thrill, that bite of pleasure, when she comes across him in the hallway, or in the cafeteria, or at Donahue’s, and he gets to watch her face light up.

“S.O.S.!” she mouths, begging for a save.

After she rescued him from George, he can’t just leave her to fend for herself, right?

Setting the drinks down on a nearby table, Ethan moves through the dancers with ease and sidles up to tap Sloane on the shoulder.

“May I have this dance, Doctor McTavish?”

She unwraps herself from Anthony and takes his offered hand within the span of one beat. Ethan thinks he mutters a dismissal to Anthony, but isn’t entirely sure about it.

Because he clearly didn’t think this part through. Enjoying Sloane from a permitted distance was one thing, but having her in his arms is a whole different ball game. He wonders if she can feel his heightened pulse where her hand grips his. (She can’t -- her fingers aren’t on his pulse point, but the curve of her lips says otherwise.)

They move in tandem with the crowd, more swaying than actual dancing. The music is just low enough for murmured conversation, which Sloane starts up with a suggestion of turning his people-watching skills on the dancers around them.

He points out the divorcees, the slackers, the ones that should be promoted and the ones that should be demoted. They bicker about an older couple near the very edge (she thinks they’re married, he thinks they’re just business partners). The current song slows and the two men in question share a gentle kiss, the shorter nuzzling the taller’s chest.

He runs out of observations soon after, too caught up in his private thoughts about the woman in his arms to spin any more yarn.  

“Wouldn’t you normally bring a date to a function like this?” she asks, honest curiosity in her voice.

He deploys his best weapon: deflection.

“Couldn’t I ask the same of you?”

She hums, tipping her head to the side as if in agreement. The action sends a cascade of curls to lay against her neck, that floral perfume of hers hitting him again.

“To be fair, I did ask someone, but he works fourth shift tonight and couldn’t make it.”

His brain doesn’t know how to handle that information; he gets a wave of disappointment that she tried to bring a date, then gets another wave of admonishment at himself for wanting her all to himself.

“You wouldn’t want to put anyone through this schmooze-fest, anyway,” he reasons.

“You’re right,” she says. “In the twenty minutes you were hiding at the bar, I was offered to go on three company cruises and seven golf trips. And I’m pretty sure one of those was a combination of the two.”

Ethan makes a face at the idea of a golf-cruise combo.

“I was not hiding. They only have two bartenders working for a full venue.”

“Your mouth is moving, but all I’m hearing are excuses, Ramsey,” she chides with a grin.

The tempo of the song they’re dancing to swells. Neither say anything, but both seem to know exactly what to do. He drops his hand from her waist and twirls her out, her dress floating out into the open space with her, before she comes back into his arms, holding tight to his hand.

There’s a callous on her right ring finger, resting just below the nail, from the way she holds her pen at work. The perfume he detected before drifts up to him, stronger now that her body has heated up. He spots the flush that blooms across her chest and neck, a result of the swing music the band has started up.  

He does not consider what it would be like to lay his lips there at the base of her throat and have a taste of her, to see if that pretty flush of hers would follow the trail of his lips.

“Let’s get some air,” he suggests, once the song is over and Sloane is panting from exertion and he is not thinking about other ways she could become breathless in his presence.

More dancers have joined the floor since they did, making their path out difficult. Ethan puts a hand on the small of her back, keeping her close to his side as they maneuver their way out of the crowd. Her skin is pleasantly warm under his fingers and covered in a light sheen of sweat from their activities and the close quarters of the dance floor.

She heads for the open balcony across the way and he follows, a moth drawn to her flame.

+

Outside, the city stretches out before them. To the south, Back Bay is a faint glow, leading the eye to continue left, where downtown shines bright. Cars are small dots of light underneath them, moving right and left, heading in and out of the city. Just on the edge of the balcony, Longfellow Bridge casts out into the darkness of the river. Despite the heat of the day, the cool night air rushes up to meet them.

Ethan catches Sloane rubbing her arms to keep herself warm and gives her his suit jacket to combat the cold. She tries to protest, but he silences her with another look, and helps her slip into it.

“My dad used to be the handyman for the local hospital where I grew up,” she tells him as she moves to stand at the edge. “During Christmas, they’d put these trees on top of the roofs, and he’d take me and my brother up there every year. It was only five stories high, but to us, it might as well have been the Empire State Building.”

“That sounds nice.”

She tears her gaze from the view over to him. He resists the urge to straighten his shoulders, suddenly feeling as if he’s been appraised.

“It was.” She seems to shift, as if deciding something unknown, and smirks up at him. “And then, you know, I was sixteen and wanted to impress a girl, so I stole my dad’s keys and took her up there with some hot cocoa and Bailey’s and one thing led to another…” she tips her head to the side again, laughing when he clears his throat.

“Well,” he starts, then realizes he has nothing to say to that (at least nothing that won’t seem like he’s offering to perform a reenactment out on this very public balcony with her), so he tries again. “Well.”

Nope, he’s got nothing.

Sloane takes pity on him and reaches out, patting him on his arm that rests next to hers on the railing.

“I’m glad I came,” she says, her face turned towards the open air. “I had a good time.”

“Despite Anthony and his two Teslas?” he can’t help but tease.

“Don’t forget his third one, though, back at his house in the Hampton’s.”

“Ah, of course. How could I have forgotten.” Finishing his scotch, he charges ahead: “I’m glad you came, too.”

He’s very glad he limited his alcohol intake, because when Sloane turns to smile at him, he can’t help but note that her eyes rival the sparkle of the city. And if he’d been drunk, he might’ve actually told her that. 

Instead, he offers his arm. “I think we’ve made a sufficient appearance. We should be able to escape from captivity now.”

Sloane sets her empty glass on a nearby table and links her arm through hers.

“If I’d had another three of these, I’d make a tiger noise right now.”

“Well, thank god for that.”

They make it to the elevator and down to the front lobby of the hotel without any incident. They, of course, have an argument at the curb about her borrowing his jacket for her trip home, since she forgot to bring a coat in her rush to get to the function.

“Here, at least let me get you a Lyft,” he offers as he hands off his ticket to the valet.

“Oh, no, that’s too much. It’s a nice night, despite the wind.” She slips free of his jacket, handing it back to him. “It’s only a few minutes from here to the T.”

“How far do you live from here?”

She glances back to the street, as if checking for something, before she answers, “I’m all the way across town, over near Fan Pier Park.”

He goes over her route home, recalling that the closest station to her is back on this side of the channel. Which means she’ll have to walk at least ten minutes to get home after her stop, all alone on a Friday night. “Don’t worry,” she continues, as if that’ll stop him, “I do it every night. We’re not that far from the hospital right now, and I make that walk at all hours of the evening.”

You’re usually with your roommates, he wants to point out.

She’s already angling her body towards the street, readying to make her journey home. “I’ll be okay, Ethan.”

“I’ll drive you home.”

“You live in the heart of downtown. You could throw a rock and hit City Hall.”

“It’s… on my way.”

He gets another eyebrow raise for that lie.

“It’s not even remotely on your way. You’d have to backtrack.”

“Barely over a mile. That’s not the end of the world.”

“Doctor Ramsey--” she tries, but the valet interrupts their argument, waving over to where another woman has brought his car around.

“Come on, McTavish.” He doesn’t glance back to see if she’s following -- he can see well enough in the lobby’s tall windows as she huffs out a sigh and trails after him.

+

“It’s nice here,” she comments as they wait at a stoplight somewhere along Congress Street.

He’d opted for the side streets, instead of taking a chance with the highway and its propensity for wrecks inside the tunnel. It certainly has nothing to do with the route taking longer the way he’s chosen, thus an increase in time of being in Sloane’s presence.

“In my heated seats? Of course it is. Beats the hard, plastic ones on the T any day.”

“I meant here as in the city, Boston. It’s a nice change of pace from the… constant-ness of New York City.”

“Constant-ness is not a word.”

“It is a word when I’ve gotten off a fifteen-hour shift, then had to walk around in these heels all night, and then was bullied into a car.”

“I did not bully you--”

“Okay, you didn’t bully me. How about: arrogantly demanded?”

He hums, as if in consideration.

“I’ll concede to arrogantly demanded.”

That sparks another chuckle from her, grinning over at him from his passenger seat.

“But yes, I lived in New York City. Therefore, I get to say what it was or was not.”

“It’s rather constant here, too,” he points out. A chorus of honks back up his statement as two cars blow through a red, blocking the intersection when the traffic ahead stops.

“New York was such a high turnover city to me. I had seventeen different roommates when I was living off-campus my third year of med school. People would come from all over the world to chase their dreams. By three weeks in, they came to the realization that it was going to be a lot harder than TV made it out to be. Why would they bother trying to live in one of the world’s most expensive cities being a temp or a waitress, when they could be back in Minneapolis or Nashville or Rochester doing the same thing.”

“That’s… rather depressing.”

She shrugs at his summation.

“It’s just how it was. And why I love living here in comparison. Here, everyone seems a lot more… rooted. I mean, barring unforeseen circumstances, I’ll be here for three years for residency. It’s nice to have that, to have friends who are in the same boat as me.”

His mind unwillingly travels three years ahead, when Sloane inevitably goes off to Johns Hopkins or Vanderbilt or Seattle Grace, and he never sees her again. “People come here to stay here,” she continues, unaware of his sobering thoughts. “I like it.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that, not trusting himself to ask if she can see herself staying here permanently. If she can see a place for herself on his team, because if she keeps at it like she has been, he can easily see her joining him.

He doesn’t want to hear her plans if her answer to that is no.

Instead, he flips on the radio. He taps along to the bass drums as she hums in time with the string instruments and he reminds himself that he cannot fall in love with her (not that it does any good).

+

“Nice place,” he says, and means it. The apartment building faces to the north, with a spectacular view of the harbor to the west. A doorman waves at Sloane as she starts to climb out.

“Thanks!”

“It might be rude of me to ask, but when I was in residency, I lived out of a shoebox. How did you all manage to secure a place like this?”

She glances over to the bay, biting at her lip, before meeting his curious gaze.

“We might have ganged up on the landlord and convinced him that our competition were communists.”

“Wow.”

“Well, ganged up is a strong term. But...yeah. First time I’ve ever been thankful I paid attention in that American History class in undergrad.”

“I have to admit, I’m impressed.”

“Oh, Doctor Ramsey,” she says with a shake of her head, that familiar smile making its appearance, “if you’re impressed by that, you should see what else I’m capable of.” With that, she grabs her purse from the floorboard, thanking him again for the ride, before rushing up to the double doors.

Ethan stays, wanting to make sure she gets inside safely, and watches her chat with the doorman for a moment. He can tell when she notices him still at the curb, and flicks a hand up at her when she waves to him. He waits a moment longer, watching her turn and head deeper into the lobby, until she disappears into a waiting elevator.

“I can’t wait to find out, Rookie.”

[segasister]

So. This is it.

The follow-up I promised months ago (if you follow my deviantArt). Almost fittingly because it’s been a year since this all went down: the ToonKriticY2K Scandal. And I was debating back and forth as to whether or not I should do this follow-up. Many reasons going back and forth as to why I should and why I shouldn’t. I unfortunately came up with more cons than pros:

I felt that coming forward would hurt more people than it would help.

I was worried not for my image, (I’m a small channel. What image do I have?), but for Voice.

I was worried for those also involved with him and them getting dragged into this mess. (No. I will not bring up their names.)

The only positive thing that came up in my list was that it would be off my chest. I thought I could circumvent this by telling people I thought I could trust. But out of concern, someone let someone else know. And now it’s public knowledge. Again, I will not bring up who did this.

Which brings us to today.

I will come forward and say yes, I had conversed with Zak, formerly known as ToonKriticY2K, for at least a month after the scandal let loose. Let’s rewind to a year ago, back when only a handful of us knew what he had done to the girl who will remain unnamed for her own privacy sake. Then someone decided to leak the information to Vida because they wanted justice for a man who had hurt them. That someone was me.

I thought I was doing the right thing by coming forward to someone I was acquainted with to not turn this into a drama-fest. I was right. He didn’t. I told him that most of the people who already knew didn’t want this public, but we were in the process of informing the Chicago branch of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. How that turned out played into why I kept silent about this for as long as I did. We’ll get to that in a moment.

Many people responded: some were former friends of his hurt by his betrayal. Some were people just wanting to milk the drama out of it. Most were people angry that a sexual predator was in our fandom, someone well-known. And a handful of those responses came from his victims. No. Survivors of what he did to them. Mine included.

Throughout the next month, Voice and I kept in regular contact with the FBI. In hindsight, we now know that as a, “witness,” Zachary, better known as Voice of Reason, would’ve had to alert the Albany PD. They would’ve eventually taken it to the FBI from there. But then FBI made the decision that it did: that since neither officially met in person, though there were plans to, and neither were fully nude in pictures exchanged between them, there was no case against him.

I was angry, at first. I was mad that this wasn't gonna go further… and I thought this was my fault. Because I was the one who decided to go to Vida to make it public. I thought I had hindered their investigation. So that was my thought process of why I kept quiet about what came next:

That same day, towards the end of February, I get a call from Zak. I had forgotten that he still had my number. I told him I was busy and stepped aside. Then I told Voice immediately. I say to him that I feel like this was the only way I could get closure from this: talking with him directly. He gave me the okay and I continued. 

You might say this is the equivalent of having a fear of sharks and going into the ocean wearing a meat suit or some other metaphor. Whatever metaphor you chose to describe this, you would be right. I face my fears head-on… that’s how I am.

I listened to him apologize and tell me that he was seeing a second therapist, trying to make an effort to actually do better. I later sent him a request on Skype so that I could look over and format his worksheets. They, along with my conversation with him, are gone now since I deleted him as a contact.

He had asked me if I could be used as a bridge, per se, to try to make amends with all of his other former friends. I agreed on one, mainly because he was the only one I knew personally: Voice. When I visited him in March, I brought up the suggestion for the two of them to have a call together, with him on my end. No. They did not exchange Skype contact information. The two talked with me listening in. Zak gave his apology to Voice, told him what he told me, and although Voice didn’t forgive him for what he did to me, Voice did listen.

After that, Zak would add me in a group with other bronies who decided to confront and come forward to him. It is there that he would tell us that he had since gotten a job. I don’t recall what that job was exactly, but let’s just say that it didn’t allow him to be near children. He himself hardly showed up, but the rest of us would talk occasionally. The only times Zak would interact with the group was with his boyfriend there as well. Just to be clear, the last time the two of us spoke directly was in March. I can’t recall when I last spoke with him in the group.

As for any other questions you guys might have:

How many people were in the Skype chat with Toon after he was outed? Not including me, roughly five.

How long were you there? I still am. Toon no longer is.

It possible there were more or other people who left before you got there? No.

Why did you stay in touch with Toon and what were your goals in doing so? I originally decided to come back into contact with him in regards to my nightmares. Afterwards, I guess you can say that we wanted to keep an eye on him.

Why put out that video with Voice, while still in contact with Toon? I wasn’t in contact with Zak at the time. We didn’t start talking again until the end of February.

When it came to the incidents between you, Toon, and Voice; why did you keep that secret for so long? What was your reason for interacting with Toon like that at that time? I kept quiet about the initial incident because I was worried that if I said anything, Toon would hurt Voice’s reputation in some way. If not his reputation, then his friendships with almost everyone else. This is also part of the reason I didn’t bring this forward. Voice is directly associated with me on the basis that we’re dating. I didn’t want him to lose his friends because of me.

Is Isaac in or know of this Skype group? He was in the group. And now he’s not.

Was there anyone in that group/in contact with Toon after he got outed that were under 18? No. We are all above the age of twenty-one, in fact.

Are you willing to share any or all the DMs you had with Toon after he was outed? No. Even if I was, after he and I parted ways again, I deleted the chat logs.

Were there any outside or internal forces that drove you to contact him? He contacted me.

Why did you refer to the child Toon was seeing as a, “side-girl?” Based on the dates he was seeing her, he was also dating other people at the time. Mimkage during the beginning, and Isaac towards the end of their affair.

Was there anything you said no to; whether it be in your later communications or the previous incidents? His requests to me to speak with any of his former friends. The only exception was Voice, because he was the only one I felt close with anyhow.

Have you parents been any sort of support for you during all of this No.

How goes moving out, since the GoFundMe concluded? I should be out by the end of the month. While I am thankful for the money raised to get me out, I still wanted to try leaving through an honest means (and also because I can’t just run off without my parents throwing a search party for me. They have security cameras on the property now.) The $5,000 that was raised is going to pay for my college tuition and other college fees. I got accepted into a community college where Voice lives. The semester starts in February and I’ve been looking for work up there since this past April.

Was there anyone in the Roundtable that knew you were still talking to Toon? Outside of Voice, no.

Through the Skype group, did you learn of any addition social media accounts that Toon was using? If so, are you willing to release them? There was one time where we thought he had a second twitter before he left. (In fact, he left the following day.) However, that turned out to be someone else. (That twitter, @tookriticy2k, has since been deleted.) Other than that, no.

What are your plans now, and how would you like to move forward on this? I… never thought about plans. As for moving forward, I would just say just, outside of focusing on school and looking for work, focus on Voice. We’ll celebrate our fourth anniversary this year.

So... that’s it, I suppose. I’ll be willing to answer any further questions if you have any.

[kinsbin]

Trust

Title: Trust Word Count:  3055 Ship: Nagito/Zach/Hajime, Zach/Makoto [Canon/Self Insert]

Summary: Zach gets a crush on one of their partners in math class that feels like its slowly growing into something more, but, they feel guilty for it when they already have two boyfriends to begin with. A quick share of their emotions and Nagito and Hajime are quickly able to calm them down, however, by letting them know just how much the both of them trust them. 

Author’s Note: A writing comm for @detectivesonly! This was super fun to write and I love them and Hajime and Nagito so much wwwEEPS.

They felt...guilty.

It was a guilt akin to taking a cookie from roommates who specifically asked you not to. Or the guilt of drunkenly kissing another’s boyfriend and having them see itt, days later, on a facebook photo that popped up in both of your feeds from a casual passerby who had no idea the drama they had been about to unveil. The sort of guilt that stuck to the back of your stomach like underdone ravioli as you ran a mile in someone else’s shoes that were two sizes too small for your own feet. Zach could recount several other, much more detailed and nerve-wracking, metaphors by the time class had ended. Then again, they mused half in the back of their head as the rustling of other students in the room signaled that they were all finally free from the droning lecture, they had a habit of...overthinking those sort of things, they supposed. At the same time, well, they did have a right to overthink this...didn’t they?

“Zach!”

His voice rung through the crowd like church bells, causing the other student to startle in the middle of packing up their supplies. Makoto’s smile was warm on his lips as he trotted up to his friend, fingers idly tapping away at the strap of his own backpack as he tilted his head, lips pulled into such a perfect line that it made Zach’s head spin with adoration. The words that spilled from between his lips were lost in favor of staring at the way they parted. Of imagining kissing them, placing their own against them. Of wondering what exactly Makoto Naegi tasted of. Something sweet, they’d allow themselves to imagine daringly. Sweet and warm, like a cookie. Or, perhaps, sharp like a pastry. Were pastries sharp? They didn’t care, they realized, so long as they had gotten the chance to kiss Makoto one time…

“Zach, did you hear me?”

Makoto’s hand waved in front of their eyes, snapping them again out of their moment of contemplation. Zach felt their throat dry up, clearing it with an awkward cough or two before opening their mouth in an effort to come up with some sort of well seasoned lie saying that, oh yeah, they had totally heard the other student! They were totally on board with whatever he had just said to them and-

“N...no.” The word left their mouth easily, hand faltering to rub at the back of their neck sheepishly while Makoto rolled his eyes playfully at them, reaching out to give them a soft tap on the forehead with a raise of his eyebrow.

“Are you feeling alright? I know you usually space out in class, but, that was some hard spacing you did just then…”

“Oh,” Zach felt a smile part on their lips as they gave a soft shrug, “Yeah I’m fine! Just got distracted…”

“By what?”

“By how cute you looked today.”

The words fell from their lips before they could stop them, the phrase born of exhaustion and honesty as they found an inability in lying to the boy before him. They had been in the same classes for at least two semesters now, the constant seeing one another and being part of each other’s lives evolving into something warmly akin to friendship. Study sessions were held between them as general eds came and went, Makoto’s constant reassurance and nagging for them to get their work done a godsend on Zach’s otherwise focus only on theater tech and the jobs that went with it. They hadn’t expected their grades to go as high as they were and knew well that they wouldn’t be without Makoto’s help. During that time, however, emotions filled their body. They rocked and rallied them like a wave of water. A tsunami that overcame their emotions whenever they watched and came to adore the boy before them.

Slowl, though, Zach remembered what they had just said. They watched Makoto’s eyes widen, his face slowly gathering a red tint at the words that had been spoken to him. The two stared at one another as the rest of the class shifted to leave around them, the sea of human bodies only a backdrop compared to the moment they had somehow found themselves sharing.

“I-” Zach swallowed hard, “I mean...Uh, what I meant to say was-”

“You think I look cute?” Was all Makoto seemed to manage out, awed and confused by the fact that any sort of human would possibly suggest something something even remotely close to that.  Makoto was leaning in close now, as if trying to see the truth in Zach’s face. As if leaning so intimately next to them would reveal the truth.

It was a lot to take in. Zach felt the bubbles of panic matching with the closeness Makoto exuded. They felt like they were going to explode. They would rather, if they had a choice, implode however in an effort to avoid this conversation. This admittance to their smitten behavior towards the student they had come fondly to refer to as a friend and...in their dreams...admire as something more. “Y-Yeah,” the word was weak against their lips.

Makoto’s smile was soft. The softest they had ever seen on his face and it made butterflies ring around their stomach at a speed no butterflies should have been able to move at. Underneath their fluttering wings that brushed up so suddenly against their body, however, they felt it...the underlying shark that bit at their bell until it felt like their intestines would spill from it. That sweetly sickled guilty feeling that hummed in the back of their head, reminding them of the two boys they had already had at their dorm.

Selfish, the voice giggled with sweet disgust, absolutely selfish to want one more! Two already love you and you want another?

“I have to go,” Zach felt the words fall from their mouth as they sat up suddenly, sending Makoto stumbling back slightly in order to give them room to gather their bag and hurry to shove it over their shoulder as they avoided eye contact with all their might, “S-Sorry about that I’ll-uh-see you next class.”

“I thought we were going to study afterwards?” Makoto’s voice was confused.

“Uh-later I’m just-! Not feeling well, sorry.”

They hurried out the classroom, not daring to look back at the boy behind them. Not daring to see the face he was making. Probably one of confusion. Embarrassment. Judgement. Zach felt guilt settle heavily in their stomach as the butterflies calmed down, their heart hard and hot at the entirety of the event that had just played out. How stupid were they, they felt their mind berate them, that they dared develop a crush on another person when already Hajime and Nagito at their side?

The guilt followed them overhead like a cloud until they reached their dorm room. Inside, Hajime and Nagito were resting together on Nagito’s bed, some sort of loud youtube video humming before them on Hajime’s laptop. Both boys garnered a pair of simple pajamas that were just long enough to keep them warm in the colder months of the encroaching winter, blankets piled over their shoulders as Nagito rested his head on Hajime’s free one while they cocooned themselves into the comfort of them. Hajime was the first to look up at Zach as they entered the room, the smile on his face fading when he saw the other’s look.

“Welcome home, Zach.” Nagito hummed lightly, earning a soft nudge from the boy at his side and a gesture to the other’s face.

“Is something wrong?” Hajime’s tone was gentle as he sat up, closing the laptop to focus on his date mate before him. Zach inhaled, cursing the fact that their expressions came across so obvious on their face...That, or, perhaps it was just Hajime’s ability to sense what was wrong with them at any given time. Perhaps it was a mix of both? They didn’t quite feel like figuring it out. Instead they allowed the guilt to weight them down more as they dropped their backpack on their own bed and rubbed the back of their neck.

“I’m fine, really,” Zach tried to smile up at them, but, it only earned a quirk of an eyebrow from one of the boys and a laugh of disbelief from the other.

“You know that you’re an awful liar? You look miserable.”

“Nagito!”

“I’m telling the truth.”

Nagito laughed as the other boy smacked his shoulder, descending out of the cocoon to approach Zach. Hajime joined him as they watched their date mate sit on the edge of their bed, hands running through their hair as the urge to cry softly bubbled up in the pits of their chest like a storm. Sitting on either side of them, Hajime’s hand reached up to touch at their back while Nagito’s lips pressed a warm and comforting kiss against their temple while brushing strands of hair away from their face, whispering gentle encouragements to tell them just what was the matter.

The words faded in and out of Zach’s mind, a megalovania of phrases that didn’t feel right in his heart or make sense in their mind. A cacophony of emotions swelled in their chest, like a pressure cooker bubbling and boiling until it finally overflowed with something akin to regret and that mainstream guilt that seemed to decorate itself as part of their daily routine. Their shoulders shook with an effort to keep their tears at bay, but, as Zach sat between their two lovers it became more and more difficult to avoid. Soon they felt the run of their salty, warm tears spilling over their cheeks. The trail faded away into their chin and ripped, wet and heavy, down their body and onto their lap. Every droplet was fat and laiden with the emotion of a semester’s worth of bone crushing guilt. Both Hajime and Nagito could not help but startled back slightly when the sob that had longed to tear itself out of  Zach’s lips finally made it through. Their hands reached up to cover their eyes as they sobbed.

“I’m sorry,” They managed out through their amalgamate of tears, emotions swirling as they fell back into the bed they had sat on in hopes of disappearing in to the sheets. Arms reached out instead, connecting behind them and wrapping them in a warm embrace that cradled them from either side, dual breaths washing over their hair and face as they were cocooned against the loves of their life, their hot tears running into the other’s arms as they were held.

“It’s okay to cry,” Hajime’s voice was soft and careful as he spoke, “There’s no need to be sorry.”

“No!” Zach couldn’t help but come close to yelling through their next fit of sobs, “No I...I’m not s-sorry for crying. That’s not it. Th-that’s not it!”

“Then,” Nagito’s voice was cautious yet curious as he ran a hand through their hair, “What are you so worried about? Did something happen?”

The concern in both of their voices only made their heart clench up more as they looked up, whites of their eyes red with pain as they bit their lip, taking breaths in hopes of evening out their near-panic enough to form careful words.

“I-I told you about Makoto b-efore right? The….one in my math class and communications class…”

They waited until both nodded, the vaguest memory of the student in question coming into the back of their mind as he was brought up.

“I…” Zach took a shuddering breath as they covered their face again with their hands and forced out the next words carefully, “I think I really like him...Like...the way I like the both of you. When I see him m-my palms get all sweaty and my face gets all red and I...think a-about how cute he is and how much I admire h-im and want to kiss him! And I know it's selfish and I know it’s unfair to both of you b-because you already love me so much and...And I love the both of you so much! More than anything and...Thinking about Makoto like this...wanting him to...b-be with me and us too even when I already have you both….I-It’s selfish and unfair to you guys and if I do anything about it you’ll break up with me and-”

Nagito stopped the other’s blabbering by reaching out and shoving his entire hand over their mouth, promptly stopping the words with an additional movement of shoving a couple fingers between Zach’s lips as a sort of offset gag. Zach startled, tears falling from their eyes but soon drying as they focused more on wiggling away from the hand between their lips.

“If you’re spouting shit like that from your mouth,” Nagito chided with a pout, “I’m going to put shit in there! You’re really ridiculous you know, worrying about something like that. Do you think we care?”

“WE DO CARE.” Hajime’s words were solid, scrambling to interrupt Nagito while smacking his fingers away from Zach’s mouth, giving their lover a chance to breath through the shock of their maw being invaded so suddenly while he continued a bit more softly to them, “We do care, Zach. We care about you a...well...a lot! What Nagito means is that-um-well-” Hajime’s own face flushed red with embarrassment, a hand reaching up to rub awkwardly at his neck while he tried his best to find the words to give the other proper encouragement.

Nagito decided, however, that actions spoke louder. With a sigh he leaned forward, touching at Hajime before bringing him into a deep, careful kiss. Zach watched, stuck between them, with awe and confusion bubbling in their throat. Tears had long since dried up, their heart aching with only vague worry as Nagito separated away from Hajime, who was as red as a strawberry with the sudden onslaught of affection, in favor of reaching over to bring Zach’s face close to his. Nagito kissed them, his lips tasting faintly of chapstick and sweets from the candy binge the two had without a doubt been on before they had entered the room. HIs hands touched at Zach’s face, caressing their skin and bringing them closer as his tongue swiped over the other’s lips and tickled the inside of their mouth once it was let in.

Nagito pulled away from Zach then, his smile satisfied at the blush also ending up on Zach’s cheeks. The hand clutching the other’s cheeks reached up to, instead, brush away some stray hair that had dared fall into their face as Nagito briefly admired how handsome they were before him...How wild that they thought THEY were the unfair ones when someone like him had them in his life…

“We want you to be happy, Zach,” Nagito cooed, his smile never faltering, “If that means loving us AND an additional person, then, that’s fine too! You have a lot of love to give, heh, I can’t really understand it sometimes...but...Not understanding it won’t make me want to get in the way of it. If you like this guy then you should go for it!”

“B-But!” Zach’s protest came weakly as they had tired themselves out from crying, “I don’t want you to think I...I don’t love you anymore…”

“Zach,” Hajime spoke this time, reaching out to bring the other close to his chest. Zach’s cheek rested on Hajime’s collar as he ran his hand through their hair, a comforting movement that sent their eyes shutting while Nagito’s own fingers ghosted along their back, coming up behind to encase them in a three way hug that kept them feeling safe and relaxed, “I think the amount you’ve worried over this kind of proves that you haven’t really stopped loving us at all. You have a lot of love to give, right? If it’s enough to want to include one more person in this...Well, we trust you.”

Trust….the word flooded Zach with another onslaught of emotions but, this time, they were the good kind. The good, warm, sensitive kind that had their heart skipping a beat. That had their face flushing with awe as they remembered just why they were dating Nagito and Hajime in the first place. The support and love emanating from either side of them as the two boys held them close was enough to bring a new wave of tears to their eyes. Reaching out, Zach touched at Hajime’s sides before yanking him into a tight hug, letting out some noise halfway between a sob and a laugh as they buried their face into the other’s shirt.

“I love you,” Zach managed out between happy hiccups, “I love you both so, so much.”

“We love you too.”

The words were spoken in unison easily, as if they had been rehearsing it while Zach had been away. The words had made the other laugh between them, a chortle that rung through the otherwise quiet dorm room that had slowly grown a bit too warm for complete comfort, but, enough to be bearable.

“Now,” Nagito kissed the back of their neck, “Do you want to watch some videos with us? Oh! Maybe we could find a way to get you on a date with this Makoto guy-.”

“Nagito!” Hajime and Zach yelped in unison, the accused sitting up and rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish smile as he was suddenly the center of attention.

“What? That wasn’t too soon, was it? I remember when I was their wingman with you, Hajime, and I guess I just got excited to try it out again!”

“You’re incredible.” Hajime rolled his eyes, reaching out to gently shove Nagito back on the bed. Zach laughed with Nagito as they all somehow ended up laying down, rolling between one another and sharing the most languid of kisses to ease themselves into another night of relaxation and comfort in each other’s arms.

The guilt was subsiding, Zach realized, in favor of the memory that, no matter what...At least they would have their best boys with them at all times.

[necroarchived]

                                               𝔉𝔞𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯'𝔰 𝔇𝔞𝑦

     Summary: In the wake of the Second Battle of Light’s Hope, the Lich King contemplates his Deathlord in a strange, rare moment of camaraderie. Except not really.

     OR a conversation that doesn’t end with anyone dead for once, but just barely.

     Characters: Arthas Menethil, Zoen Mith, Tiris, and a bunch of death knight acolytes who are Trying Their Best.

     Warning: This is from Arthas’ perspective, so it’s just all kinds of awful. Mental and emotional abuse, as well as references to past physical abuse. Manipulation, intimidation, victim-blaming, etc. etc.

     “What’re you doing, Lich King?”

     The unsettlement of air announced his Wraith just before her voice, the syllables carrying with them the distinctive sensations that made up the patchwork of her presence - the whisper of ice, of shadow, of wolf’s teeth and bottomless hunger. He did not turn to the child as she leaned irreverently against the balustrade that wrapped around the overlook they stood upon, the hollow thunk of saronite striking saronite muffled by the material of her coat. He had forgone his helm for a short while today, and she stood just at the edge of his peripheral vision if he focused on her. (He didn’t.) The wolf, cleverly, settled between Lord and King. While the barrier of fur and bone and blood would not be enough to make Arthas so much as hesitate should things edge towards violence, it would stop Zoen in her tracks.

     Idly, he wondered why she was here.

     “Observing.” Beneath them, knights-in-training battled furiously against one another while instructors waded fearlessly amidst the fray, shouting threats and criticisms. The din was almost pleasant, yet another form of background noise to join that of the endless clamor of murmuring souls that echoed through Arthas’ skull. “You could benefit from doing the same.”

     He heard the shift of metal and leather as she turned to split her attention between him and the knights. “They’re awful.”

     “You were worse.”

     She scoffed in disdain, and he glanced at her just in time to catch her unconsciously raising a hand to rub at where her throat had been sawed open barely a week following her rebirth. He did not try to suppress his smirk. “Inaccurate, and not the point.”

     “Isn’t it?” He tilted his attention further to her, both approving and condemning how she rocked back on her heels away from him.

     Wariness of him was smart, was right in a knight of his, no matter their errancy - especially due to their errancy. The Ebon Blade yet had treasons to atone for, sins whose punishments he’d flay from their souls as soon as they had returned, properly, to the heavy fold of his sovereignty. Amusing though it was to watch Acherus’ children scurry around doing his bidding while stubbornly clinging to their delusion of independence, he ached for when they’d kneel in reverent, dutiful loyalty at the foot of his throne, minds reconnected to the grand nexus of the Scourge and the chains of their wills wound firmly around his wrist.

     From beneath came an especially loud shout, followed by a gradual decrease of noise. Arthas looked down and saw a rough circle of acolytes forming around what appeared to be a newly-disarmed initiate who stood clenching his lone fist whilst an instructor shouted at him. At their feet lay a severed, leaking limb. The instructor roared for a few more moments before apparently dismissing the acolyte, who took the chance to snag his arm off the ground before stiffly making his way towards the doors that would lead him to the nearest necromancers’ hall. The clamor from before rose back up, knights fighting knights with renewed vigour.

     “See?” Zoen murmured, tone edging irritatingly similar to smug. Was she closer than she’d been before? “Awful.”

     “If any of them surpass you, Deathlord, I’ll replace you.”

     “If any of them surpass me, Lich King, I’ll deserve it.” She twisted around to rest her back fully on the railing, dismissing the knights below with silent contempt. The consequence was that she now no longer had anything to really focus on save Arthas himself, which she seemed to only truly understand at the end of her little rotation. To his entertainment, she seemed incapable of regarding him for any protracted length of time, as though he were the sun and to look directly at him would burn her eyes. No, not the sun, he thought. A god, his divinity too darkly radiant for a creature of such profound imperfection as Zoen Mith to gaze upon without suffering vastly for it. The idea pleased him enough that he magnanimously declined to call out the weakness for what it was.

     The moment extended awkwardly - for the girl, of course, not Arthas, who really couldn’t care less about her dilemma except the ways it may compliment him - wherein Zoen shuffled between gazing down at her dozing wolf and sending furtive, disturbed glances at the sculpted skull of his right pauldron. Her eyes dropped to her feet and her hands fell from the railing to inside her coat’s pockets. She pulled out what looked to be an old, brass pocket watch and frowned briefly at it before curling her fist tighter around it and jamming them both back into her coat.

     They fell into silence, leaving one another to their distractions: Zoen her growing unease, Arthas his supervision of his knights’ training. Nothing so gruesomely inconvenient as dismemberment plagued any of the remaining acolytes, though such mercy could not be attributed to hesitancy or consideration on behalf of their brethren; indeed the tide of their ferocity and bloodlust seemed to rise higher in concurrence with the growing length of time that their mock battles stretched on. Except mock began to seem too trite a word, now that he thought about it, its connotations almost too passive for the crashing violence that swept across the floor below - as though it was not a legion of fallen, desecrated heroes pitted in a dozen vicious wars but a pack of squealing children artlessly swinging sticks at one another. Puerile, even - and of course thoughts of puerility inevitably drew his attention (and eyes) toward the child leaning artlessly against the balustrade at his side, one of her hands curling loosely around the hilt of her overhyped stick.

     It dawned, suddenly, that he had never before shared any moment of remarkable length with this child of his that did not involve violence of either a physical or mental capacity. He would not call what they dwelled in currently peace, aware as he was of the literal and proverbial wolf slumbering between them, and the blades they both carried at their sides should the metaphorical beast awaken. But it was not violence, nor teeth-clenched toleration that would only last the very bare minimum of time until they could hastily part ways. It was, temporarily, a state of coexistence.

     Arthas seized the opportunity to really, truly look at Zoen. His child was a mess of poor construction, avian bones wrapped up in lambskin with shark’s teeth jammed into a too-small mouth, her own weak jaw muzzling her better than any man-made contraption. Lordship had settled heavily on her shoulders, rounding them until he wondered for a moment if they had been wrenched from the sockets. He could see the tension in her neck, how the tendons were taut as bowstrings beneath the skin. The dark shadows that clung to her eyes spoke of an exhaustion she could not even experience anymore. Her cheekbone was splattered with the telltale discolorations of a nearly-healed bruise, and below her jaw, just above the line of her coat’s collar, a sloppy row of stitches ran diagonally down her throat.

     “You look atrocious.”

     Candid, but he had never been the liar between them. She grinned sardonically, and at the corner of her mouth he could just make out the faint, silvery line of where a blade had broken through the skin long ago, trailing from the edge of her lips to the swell of her chin. The scar was unnotable enough on its own, but compounded with his intimate knowledge of the mutilation that destroyed the other side of her face, its inconsequence was practically insulting. Arthas entertained the thought of taking a blade and digging through that pathetic blemish, turning it into another emblem of ruination. Another lesson.

     Do not give in to mortal weakness.

     Perhaps this time, she would learn it.

     “Do I? What a shame.” There were deserts less dry than her tone. “Somewhere between slaughtering demons and leading armies I suppose I let my skincare regimen fall to the wayside.”

     “If you crumble, child -”

     “Yes, you said,” she snapped, and he so dearly desired to reach forward and pluck out those teeth she dared turn against him. Petulance could be amusing, and spite had its charm, but little mitigated such outright disrespect. “You’ll replace me with one of your pets. I’m very sure they’ll have better luck attacking the paladins than I did.”

     “That would not be difficult.” He rounded on her, paying no heed to the growl building up in the wolf’s chest as it scrabbled to its feet and backed up against his Wraith, its fangs bared uselessly at him. “Your failure was a spectacular display of the incompetence characteristic of your Ebon Blade.”

     Below them, the din of battle lessened as distracted knights turn from their combatants to the storm quietly brewing on the overlook. Arthas lashed out at their minds in painful chastisement, disgusted at such a large-scale lapse on their part. He would not allow his loyal servants to succumb to the same weaknesses that crippled his traitors - crippled his daughter, who for all her snarling, sputtering outrage could inspire only a swell of disgust in the Lich King.

     “We aren’t -”

     “Maxwell Tyrosus and Liadrin were at your mercy,” he spat viciously, “and rather than bring them into -” my “- your fold, you chose to leave them crumpled on the ground, battered but alive. Tirion Fordring rests peacefully in his grave still, because you were too weak to claim him. Time and again, you are given chances to prove yourself, and time and again, you fall short of expectations. You disappoint me.”

     The effect was immediate; Zoen reeled back, face crumpling in a way that brought to mind Archimonde’s destruction of Dalaran; the experience of watching something vaunted be brought down by a power so totally beyond its scope that resistance was completely inconceivable. She built herself back up, brick by brick - swept away her horror and dismay behind a curtain of rage and hatred, but he could still see it through the gossamer threads, he still knew how fragile the foundations of her construction were.

     “I disappoint you,” she sneered, shaking her head, as though that might bolster the illusion enough that he couldn’t see through it. “I disappoint you how, Lich King? ‘Cause I didn’t slaughter my way through Light’s Hope?” And he nearly killed her for the ghost of guilt he saw cross her face. “It only took me four knights and a handful of ghouls to reach their Sanctum. You sent ten thousand soldiers and you didn’t even get through the door!”

     “Tread lightly,” he warned softly, taking a step toward her. His Wraith almost tripped over herself in her attempt to not mirror him with a step back, and this was godhood, was sovereignty, was power, this ability to dominate with nothing more than a twitch and a breath. “Mograine died for you, Deathlord. Don’t throw that sacrifice away out of petulance.”

     But godhood, sovereignty, power - none would be nearly so gratifying if the whole world simply rolled over, quavering in fearful submission, meekly accepting his dominion without giving rebellion a fleeting thought. Zoen tilted her chin up, the line of stitches across her throat stretching, and Arthas delighted in the defiance as much as he loathed it. There was incredible satisfaction in possessing something that had once fought tooth and nail against being owned.

     “I’m correct, though,” she said coldly, hollowly. The lack of smugness in her voice ensured that his loathing did not outweigh his delight for now. “Other than bringing back Tirion, we’ve done everything right. Got the weapons, got the Horsemen, got a couple mountains’ worth of dead demons behind us, got a… glowy, floaty, singin’ thing hangin’ out in the corner of Acherus that I should probably throw back into the ocean or something ‘cause it’s givin’ everyone a headache and it clashes with everything and we’ve got a bloody aesthetic to maintain -”

     The wolf chuffed, breaking the flow of Zoen’s ramble. She spared it a blank, indecipherable look before returning her gaze to Arthas.

     “So - so you could kill me ‘cause I’m petulant, and replace me with one of those - those unborn brats down there, and see how that goes. Or you could… not kill me, and not replace me, ‘cause so far that seems to be workin’ out pretty well.”

     “Is this a plea for mercy, Deathlord?”

     A laugh tore its way out of her throat. “Mercy’s a sin. I’m asking you to be practical.”

     It was not pride that unfurled, sleepy and disoriented, beneath his rib cage, but its precursor. The acknowledgement that pride could exist within him, that one day it might settle in his bones, that looking at his Wraith would not inspire frustration and betrayal and and a sinking, clawing feeling that he could not name. And if she could scrabble her way towards such glory as the Death God’s approval, imagine what the rest of her brethren could accomplish, those whose only disappointments had been betrayal.

     A crooked grin crossed the Lich King’s features, and that precursor must have bled through because Zoen lowered her chin, looking somewhat disturbed. “Then consider yourself forgiven, Deathlord,” he said with all proper magnanimity of a god. She wasn’t, really, wouldn’t be for a long while, but if she could offer candor, he could offer lies. “I’d suggest returning to your knights before you need seek it again.”

     His Wraith, for all her faults, was not quite foolish enough to dare stay when a clean exit was offered; and thus with a short whistle to her wolf, she lurched away from the balustrade, hands raised and wreathed in shadow as she wrenched open a death gate. The wolf padded obediently through the portal, and Zoen had nearly taken her first step through when:

     “Though I do wonder, Zoen, why you came here today at all.”

     With her back to him as she stood before her gate, Arthas could not see what sort of emotion might have twisted her features, but he knew enough from the stiffening of her shoulders, the way her hands curled into fists before she shoved them into her pockets, that it would have been interesting. And as the silence grew between them, festering like an infected wound, he began to consider reaching forward, yanking her around that he might find out.

     “It’s Father’s Day,” she said at last, and that strange, sinking feeling clawed at his insides. “Thought about just sending a card, but I’m pretty sure the postage would’ve bankrupted me. Suffer well, Arthas.”

     And then she was gone, the gate sealing neatly behind her, nothing left behind to indicate she had ever been there at all. Arthas found himself staring at the space she’d occupied for a moment too long before finally returning his eyes to the knights training below, clashing in their mock battles like a pack of children.

     Father’s Day.

     Do not give in to mortal weakness.

     He should have carved up her face again.

[acoolguyscoollife]

Chapter 20: That Girl is Poison

Rose watched from a few metres away, as the five of us huddled around, making sure we weren’t heard by her.

“But how did she find us? It’s not exactly known that you come here.” Tabitha whispered, shooting a glance towards her. She seemed pleased enough with herself, giving a pleasant wave with a fingerless-gloved hand. A scarf was casually draped on her, one end over her shoulder, and her outfit seemed to imply that she had biked over here. I hadn’t known she could drive a motorbike, but it’d been a very long time since I’d seen her. A denim jacket, matching jeans with ripped knees that seemed incredibly bad to wear on a bike, and a smile was what she was wearing as she looked around, seemingly enamoured by where she was enough that she didn’t feel the tension coming from everyone else.

“Probably the FindMyPhone thing she set up years ago. Until now, it wasn’t really much of a problem.” I replied, refusing to give her a second glance. “She most likely meant well but… jeez.” My hand slipped between my sunglasses and face, rubbing feverishly at my eyes. I had to focus myself on the present as best as I could, because the past was threatening to resurface in the form of memories, and that was the last thing I needed.

“CG, you okay? You don’t look so hot.” Aki said, and it was safe to say that I felt even less hot than I looked. In each delay of the conversation, I could hear the blood pumping through my ears, and my hand was clenching and unclenching of its own accord.

“I’m fine. There’s more important shit we need to worry about.” I said, turning to Tabitha. “What do we tell her?” Tabitha thought for a second, before her gaze returned to me.

“The truth, I guess. If you can trust her, that is.” She said, which only left my mind spiralling further into doubts. Could I trust Rose?

“It’s less about whether she’s trustworthy and more figuring out whether we should even really be talking to her.” Amy said, putting her hand on the square of my back and patting. “In case you hadn’t noticed, CG isn’t exactly the most pleased to see her.” Amy’s words were hushed, but the anger in them was clear.

“Jesus, what even happened with you two? I remember you disappearing for like, two weeks, and then when you came back, you just said it was over.” Seth asked me, and I took a breath as best as I could, knowing that I was overreacting slightly. Anxiety was bad, sure, but realistically, nothing should really be affecting me.

“We broke up, but she wouldn’t say why. It messed me up.” I told them. “When Amy asked about it, she said that I’d know, but to this day, I don’t know.” Tabitha’s eyebrow raised as I spoke, shooting another glance at Rose, who was now fiddling with something on the table she was sat on.

“That’s the thing, I know Rose is a good person, but her refusal to say what the reason was messed CG up a lot, and it just makes me wonder what it could be that he doesn’t know.” Amy said. “I genuinely don’t think she meant to cause him harm, but even after finding out, she thought it was for the best.” I’d forgotten how much Amy and Rose had talked after the break up, but it still made me smile that even now, Amy had my back no matter what.

“Well, isn’t it better that she wasn’t forced back into a relationship with CG?” Aki asked, having been listening to this point.

“She still loved him when I’d last asked. But she said the relationship was something that couldn’t be done.” Amy now had her hands clamped together, twiddling her thumbs as she spoke. “Which begs the question of why she’s here.”

“Sounds to me like she was your friend and you kinda shut her out after the breakup. CG got you in the metaphorical divorce, so to speak. What did Rose get?” Tabitha asked, and a knot began to grow in my stomach as I realised that she was, once again, right to point that out. I’d abandoned her friendship in a determined attempt to keep my cool persona, and as such, had quashed it in my mind. Oh god, had I just been a complete asshole this whole time?

“I’ll speak to her and figure out why she’s here.” I said, firmly. While the butterflies of uneasiness were still in my stomach, I knew I had to ignore it.

“Are you sure, man? You need someone to be with you?” Seth asked, and I refused with a shake of my head.

“She was one of my closest friends. I kind of owe her a private conversation between the two of us, don’t you think?” I said, and turned away before I could even get an answer, taking the few steps towards Rose. “Hey, follow me.”

 “So… you can travel between dimensions?” Rose asked once again, trying to wrap her head around everything I’d explained.

“Yeah, and in those worlds, we’re basically superheroes.” Once we’d started talking, everything had gotten slightly easier. I’d forgotten how fun it had been to shoot the shit with Rose, and judging from her incredulous smile, I knew she felt the same. “But enough about us, I wanna know about you. What have you been up to?” She sat up onto the box she had been leaning against, reminding me that for privacy, the best place we had been able to find was a storage room. God knows what was in those things, but it was quiet and small, which was all I needed.

“Oh, you know, still in university, so the usual shit. Boring studies, barely any friends. Which, actually, brings me to why I’m here.” Rose said, putting her knees up and folding her arms to hold them up.

“Closure?” I said, immediately regretting it. It was an ill attempt at a joke, and while I knew she got that, I saw the frown on her face for a moment.

“Ever the mature one, CG.” The smile was back, but felt forced. She couldn’t look me in the eye (well, the sunglasses) as she kept speaking. “You know, the reason I broke up with you… if it’s been this long, I kind of think I might have been wrong.” She admitted, which was a surprise to me. “Please don’t be mad.”

“So… I’ve been worrying about this for nothing? In the end, there was no reason?” I said, more confused than angry. “What did you think was worth breaking up with me?” She refused to answer, shaking her head instead.

“It doesn’t matter, y’know? The past is just that, and I feel like we’re a long way from the people we used to be.” Rose smiled again, one that now felt natural. “Besides, I saw the hand on your back. Something tells me you’ve moved on, right?” She stuck her tongue out at me as if joking or mocking, but again, I was just confused.

“Me and Amy? I mean, she’s really nice, but one person isn’t really her thing.” I said, before remembering that Amy hadn’t come out as pansexual until a while before. “Oh yeah, she’s pansexual. Turns out she didn’t even know what the word was until a while ago, but it made everything make sense.”

“Oh!” Rose said, surprised, but not in a bad way. “Well, I’m really happy for her. It’s good to know what kind of person you are, you know?” Her words were genuine, but I could tell there was something else that she wanted to talk about. “So you’ve never moved on?” She asked after a moment’s pause. “No flings, no short-term stuff?” To every example she gave, I shook my head.

“Never really wanted to get back into it. Too busy being a really cool dude, you know. You?” I flipped the question around, and she looked away.

“It’s going to sound unhealthy, but no. I kind of got hung up a lot on stuff.” Rose said, a sudden interest in what the wall looked like. “The amount of times I wanted to say that I’d made a mistake, but the doubt I had in my mind stopping me…” She trailed off, looking up at me. “But this long gone, I think it’s safe to say I not only made a mistake, but promptly made multiple trying to justify the first, jumping off the train to avoid the tunnel, but just into shark-infested waters, and most likely into some other weird analogy.” She laughed, pushing part of her unruly hair behind her ear again. The pink hair was new, and caught my eye every time her head moved, but the laugh was something almost nostalgic. It had been a long time since I’d heard her laugh.

“Yeah, been there. Don’t forget that I was the one who basically stopped talking to you altogether instead of acting like a rational adult and staying friends with you.” I pointed out, and she nodded.

“Yeah, I won’t pretend that didn’t hurt, but I knew you had a reason to do it. I knew it wouldn’t be permanent, so I sucked it up.” She let her legs back down, and I noticed the boots. A gift I’d gotten her a while back, they went pretty far up her leg, but she’d said they were the most comfortable shoes she’d had. I guess she wasn’t lying if she still had them. Judging from the wear, they’d been used a lot too. “Either I’d be right and we’d meet under different circumstances, or I’d be wrong and we’d be where we are now.” Rose glanced around.

“In a glorified closet?” I asked, causing her to laugh again. With every small laugh, I could feel warmth in my body, my heart jumping for joy ever so slightly. It felt so good to have her back in my life.

“Honestly, I didn’t see this bit coming.” She grinned, turning to face me once more. “I kinda expected to be at your place when this whole thing happened, but you know, it works here too.”

“So now what?” I asked. She thought for a moment, crossing her legs in front of her as she chewed her finger.

“I really didn’t think I’d get this far, so I don’t really have a plan.” She admitted, blush growing on her face. “You know when there’s an ideal scenario that you doubt would ever happen, and then it does and you have no idea what to do next?” Rose said. I don’t think I’d ever gone a day without knowing that feeling, but it rarely ever actually happened to me.

“All the time.” I lied, but she missed the lie, continuing on.

“I just… do you ever think about us?” My heart stopped as she talked. Us? As in… our past?

“I… uh…” My brain failed to put words into my mouth, and I could tell it wasn’t going to go well.

“I guess I came on too strong, huh?” Rose said, rubbing the back of her head as she looked down at her boots. “It’s okay, really.” While it sucked that this was how it was going, I kind of didn’t disagree with her assumption.

“Yeah, I just… don’t know if I’m ready for another relationship, you know?” I told her truthfully. “You’re a really great friend, and like… I don’t want to ruin that. Especially since we’ve only just got each other again.” We both stood up, and I quickly noticed how cramped the room actually was with the two of us stood there. I put my hand on her shoulder, an attempt to reassure her that things might get better, when my mind stopped being an asshole and let me just enjoy things. She smiled at me again, another reminder of the brightness she gave off even when down. The pink hair worked even better to frame a smile, loud enough to be there, but quiet enough to be out of the way when she needed it to be. The way she held herself against the box that we had been sat on, half-leaning against it, her eyes looking into my own. She had been one of the first people I’d shown my eyes, and I remembered why now, reliving the memory. I had trusted her, and I still did. She was a good person. She was… was…

“CG, you okay, man?” Rose said, as I stared at her. Her face, her clothes, the way her voice sounded, concerned yet jokey. The trust I’d had in her. The personality. Her cute dimple that showed when she smiled. The freckle on her neck. The way her clothes fit her, enough to avoid sexualising her but enough to be the best suit for her.

Oh, screw it.

I kissed her, explosions of fond memories and my racing heartbeat as our lips met, with her immediately pushing back against mine, the two of us against the wall as I wrapped my arms around her. Her eyes had widened at first, but had soon closed, going along with the situation and not questioning it. Neither was I. All that mattered was this moment.

[thecrapshoot]

THE LISBON OCEANARIUM

The first thing I ever wanted to be was a marine biologist.  I remember saying it and laying claim to this profession when I was in grade school because it sounded like a smart thing to say.  I was a little creature darting around in the sea of my elementary school.  I don’t remember which teacher asked us, but I do remember my answer.  I was probably eight or nine years old then.  Marine Biologist became my default answer whenever what I wanted to be when I grew up became the topic of discussion.   So, what do you want to be when you grow up? I think, a marine biologist. I thought that way until I decided I wanted to be a French teacher.  

Maybe the spirits that lay beneath the surface of the streets were demanding a reconciling.  Early neighborhoods I grew up in were filled with drugs, welfare, and street ministry.  There was always the askew, but heroic, spirit of the hustler competing with the saving spirit of the evangelist.  They saw my embryonic self-image enclosed by my small body and frame and shouted simultaneously marine biology and it echoed around my ribs and larynx and became my default answer.  On paper this is quite simply a fantastic and legitimate assessment of those circumstances.  Between physically burying a body and psychologically rejecting a message that would have saved or at least extenuated that body, you can make a case for marine biology as a type of cross-sectional study of pathos.    

Those spirits wanted to know why they were trapped there during the day.  Back when I was younger, I was conveniently unaware of what they did after dark.  I was always in the bed asleep.  I was well aware of the Boogie Man, all the wicked witches, graveyards, and ghosts from the stories I would hear my friends and other people tell in the daylight hours about certain houses in the neighborhood, or certain creepy old ladies.  

If the streets were a metaphor for rivers of water, then those spirits were in the marine life that you find in such a place as an oceanarium.  In terms of urban lore, the still waters of an oceanarium run deep, and the same moral questions that surface about zoos and other places of captivity for animals, surface about oceanariums and aquariums, etc.  Rebellious slaves-in-transit were thrown overboard into the oceans never to be heard from again.  Rivers ultimately empty into larger bodies of water and the streets and their consequences empty into people’s homes, jobs, and personal lives.

Recently I have wondered if being a marine biologist was actually my calling in life.  Was this career supposed to be a fair negotiation between where I came from and what I saw and heard about the neighborhood and spiritual world from my friends and people older than me.  Meaning, should I have run with that first inclination I had when I was young – as in, was it okay to have done that?  I used to be able to hear my bones squeak as if I was an old man when I was younger.  It was the same sound as grinding teeth.  I knew what I knew then, as they say, and I knew it had something to do with my synovial fluid.  Snap back through all those synapses of adolescent angst and I see what I see when I look in this commendable attempt at cross-sectional representation of the Earth’s great and vast oceans.  I see that nothing was certain then.

I thought I would study dolphins and sharks one day, and symbiotic relationships that exist in the ocean.  But I study languages and hope to make sense of what I find to be the translucence of the world around me.  I had a fascination with, and fear of, jellyfish and why they stung, and I even reckon I felt the sting from one once, but I couldn’t tell what it was.  It was at a beach in the South of France, in Nice or Cannes, I believe.  Their defense of their delicate bodies was a hallowed thing for me to find out and know.  Did it make me feel safe knowing that?  No, but it was worthwhile to know.  I felt informed, knowing that about jellyfish as they oozed and shimmied off into the dark and unexplored corners of the aquarium in my head.  I even saw the eel in the eel-like line, that slithered around the delicate Velcro barriers I was standing in while waiting to get into the Lisbon Oceanarium.

That curious little fact about jellyfish plucked me right in my little knucklehead that day I learned it.  I think jellyfish drove the point home that if you knew you were doing something that was going to get you into trouble, then you had better be ready to deal with the consequences, like seeing the paddle in elementary school, too.  

I was immediately alerted to that fate of being stung by one, and I fancied the shock an electric one.   Jellyfish have an association with Medusa, and in several languages in Europe they are called medusas; with the sting of the jellyfish being the equivalent of being permanently cast into a marble version of yourself just for looking at the horrid Medusa.  Were it not for Perseus beheading Medusa, we wouldn’t be dealing with such contemporary social issues like Confederate statues.  Just kidding, but just saying…  Perseus kept her head after killing her and it gave him a limited Midas touch, per se, with other enemies.

Other animals in marine life always represented danger and consequence. Getting eaten by sharks was something we knew to avoid.  Getting stung by sea anemones was something we knew was possible, and even more so because sea anemones were protecting their friends, the clown fish.  

Sometimes we could see the danger in the name of an animal like a stingray or swordfish.  Fast forward to adult life and literature, and the ocean, or the sea, is really a big deal.  It is much bigger in actuality than it seemed back then.  

Global warming is actually a big deal.  Oil spills are actually a big deal.  Pollution is actually a big deal and is really that ugly when you look it in the eyes.  And conversely, there is something special about hearing a person wax philosophic about the sea and things maritime.  A school of fish, a herd of seahorses, a fever of stingrays, a smack of medusas, or a shiver of sharks can mean so much.

It is a wonder to see these groups go passing by and try and estimate how intelligent they are individually and collectively.  What makes them stick together?  Do they notice when one falls off from the group?  Memories of my childhood go walking by sometimes about as a panoramic as seeing one of these itinerant groups shuffling or gliding along.  A few posts before this, I shared a poem by Yusef Komunyakaa about his memories of being in the Vietnam war and how he felt as a sort of dividend of his experience by providing people with such a vivid depiction.  This poem below is in the oceanarium on a wall beside part of the main tank where all of the animals are kept:

The blue and white sea and the shiny

Rocks – that inhaled space

Where what is washed rewashes itself

By the ritual of wonder and I begin

From where I returned

In salty foam and shell

To the first beach of my life.