#it's just everything is oddly angular

[wanderingmind867]

(Scooby Doo Team-Up #43): I can't be the only one who sees innuendo within The Impossibles, can I? This rock trio led by a man named "Big D." For God's sakes, one of them is named fluid man! Fluid man! That's so accidentally inappropriate that it verges on insanity. That's all i took away from the one cartoon i saw with them. Clever gimmicks, but wild innuendo. I try not to have a dirty mind, but Big D and Fluid Man...I mean, come on! It's not even subtle!

Also, I don't know why this comic is all angular panels. Are they really trying to replicate that 70s Hanna-Barbera look? If so, i'd say it's working. It really does look like an old cartoon. Down the shapes, colours and everything else.

[littlemissmentallyunstable]

Would you be making a Part 4 of the dancer and the angel🥺🥺

so many people have asked about this so I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to piece it together BUT it’s here so I hope you love it 🤍🤍

title: the dancer and the angel part 4

pairing: grayson hawthorne x reader

synopsis: crying sucks and you needs somewhere to just let your hair down but when gigi goes missing, all hell breaks loose and things don’t stay exactly to plan

parts: part 1 part 2 part 3 part 5

warnings: SPOILERS FOR TGG, swearing

a/n: I’m dedicating this to @midiosaamor <33 ilysm belle thank you for your endless love for this fic, I’m so grateful 🤍🤍

tag list: @bewitchingkisses @whatsamongus @wish-i-were-heather @inmyheaddd @never-enough-novels @notshortbutsweet @midiosaamor @sweetreveriee @emelia07 @f4iry-bell @zaraaaabear @thoughtdaughter3 @benny1989fredd @elysianwayy77 @maybxlle @sheisntyou @anintellectualintellectual @aleatorio1234 @adalia-jaycee @off-to-the-r4ces @lyra-kane @reminiscentreader @lyrakanefanatic @imaseabear @elizaa31 @loveinalocket

YOUR POV

I’m tired of crying. Tears are overrated anyway.

I’m sat with Avery, my cheek resting against her shoulder, her head resting on top of mine. It’s peaceful. I can hear her soft steady breathing in my ear and it’s oddly comforting. Maybe it’s because I’m used to sleeping on Grayson’s chest and hearing him breathe so rhythmically.

I need to get him out of my head. His stupidly perfect face is the only image running through my mind. That angular jawline, those velvety lips and those silver eyes that made me melt every damn time. Every inch of him is too engraved in my soul to get rid of him so quickly.

“Let’s go somewhere,” Avery says suddenly, like she’s been reading my mind this whole time.

“We’re on a secluded island,” I scoff.

“And I happen to be a billionaire who owns many modes of transport,” she winks at me, helping me to my feet.

“You wouldn’t,” I say.

“I already have,” she winks, “there’s a helicopter that should be showing up in about…” she trails off checking her watch, “five minutes.”

“You’re joking!” I gape.

“Do I look like the kind of girl to joke about ordering a helicopter?” she asks, raising her eyebrows.

No. No she does not.

***

We arrive at our destination thirty short minutes later via helicopter of course. And as if by magical transformation we’d gotten changed into some variant of sparkly party dresses inside, a sentence I never thought I’d ever say aloud. We walk down a cobbled alleyway towards a tall establishment.

“A club?” I say tilting my head to the side.

“A club,” she nods.

“I’ve never been to a club before,” I admit, feeling a little nervous.

“Neither,” she shrugs, “but there’s a first time for everything right.”

“Right…” I trail off.

She takes my hand eagerly and together we walk in. Lights flash, music pulsates and my ear drums nearly burst. It’s so lively, so upbeat, so full. People are grabbing drinks, making out, dancing and all the in between.

Avery glances at me, “drink or dance?”

“Drink,” I don’t hesitate, having already spotted the bar, “please.”

“You got it,” she grins, linking her arm into mine as we go over, weaving between throngs of half drunk sweaty bodies.

The bartender offers us a welcoming smile, “what can I get you two ladies tonight?”

“Vodka martini dry with a twist,” I reply, the order bitter on my tongue when I remember how Gray and I would usually order these together.

I feel so pathetic. Linking everything to him, but I couldn’t help it. He’s just there, but not properly. It’s like some sort of ghost of his has decided to haunt me for fun.

“And a mojito please,” Avery says, forcing me out of my thoughts.

He nods sharply and turns to make our drinks. I fiddle with my necklace trying to figure out how I feel in this very moment. A weird mix of emotions are settled heavily on my chest. Notes of sadness and bitterness, building up anger and fury as well as a pathetic self pity and loneliness. I don’t like that none of the feelings are definitive, it makes me uncomfortable. I don’t know how to be, my brain is too preoccupied trying to work out what emotion to act on.

The bartender hands me my drink. I take a long sip closing my eyes as the flavours hit my tongue. The sharp burst of lemon mixed with the kick of hard vodka feels like someone is slapping me across the face. I’ve never felt more awake.

“How’s the martini,” Avery asks.

“Much needed,” I smile, “your mojito?”

“Divine,” she replies taking another sip.

“Never pictured you as a mojito girl Ave,” I mention leaning against the bar and surveying the room.

“Jamie got me into them when we went to Greece,” she replies naturally.

A sinking sensation hits my stomach, I know it shouldn’t. She’s been with Jameson forever it shouldn’t hurt. They were beautiful people with beautiful souls that belonged to each other. So why is it suddenly so hard to digest? I knew about their trip to Greece, heck I’d helped them plan it. But Avery mentioning Jameson sends this rippling pain through my upper chest. She loves him and he loves her. It’s the same both ways, they’re devoted, they’re each other’s everythings. And it reminds me of what I don’t have. I think I hide it well but she sees it on my face.

“Oh god I’m sorry I didn’t mean to bring up-“

“Hey it’s fine,” I shrug.

“That was so stupid of me,” she winces putting her drink down.

“Avery you don’t have tread on eggshells around me, it’s okay,“ I try and laugh it off, “no big deal.”

“Okay,” she replies, but I can see she still feels bad.

Neither of us say anything for a few beats until the music changes and I recognise the song.

“Oooo you love this song, come on,” she laughs, tugging my hands forwards.

I sigh, “I don’t know Avery, I’m not much of a dancer.”

Not like Lyra.

“Doesn’t matter,” she shrugs, swigging her mojito, “let’s let our hair down, have a bit of fun.”

“Fine,” I crack a smile.

She squeals excitedly, practically dragging me forwards as we fall on the dance floor. We move to the beat, hips swinging from side to side, arms in the air. I wish this could take it all away. I appreciate what she’s doing. But despite her best efforts I don’t think it’s working. This distraction, this attempt of respite isn’t hitting like it should. I feel buried under too many layers of him, each time I did myself out of the first in into another. And digging is exhausting.

“Why don’t you just kiss a random guy?” Avery says bringing me back to the present.

It takes me a few minutes to process what she’d just said and when I do I can’t form a response.

“How much of that mojito did you have?” I laugh.

“No seriously,” she says, a deadly true look in her eyes, “it might help you get… him out of your mind.”

“You can say Grayson,”I roll my eyes, playing it off coolly. I didn’t want her to know that this was affecting me this much, because it shouldn’t be.

“No,” she shakes her head, “the name holds too much power, he’ll get all in your head again.”

“He already is all in my head,” I tell her with a sigh.

“That’s why I’m saying,” she continues, “so just go and kiss someone for the hell of it.”

“How do I even go about doing that?” I say. I can’t believe the words are coming out of my mouth.

“I don’t know, never done it,” she shrugs with a wicked grin.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” I reply.

“Who cares?” she laughs, “yolo.”

“Yolo? Since when do you say yolo?” I scoff, wondering if she is drunk or just spending too much time with Xander.

“Since now,” she sticks her tongue out.

“I could be kissing a serial killer,” I point out, “or an axe murderer.”

“I don’t think they’d murder you in front of everyone, it’d be a bit off brand for them,” Avery replies, “besides everyone would know who they were then. Do you really think they’d risk jail time to specifically murder you in a club? “

I think about it. Contemplate the idea of kissing someone else. Maybe she had a point, someone else’s lips on mine, hands in my hair… they won’t be his. I won’t have to associate those actions with him anymore. Would it hurt? It’s one stupid night and one stupid kiss. What’s the worst that could happen?”

“You know what, you’re right, why the hell not,” I say suddenly.

Surprise flickers across her face for mere moments before she breaks out into a large smile.

“You get them girl!” she shouts.

I scan the room, or all the faces I could see at least. I spot someone. He’s fairly attractive. Dirty blonde, tanned, muscular. He didn’t look too old either. I couldn’t tell the colour of his eyes but from here they looked light. I hope he isn’t taken as I approach him.

“Hey,” I shout over the music.

“Hi,” he shoots me a smile.

It’s in that moment I realise how unprepared I am for this. Why did I think this was a good idea? How do you just kiss someone?

So I blurt out the only thing in my mind, “do you want to kiss me?”

“What?” he replies.

I feel like an idiot but I say it again, “do you want to kiss me?”

“I can’t hear you love, speak up,” he yells.

I don’t know what comes over me but I just grab his face and kiss him. It’s probably the most impulsive thing I’ve ever done. But he doesn’t pull away, in fact he kisses back. His lips are rougher than what I’m used to and he’s a more aggressive kisser. When his hands hold the small of my back it’s more like he’s grappling onto my body than holding me gently. This didn’t feel as natural, as tentative, as loving as when Grayson kisses me.

“Well that was quite something huh?” the man smiles as I pull away.

Maybe for you I want to say, but I bite my tongue.

“Fancy doing it again?” he asks.

“Maybe another time,” I force a smile, walking away.

He doesn’t follow much to my relief. I’d chosen someone who wasn’t a serial killer at least. I make my way back to Avery who pretends she didn’t see the whole altercation to save my dignity. Though she’s very bad at hiding it.

“I know you saw,” I sing song, giggling a little.

“You went for it girl,” she says eyebrows raised.

“I did,” I nod, chewing my bottom lip tentatively.

“And?” she prompts me. I don’t know what she wants to hear. So I tell her the truth.

“It’s not the same,” I shrug.

“It won’t be but sometimes that helps you get over it,” she replies.

“It’s not working,” I sigh, “also he tasted like beer and that was gross.”

She scrunches up her face, “oh ew,”

“Yeah 100% ew,” I agree wrinkling my nose as I still taste the residue of it on my lips.

She senses how I feel even though I don’t quite know what it is I’m feeling, “you want to get some air?” she asks.

I nod, feeling that my cheeks were flushed and my everything was sweating. Hand in hand we swim upstream through dozens of people before we reach the door. The cold night’s air hits us as we slump down onto the pavement. I take a deep breath in, closing my eyes tasting the fresh air in my lungs.

“Well that was a bust,” Avery sighs.

“Not completely,” I tell her, “the dancing was fun.”

“But you’re still thinking about him, aren’t you?” she replies. It’s a question that she already knows the answer to.

“How can I not?” I say, leaning my head against the back wall and looking up at the sky.

“I don’t know,” she replies sadly.

Silence envelopes us, swallowing us whole like a whale shark to plankton. A thought recurs in my brain like an annoying decimal that wasn’t supposed to be the answer. I keep thinking, if someone had told my yesterday self that I would be here today I never would’ve believed it. Hours ago he was my person, the one. And now? Now what? I was in a club kissing some random trying to get over him. Trying and pathetically failing. How can I still love him? After all of it, how is it possible?

“That guy I kissed, it just reminded me of how I don’t have him to do that with anymore and I never will,” I say, glancing at Avery.

“Do you still love him?” she asks me, some sort of morphed pain and pity bleeding through her eyes.

“Of course,” I reply with no hesitation, “I’ve always loved him, it’s always been him and I can’t stop now, I’m in too deep. But I have to make myself.”

She gently pulls my body into her arms, “this will get easier, it’s still the first night. The feelings are fresh, the wounds are new and they need time to heal.”

“I just don’t understand,” I whisper, “I love him so much my heart bleeds but he never felt it back that same kind of love… and I was stupid enough to think he did.”

“I think he did,” she murmurs, “I really do.”

“You don’t have to do that, you can be honest,” I say softly, “it’s not like it can hurt anymore.”

“I’m serious I promise,” she replies, “you don’t see it as clearly we do. When you came into Gray’s life he changed in the best possible way. I mean I’ve not known him as long as his brother but I saw it. And they definitely did. He wasn’t the same, he was in love. I know it.”

“He kissed another girl,” I laugh bitterly.

“It doesn’t mean to say he never loved you like that,” she says.

“Suppose so,” I mumble into her.

“And for the record he was an absolute idiot for doing what he did,” she replies, a flicker of anger I wasn’t used to in Avery sparking for a fraction of a second, “actually there’s a list of words I would use that are way worse than idiot but we’ll keep it PG tonight.”

I crack a weak smile.

She softens her tone, “But seriously sweetie he’s losing the best thing he’s ever had in his life.”

“But Avery,” I say, my voice shaking, “I’m not sure I want to be lost.”

She hugs me tighter. There are no words that can fix my state we’ve both silently agreed, so she hold me as I stare up at the stars. Some glow, some twinkle, others gleam. Then they all blur as water fills my eyes. I blink away the lousy tears. I’m not going to cry.

“Avery…” I murmur hesitantly “can I ask you something?”

“Yeah sure,” she nods.

The questions are so weighted on my chest, it’s physically hurting me, “why do you think he chose her? What did I do wrong? What does she have that I don’t?”

“Oh sweetheart,” she murmurs sympathetically, “it’s not like that.”

“Then why,” I choke, trying to keep my tears at bay, “why would he…”

I trail off, the tears I was trying to express rolling down my face. The sobs get stuck in my throat and I’m unable to make a sound. I silently shake in Avery’s grasp, my lungs aching.

“You cannot sit here and think you are the reason for this. I won’t let you,” she shakes her head, “I don’t know why he did what he did, that I can’t tell you, but I do know for sure that it wasn’t you. You have no faults, you did nothing wrong, you’re beautiful, you’re brilliant, you’re smart and brave and kind and perfect. He’s the biggest fool of them all.”

“You think?” I snivel.

“I know,” she says, wiping away my tears with a gentle hand, “now come on, let’s go back in, have one final shot and a dance and then we’ll hit the streets at midnight, do something crazy fun and stupid, no murder please, and just breathe a little you know, forgetting all of this.”

“Okay,” I nod, biting the inside of my cheek to prevent more tears from spilling over.

I am strong. I am strong. I am strong

She stands up and dusts her little dress off before hoisting me up behind. She flashes a smile my way that reminds me of Jameson for a split second. I eagerly take her hand and we re enter. The lights feel as if they’re flashing brighter than before. The fluorescence stings slightly. The familiar aroma of sweat mixed with all manner of alcoholic drinks hits us as well.

Just as we’ve reached the dance floor Avery says, “Jamie’s calling, give me a second.”

She rushes off out of the back door, probably to hear him better, leaving me alone on the dance floor. I don’t really feel much like dancing so lazily drag my feet to the bar and take another shot. The liquid burns my throat and I feel somewhat alive as I slowly swing my hips and move my arms to whatever beat is playing.

I feel dead. I don’t understand how in the space of mere minutes I can go from feeling so emotive, so distraught, so melancholy to nothingness. A wave of coldness from empty voids and bottomless pits.

I hand touches my shoulder and I jolt as the unfamiliar touch makes me jump. I look up to see a man stood there, but he’s a little fuzzy. The alcohol is getting to my head.

“You alone sweetheart?”

Sweetheart. The word cuts like a poisoned blade. Grayson calls me that.

“No,” I respond calmly, positioning my back more towards him, hoping he’ll gage my body language and kindly leave me be.

“Well you’re very pretty,” he grins, flashing white teeth I’m sure he paid a lot for.

“I’m sure my boyfriend would agree with you,” I say coolly.

“Which one’s yours then?” he asks, clearly still not catching onto the several messages I’m sending him.

I shrug, “why do you care?”

“Maybe you’re wasting your time on him,” he smiles. Something about the smile makes goosebumps rise on the surface of my skin and an icy shiver run down my spine. Something about him isn’t right and I didn’t like it.

“I highly doubt it,” I reply nonchalantly, “but thanks for the offer.”

“Come on sweetheart,” he says, making my skin crawl, “you can ditch your boyfriend for a night, I promise I’ll be better. Ask anyone in here.”

My stomach twists and something goes off in me. Like a ticking time bomb that’s finally hit zero.

“Look here mister,” I snarl, “there’s hundreds of other women in this place that would love to get into your bed, find one and do it, but leave me alone. I’m not interested and I’m taken.”

“You heard her Dex, back off,” shouts a new voice.

I look up to see another man, with a striking resemblance to the one I was talking to, behind him. Brothers, I infer silently. Dex glares at his brother and then turns back to me.

“Okay, until next time then,” he says with a wink.

He skulks away as I roll my eyes. I go to turn back to my drink when Avery comes crashing into me. I gasp audibly before I catch a glance at her. She looks pale.

“What? What’s wrong?” I ask quickly, checking over her to make sure she was physically in tact.

“We have to cut our trip short,” she tells me, regret and apology lacing her tone.

My heart thumps in my chest and a million thoughts race through my mind.

“Gigi’s missing.”

And suddenly I’m very very sober.

***

LYRA’S POV

Finding out he was with someone else made me feel sick to my stomach. I can’t explain it exactly. It’s just this horrible awful tug in the gut. I am the other woman. I shiver at the thought.

I thought everything was going to be okay, that for a change, life might be on my side. I deserve it don’t I? To be happy, to be free, to be in love. I thought wrong. I always think wrong. I am the fool of a flower that let her pretty petals be plucked by anyone who pleased until she became a stem. Until no one wanted her. The tender truth of it all burns violently all over my skin.

So I dance.

Dance is my way to escape all of this, my freedom. The music begins and my heart aches louder, screaming in my ears. The pain coursing through my limbs that delicately dust the empty air. I reach out to touch something that doesn’t exist. I relax into a deep plié letting the music seep through my throbbing soul and form the moves. I do a gentle three step turn on pointe and the pace of the music picks up.

I hurt an innocent girl, who fell under the same loving spell that Hawthorne’s are so good at casting as I did. But I didn’t know. I didn’t know. I didn’t know. How was I supposed to know? I thought he looked at me differently, I thought his gentle touch he only used for me, I thought his words were mine to cherish. But I’m just another trophy in his grand cabinet. Another meaningless prize to collect on the journey to greatness.

I developpé sauté to perfection. I am nothing to him. And now, he’s even less to me. I pirouette and pirouette and pirouette, spiralling into furious thoughts. I’m angry. How dare he turn me into someone I am not. Making me betray my own morals. As if he has that right, that power. Men always feel so entitled, so deserving of power. He couldn’t just have one girl and be happy, no he had to find another. He had to act of his greed, the fatal flaw that poisons so many men. How many more will fall into greed’s bloodied hands?

I grand jeté until my thighs burn but I keep perfect positioning. I hate the fact that I’m feeling so deeply, that my emotions are so raw and intense. It’s too much for my mind to take, I’m so overwhelmed and head is splitting, pounding, screaming. My breath picks up the more grande jetès I do. My chest is so tight, so constricted, so suppressed. It feels as if an invisible force is choking me. I come to a halt suddenly and find myself paralysed in an arabesque, unable to breathe.

The music has silenced. Nothing dare move and the world comes to a standstill. I let myself get wrapped up in feelings I shouldn’t have had. I’m an idiot. Lyra Kane doesn’t fall in love, she doesn’t trust people with herself, she doesn’t let people in. Especially not Hawthornes. Never Hawthornes. I intricately move my feet. On pointe, pivot, flat, up, on pointe, down, in, out, over, up. At some point my mind hits a blank, a white room and I just move to what feels most natural. My mind doesn’t properly register the moves. I become aware I’m performing rapid battements and sissones when I’m deep in analysis. I should’ve seen the signs sooner.

The way he stared at her while we were dancing, the look of distraction and captivation in his eyes. The guilt that flashed across his face every time he got that little bit closer to me. The minute he had to take after our lift in the room we’d been locked in with Odette. It all made sense now.

My legs extend naturally as I leap with great height across the room. It was so pathetically unfair. Everything in his life is perfect, he’s got the money, the face, the family, the support. People would kill to be in his position, quite literally. And he takes it all for granted. God, how did I think I could love someone like that?

I travel with light and airy sauté passes. Everything to a Hawthorne is a game. Including people. I was his game. And he played me. Just like he played y/n. I only wish I could talk to her, tell her I understand how she feels but I’m probably the last face in this earth she’d ever want to see.

My movements are now sharp and staccato, jagged and uneven. The opposite of what a ballerina should be. Catherine Howal wouldn’t let me forget that if she were watching me today. My old dance teacher was always strict on me, but right now I missed the sharpness of her voice and her minor corrections. She made me the dancer I am today. I push the bittersweet memory of her away and my rage over Grayson bubbles over. Even his name now disgusts me. It used to be one that I craved to say, to feel my mouth curve in the shape of each and every letter. Now it’s just a reminder of my sheer revulsion for him.

I pirouette I don’t know how many time on pointe. I’m dizzy, but not from the turns but from the idea that I let myself be so easily tempted by a pretty face. I begin a fast paced sequence of fouettés and chainés across the space, desperately trying to hold myself together. I’m poised, I’m professional is what I try to tell myself. If only I had known, I wouldn’t have. Ever. I wouldn’t have even looking into those stupid gray eyes. But he knew, he knew how to manipulate my feelings, he knew what he had the power to do. I was a marionette that obeyed every string he pulled without even knowing it. He lead me on. He had a girlfriend and he lead me on. Why did he lead me on?

God, he’s even more of a jerk than I’d given him credit for. Hawthornes never change. With this painful honest realisation my movements gradually return to more fluid and flowing motions, interspersed with slow gentle turns. It’s ruined, the moment we shared. It’s now tainted. How can I even imagine such a beautiful kiss without feeling regret? Without tasting the bitter aftertaste that coats my mouth even now? I pirouette for the final time, getting so lost with each spin I’ve lost count of how many I’ve done. It’s an everlasting void of blurry scenery and my messed up mind.

I collapse into a helpless heap on the floor, finishing the routine. There is no fight left, no anger, no pain, no momentum. Just space. The little girl in her ballet flats is long gone. The teenager locking her pointe shoes away has also disappeared. The woman who lent her heart to a Hawthorne for far too long will never return again. Every part of me is lost. I’m not sure I even know who I am anymore. All I know is that, the dancer in me is broken.

***

YOUR POV

“Any word?” I rush in, Avery close beside me.

“We need to know everything,” she says, dominance in her tone.

We had arrived back on the island practically in a flash. My head is all over the place, jumbled with attempts to remember things that could help us find Gigi. My heart dropped when I found out. We couldn’t lose out Gigi.

“Y/n!” Xander exclaims.

He looks in shock to see me, both burnt and unburnt eyebrows raised, jaw dropped. Jameson wears a similar expression and so does Nash. It’s like they’ve seen a ghost.

“Yeah?” I reply bluntly.

“You’re here,” he says, eyes bulging.

“Unless I’ve magically become a hologram in the past 2 minutes,” I say looking at my watch, “yeah I’m here.”

“Right,” he nods slowly, before turning back to his computer.

“So Gigi,” Avery says, steering us back to the present.

“We’re just about to scout for her,” Jameson explains.

“And I’m attempting to search the security footage,” Xander calls, eyed glued to the screen.

“If someone kidnapped her wouldn’t they cut it?” I ask.

“The main footage has been cut but we’re Hawthornes,” Nash flashes a very Hawthorne grin, “there’s always a back up camera where they least expect it.”

“Unfortunately for us, it’s a very blurry back up camera,” Jameson grimaces.

“Oh,” Avery sighs.

“With horrible sound,” Nash adds.

“Fantastic,” I smile sarcastically, walking behind Xander to look at the screen.

They are right. The screen is black and white and pretty much the blurriest thing I’d ever seen. Our situation is looking quite dismal.

“I’m putting better back up security on my to do list,” Avery murmurs.

“I’ll second that,” Jameson says, kissing her cheek.

“We have to find her,” she says, leaning into him, “Jamie we have to.”

“I know heiress, we’re going to, don’t worry,” he soothes, giving her that look. The look that only men in love can master.

My heart feels sore and I turn. Then I realise why. The room suddenly feels so empty, so hollow. And I feel alone despite being surrounded by people. He’s not here. My head had been so caught up on my millions of thoughts that I hadn’t registered it.

“Where’s Grayson?” I ask out of the blue.

The whole room stands still. Everyone is frozen by a force I didn’t know existed until this moment. No one dare move, let alone breathe. A sickening chill rolls down my spine and I fear the worst.

“He’s outside,” Jameson finally says.

“He won’t move,” Nash adds quietly, looking down at the floor.

Xander sighs, “and we had to take the whiskey away from him.”

“You left him alone!” I yell, not meaning to sound so attacking.

“We didn’t know what else to do, he isn’t exactly a joy to be around right now and we need to find Gigi,” Jameson reasons.

“We thought it’d be best to focus on that, the sooner we get Gigi found, the sooner he’ll marginally snap out of dark era,” Nash explains further.

“I’m going to talk to him,” I reply, my tone sharp and definite. No one was going to tell me no.

Eyes snap up at me. All four pairs. I can read all of their emotions so clearly it’s painful. Elements of confusion, shock and pity wash over me, but I push it all to the side. What they thought didn’t matter.

“Y/n, you don’t have to do that…” Jameson trails off.

“No,” I tell him softly, “I do.”

He opens his mouth to argue.

“I can help him, you know that and so do I,” I say before he can get a word out, “so that’s what I’m going to do.”

***

He’s sat on the rocks, looking over the choppy water. The wind whips the hair across my face and back again. My cheeks grow rosy with the cold. He hurt me, but he’s hurting. I can’t let him hurt alone. As pathetic as it may be I physically can’t. Slowly I approach from behind. I know he can hear me but he doesn’t turn, he doesn’t even move a muscle. He just sits and stares.

I cautiously sit beside him, my legs hanging over the edge. The reflection of death’s face snickers at me in the water. Still, Grayson does not move. He remains a stationary block, robotic almost. I look towards at him and analyse his features. He’s sober. But oh lord is he broken. I turn away, any longer and I might’ve done something stupid.

“Are you okay?” I murmur, looking out to the moon kissed water miniature waves bobbing up and down.

“You’re asking me?” he almost scoffs. I can tell he’s been sobbing, his tone is thick and swollen with grief. It stings my soul, like antiseptic to a fresh wound.

“Why shouldn’t I?” I reply quietly.

“Because I hurt you,” he says, his voice barely a whisper.

“Just because someone hurts you doesn’t mean you have to hurt them too,” I respond, finally turning to look at him.

To my surprise his eyes are ready for me, already locked onto my every move. They meet and something washes over me, something that probably shouldn’t.

“How are you so kind?” he asks, something tender in his voice. It makes my soul squeeze.

“People need to be nicer to each other in this world,” I shrug in response.

“They do,” he says quietly, playing with his fingers.

“So,” I exhale, “are you okay?”

I already know the answer. He’s not. He’s filled with guilt and sorrow and hatred and anger and upset and conflict. He’s the furthest from okay you can get.

“Not really,” he breathes, “are you okay?”

“Not really,” I grin.

A ghost of a smile haunts his features. Who gave him the right to look so beautiful?

“Gigi will be okay,” I tell him confidently.

He shakes his head as pain constricts his features, “ we don’t know that.”

“She’s stronger than you think she is,” I reply quickly.

“She’s just a kid,” he growls.

“No, she’s not Gray,” I snapped fiercely, “she’s bold and she’s brave and she can handle herself, but we will find her, we won’t stop until we do.”

He stares at me. Eyes fixated, like I’m worthy of being looked at. My heart rate picks up and that’s when I realise that this is all wrong. I can’t be the idiot that lets him back in, I won’t be.

“What?” I ask.

He says nothing but his silver eyes still remained glued to mine.

“What is it Grayson?” I whispered, the wind barely carrying my words.

“I still love you.”

The words hit me like a tonne of bricks. I can’t respond. All the air is knocked out of me. His hand is in my chest and wrapped around my heart. He’s squeezed it between his fingertips and licked my blood greedily from his fingers. He stills loves me. And I know I still love him too, but I can’t say that. I won’t.

“How can I trust you?” I scoff, letting my rage take hold. It’s better than my love.

“I don’t know,” he murmurs softly. Did his voice have to be so soft?

“Fool me once, shame on you,” I state, “fool me twice, shame on me.”

“I’m sorry,” he tells me. I can hear he means it, I can see he means it but I can’t believe it. He was too good of a liar before, too talented of an actor. I can’t afford to fall for it again.

“Sorry isn’t good enough,” I press on.

“I know…” he trails off, voice hoarse, “but I don’t know what other words to say.”

“Then don’t say anything,” I snap, shooting him a fiery look.

“But I love you,” Grayson says, too much emotion decorating his tone.

“If you loved me you wouldn’t have kissed her,” I say, throwing it all back in his face. He needed to face the truth and so did I.

“I don’t expect you to forgive me, I don’t expect you to love me too, but I need you to know and hear it from my lips that I love you,” he confesses, his eyes not wavering for a second, pinning me down with their addictive nature. It feels like my hands are tied. I’m a prisoner to those eyes. I always have been.

“I’ve heard it from your lips a thousand times before today and you still did what you did,” I spit back, the words rolling from my tongue before I gave them permission to.

He falters, there’s no words left to say.

“I want you to be happy, that’s all I care about,” I tell him, my tone still slightly jagged, “so drop the guilt, I forgive you. But things can’t go back to how they were, not after this.”

They are all lies. Every single sentence. I’m avoiding the truth beating so loudly in my chest. I’m ignoring its petulant screaming. I’m such a hypocrite. I loathe him for his lies and then I return them with my own tongue.

“How can I drop the guilt when it’s all I know now?” he murmurs.

“You’ll find a way, you’re stronger than you think Grayson. You doubt yourself too often,” I sigh.

He doesn’t say anything for a while, but runs a hand through his hair, then over his face. After one too many best of silence he turns to me one final time.

“Why are you so good?” he asks me.

“It’s not a question of good or bad it’s a question of what’s right,” I say impatiently, “I’m not going to just sit here and let you wallow because that’s not you Grayson and you know it.”

“You’re an angel,” he murmurs, almost in a daze.

But you chose the dancer. The words are on the tip of my tongue but I don’t say them.

“No time for flattery, we’re wasting time,” I sigh, “let’s go and find Gigi.”

***

GRAYSON’S POV

We search for four hours straight until all of us are too exhausted to speak. We need to sleep, though we’re all too stubborn to admit it. As a collective we decide half of us are to get some rest whilst the other half stay up two more hours, then we’ll switch. I take the first shift, searching with Jameson. Xander is still inside still attempting decipher the body on the mini security camera or placement of Gigi’s phone and everyone else has gone to sleep.

Jameson and I are on the edge of the island, calling for Gigi with raw throats and pounding heads. I can’t believe I’d lost her. I was meant to protect her, look after her. Things like this weren’t supposed to happen when I was around. I’ve failed as a brother.

“What did she say to you?” Jameson asks snapping me out of my thoughts.

I look up. I knew exactly who ‘she’ was.

“Who?” I reply plainly.

“Don’t play dumb,” he rolls his eyes at me.

Sometimes it was annoying how well my brothers knew me.

“She asked me if I was okay, comforted me about Gigi and helped me pull myself together.” I pause, “she told me that wallowing isn’t what I do.”

“Are you sure she knows you properly?” Jameson raises an eyebrow with a smirk.

I try to crack a smile but can’t.

“I told her I still loved her,” I blurt out.

I don’t know why I say it, the words just come out. Jameson has that effect on me. Lying to him has always been difficult, I feel so transparent in his presence. And I know he’ll be honest, he won’t sugarcoat what he really thinks. Maybe that’s why it’s easier.

His eyes grow to the size of saucepans, “what?”

“I told her I st-“

“I know what you said Gray but are you crazy?” he asks me, looking semi-genuinely concerned.

“I don’t know,” I shrug, “maybe.”

“That was selfish,” he seethes, eyes blazing with fury. Similar to how they looked earlier.

“Selfish?” I furrow my brows, “she deserves to know!”

“No, you needed to get it off of your chest in a last ditch attempt to get her back,” he snaps.

I’m not fighting the truth this time. He’s hit the nail on the head. My silence unfortunately speaks volumes and my brother understands.

“So…” he exhales, “what did she say?”

“If I loved her I wouldn’t have kissed Lyra,” I say, her words rubbing through my head again.

“She’s right,” he sighs.

“She always is,” I say, my voice catching slightly.

“I don’t think she’s okay,” Jameson murmurs, “I don’t think Avery does either.”

“It’s all my fault,” I groan, closing my eyes.

I wish I could be taken out of her life, erased forever just so she could be happy. I deserve to hurt, not her. Never her.

“She shouldn’t love me,” I say, the words becoming more real when I say them out loud.

“No one decides who they love, it just happens,” he shrugs at me.

I open my mouth to reply but a familiar ringing cuts me off. My phone vibrates in my pocket. I presume it’s Xander for some sort of update so I answer the way I always do.

“It’s Grayson,” I say sharply.

I hear Jameson mutter something about how weird it was that I answered like that but I choose to kindly ignore him.

“I know,” the voice sings from the other side.

All the oxygen is robbed from my lungs and I struggle to breathe. Every muscle ceases to move and I become a picture frozen in time. It couldn’t be, she wouldn’t call me, it shouldn’t happen.

“Y/n?”

Her name feels foreign to my tongue in that moment, despite the thousands of times I’d uttered it. Jameson gapes.

“Grayson Davenport Hawthorne actually,” she corrects me, her speech a little slurred, “one s, one v and one h.”

“Are you drunk?” I ask bluntly.

“Noooo silly,” she laughs, “I don’t get drunk I’m always fine, perfect actually. That’s what you used to call me, perfect!”

My heart shatters, “you are perfect.”

She giggles, the sound so light and airy and beautiful I want to lock it away and play it on repeat to myself all the time.

“Where are you?” I question.

There’s a few beats of silence before, “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” I say, suddenly alarmed. Protection surges through me and all I want to do is run to wherever she is and scoop her up into my arms.

“I’m in a room,” she explains, soundly dazed, out of it.

“Your room?” I prompt her.

“Maybe,” she muses, “there’s all my stuff here but this burning liquid I’m drinking is not mine. It’s kind of hurting my throat.”

“Stay right where you are,” I snap, “I’m going to get someone to come and help you.”

I want the someone to be me. Why can’t the someone be me?

“Help? I don’t need help! I’m fine, always fine. I’m never not fine,” she laughs. I can imagine her tipping her head back with a hand on her stomach.

“I know lo-“ I catch myself again, almost saying love, “I know, but don’t you want a friend to talk to you right now?”

“Yeahhh I do,” she agrees, her words all mushing together into one.

“Good, someone will be right over-“

“Gray can you come?” she murmurs.

I stop. She sounds too vulnerable, too helpless for me to ignore. Her voice is small and cautious. It makes me want to weep.

“Where?” I ask.

“Here…” she trails off, “…with me.”

“Okay,” I blurt out before actually thinking about what I was saying.

“Then bye bye pumpkin pie,” she giggles, “oh my gosh I just rhymed!!”

“Yes you did,” I chuckle, the smile stretched out in my face physically agonising me. She could always make me smile.

I made her cry.

“Are you coming then?” she makes sure, with that soft defenceless voice again.

“On my way now,” I reply, almost as if it’s a reflex.

“Oh good,” she says and I can hear the smile in her voice. With that she hangs up. I shove my phone back in my pocket and meet my brother’s eye.

“She’s drunk,” I explain slowly.

“I heard,” he nods.

“I’m worried she’s going to do something stupid,” I admit with a sigh.

“Go and help her, I’ll carry on looking for Gigi,” Jameson says, as if it’s that simple.

“No I can’t do that,” I shake my head.

“Why not?” he furrows his brows.

“She hates me,” I say quickly, “you go.”

“She asked for you,” he points out, “and I think she’ll notice if I turn up.”

“Maybe she won’t,” I suggest.

“She can’t be that drunk,” he rolls his eyes, then sighs, “look Gray, this might be the last time she ever asks you for help, so go and help her, look after her, then leave.”

“This won’t end well,” I tell him. I can feel it in my chest and in my stomach. If I go there, I’ll lose myself and she won’t be in the right mind to stop me.

“Then don’t go,” he says with a shrug.

I groan, “but she needs someone.”

“You’re arguing with yourself Gray,” Jameson says. And he’s right. The only person who’s stopping me is me. I just don’t want to do the wrong thing.

“It my fault she’s in this situation,” I reply, “it’s my fault she’s on her own, drunk and at risk of doing something stupid.”

“All the more reason for you to go and fix it,” he says.

I stand in silence. That consolidates my answer. To myself and to him.

“Let me know if you get any word of Gigi, I’ll be back soon,” I say, sharply adjusting my suit jacket.

“Bye,” he salutes.

***

I’m quick to make my way to her, the worry sort of takes over and my instinctual protection kicks in. When I get there the door is unlocked, my first indication to how drunk she really is.

“Grayson is that you?” I hear her murmur.

Her voice is vulnerable but the sweet notes are all the same. If I were to hear any voice for the rest of my life I’d want it to be hers. I’d never tire of listening to it. I walk further in the room I see her, the moonlight streaming through the window is the only thing illuminating her figure. Her face is red and there are prominent dark circles underneath her eyes. She looks pale and hollow and there’s something not quite right about her eyes, their usual sparkle dimmed. A catch a glimpse of a glass half empty in her hand.

“How much have you had?” I ask her, cocking my head towards the glass.

“Not that much,” she grins lazily, stumbling over herself in an attempt to make her way towards me.

“You need to get to bed,” I say softly.

All I want to do is scoop her up into my arms and hold her close to my chest, taking in her sweet shampoo. I want to keep her safe, protect her forever but I couldn’t. I wouldn’t let myself. I make a silent promise that I won’t get too close, I won’t touch her because I know once I do I’ll fall in too deep.

“But I’m not even sleepy,” she pouts.

She doesn’t know what she’s doing to me. Those lips are killing me softly.

“Come on,” I murmur gently, gesturing to the bed.

“Nu-uh,” she shakes her head, “you’re going to have to carry me.”

I sigh and weigh up my options before lifting her up into my arms, knowing I shouldn’t be doing this. But I can’t just leave her. She squeals and giggles. An essence of sunshine shining back through the empty void I’d entered.

“Do you feel okay?” I ask her, lowering her down onto the mattress.

“Me? I’m fine!” she smiles, that beautiful smile, “are you okay?”

She tilts her head to the side and a chunk of hair falls over her face.

“I’m fine,” I say, moving it out of the way. It surrounds her like a halo.

“Oh well I know that’s a lie,” she laughs, “I’ve always known that about you though, you’re hurting. On the inside.”

“I am hurting,” I say, caressing her cheek, “but you’re hurting more.”

“I’m not hurting, I’m in the numbing process,” she explains with great enthusiasm.

“Hence the alcohol?” I raise an eyebrow.

“I call it happy juice,” she grins.

“Well no more happy juice tonight,” I explain to her.

“Why not?” she pouts, “it makes me happy.”

“It also destroys your liver,” I say, taking the glass away from her and putting it on the other side of the room.

“Come sit,” she murmurs, patting the bed beside her, “please.”

“I don’t think I should,” I reply. I have to stay strong, I can’t listen to my heart, my brain must have superiority.

“But I want you to,” she whispers.

My brain switches off. I sit beside her and as soon as I’m on the bed, her head falls into my lap, quite literally. It flops down as if she can’t hold it up any longer.

“Can you do that thing, where you massage my head and be all gentle with my hair, I love it when you do that,” she asks me.

When we were together I used to do it all the time subconsciously. If we were watching the television or cuddling. I never realised she loved it so much.

“I’m not sure you want me to,” I say hesitantly. This isn’t fair on her. She’s not in her right mind, she can’t make a decision properly.

“Of course I do!” she exclaims, “that’s why I asked you silly!”

“It’s not a good idea,” I murmur, only saying this because it is right not because it is true, “us being this close.”

“I disagree,” she says cheerily.

“You won’t like it when you sober up,” I warn her. Deep down I know she can’t even comprehend this, I know her mind if fogged over by alcohol and she doesn’t know what she’s really doing. But it doesn’t make me leave.

“I am sober-ish,” she says, “that’s good enough.”

“You are anything but sober,” I chuckle shaking my head.

“Head massage please,” she says, readjusting her head in my lap.

Slowly I comb the hair out of her face and eyes. My fingertips slide gently through her silky hair. The silence is torturing. Seconds morph into minutes until if feels like it’s been hours. I’m being strangled by no sound, suffocated by a blanket of blankness. To distract myself I weave my hands in and out in a rhythmic pattern.

“Why did you choose her?” a small voice asks making me jump. We’d been sat in silence for so long I’d forgotten that we could speak. My hands stop moving suddenly as I register the question.

“What?”

“Is it because she was prettier? Better personality? Funnier? Nicer? Happier?” she lists.

“I didn’t choose her,” I shake my head in defiance.

“But you kissed her,” she says, yet again. The words sting every time they come out of her mouth.

“That was a mistake,” I explain resting my heavy head back until it hit the headboard.

“So were all of our kisses a mistake too?” she asks, rolling onto her back so her eyes are gazing up into mine.

“None of them were,” I murmur in reply, the colour of them so mesmerising it was distracting.

“Then I don’t understand,” her eyebrows pinch together in confusion.

“You don’t need to,” I whisper running my fingertip over her knuckles.

She sighs and sadness ripples over her face. I hate seeing her with that expression on her face. It rips me apart.

“My chest hurts,” she moans softly.

“Where?” I ask urgently, running through every illness and condition that could possibly cause chest pains.

“Here,” she says pointing to her heart, “you broke it.”

My eyes grow glossy even though I didn’t ask them to. She lets me take my hand and place it on top of hers to feel the steady beat in her chest.

“I didn’t mean to,” I barely choke out.

“But you did and it can’t be mended, pain like this there aren’t any pills for,” she tells me.

“I’m sorry.”

“You said that before,” she smiles sadly.

“It’s true,” I whisper.

“Can you fix me?” she says quietly, “because I can’t fix me.”

My heart shatters into a million pieces, fragmenting into shards of pulsating muscle.

“Of course you can fix you,” I tell her.

“No I can’t,” she says, beginning to tear up, “look at me, this is the real me and she’s ugly.”

“This isn’t the real you and she is most certainly not ugly,” I assure her.

She giggles with tears rolling down her rosy cheeks. Beautiful even in tears.

“What?” I ask her.

“You use big words like ‘certainly’, it makes you sound very posh,” she chuckles to herself.

“I’m not that posh,” I reply.

She scoffs, “have you seen your house?!”

“Maybe I’m a bit posh then.”

“You know how ealierrr,” she slurs, “how you and me were talkingggg.”

“You might not want to continue that sentence lo-“ I stop myself from saying love. She’s not my love. She’s not mine to love.

“No,” she shakes her head, “no I do want to carry on actually…” she giggles bringing ther fingertip to my nose, “boop!”

“Okay,” I say softly, taking her hand into mine, away from my nose or any other poke-able part of my face.

“You said you still love me,” she says.

The beating in my chest begins to slow, as does my breathing, “I did.”

“And I still love you too.”

I can’t speak.

“But I can’t say it out loud, because then I’m an idiot for loving someone who cut me deeper than any weapon could ever cut me. And I tried to drink it all away, believe me I tried, but then halfway through my fifth glass I kind of realised it wasn’t working. And then I realised why. It’s because I still fucking love you, how depressing is that? You murdered my heart and yet it can’t stop beating your name. I mean it’s so on brand for me because my whole life people have told me that I always love the wrong too hard, that I get in too deep to come back out of and I’m just proving them all right,” she laughs and sobs at the same time, “I’m so stupid, so horribly ironically stupid.”

“You’re not stupid,” I snap.

“You’re only saying that because you still love me,” she groans, rolling her eyes.

“I would say it regardless, any competent person can see that,” I say.

“But you still love me?” she murmurs, her for eyes forcing the truth from my lips.

“I still love you,” I say.

I knew something stupid like this would happen but I’m not stopping it now.

“How? How can you still love me when you love her?” she asks, agony in her tone.

“I don’t,” I tell her sharply,

She furrows her brows, “you don’t love Lyra?”

“No,” I shakes my head.

“But you kissed her,” she says, tracing a fingertip across my bottom lips.

I shy away from her tentative touch, “I did but that was the worst mistake of my life.”

“Why?” she laughs.

“Because I’m losing you because of it,” I admit. She won’t remember tomorrow morning, she won’t remember what she said or why she said it. This moment will be lost in time and I’ll be the only one left to remember it.

“You’re just losing the outside me, I have a feeling I’ll always love you,” she replies.

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” I shake my head, “you’re drunk, you need to sleep.”

I need to stop this. I’m being selfish again. She’s pouring her heart out to me because she can’t control her mouth. It’s not fair and I won’t let her do it anymore.

“No I do know what I’m saying,” she insist, sitting up, “you don’t understand what you do to me and I wish I wasn’t so in love with you because maybe I’d be able to walk away more easily but I can’t, because this love isn’t just love. It’s something more for me.”

I’m in shock. A physical state of shock. It was more to me too…. I know I must go quickly before this escalates. It’s already gone far too far. Enough is enough.

“Look sweeth-“ I stop myself, “y/n, I need to leave.”

I stand up quickly and attempt to make a b-line for the door.

“No!” she yelled, yanking be back down. Her fingers clawing at my arm, like a scared animal, “please Gray, stay with me.”

“I can’t,” I shake my head, my face pinching in pain.

“You have to,” she begs, tugging at my arm.

I sigh, “you’ll be mad at me tomorrow if I stay tonight.”

“No I won’t silly,” she says, “please I need someone to cuddle.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I tell her. As much as I want her in my arms again, to feel her skin against mind and listen to her sweet breathing as she sleeps I can’t. I can’t do it to her, I won’t.

“Well I do,” she says, pushing me down firmly.

Slowly she crawls onto me and curls up against my chest. If the last twelve hours had never happened this would be totally normal and completely natural. Instead I carrying the heaviest stone of guilt I’ve ever lifted. I can’t leave her, but I can’t stay either.

“You won’t like this in the morning,” I tell her, hoping she might find to her senses.

“Well I like it now,” she yawns, cozying further into me.

“That’s because you’re drunk,” I explain, resting my cheek on top of her head. I smell her sweet shampoo and deja vu washes over me like a tidal wave. I’m swept under

“Grayson?” she whispers gently.

“Yes?”

“Promise you’ll just stay for tonight, then you can leave me for the dancer again tomorrow,” she says.

The bones in my chest ache and the pump that supplies me with blood crushed between fate’s cruel fingers.

“I’m not leaving you angel,” I tell her firmly, “not ever again.”

“I love you,” she mumbles, the words muffling against my chest.

“I love you too,” I whisper, planting a kiss onto the top of her head.

***

heyyyy guysss. so you’ve probably noticed this is the first fic I’ve posted in a bit of a while. It’s bc of exams and stuff and also this fic was so long. I got a little bit carried away mid way through but oh well… I hope you guys enjoyeddd 💖💖

am I dancer? Yes. The last time I did ballet? when I was about nine years old…. so apologies to any actual ballet dancers who are reading lyra’s routine and are thinking what in the world…

ANYWAYS I love love loved writing this and I know different POVs sometimes are a bit controversial but I felt like it was necessary here and thanks for readinggg 🤍🤍

also no one asked but I’m going tell you guys anyway, Lyra’s dance is based off of a song called girl with one eye by florence and the machine (omg it’s such a good song)

I wonder if any of you worked out my little clue 🤭🤭

hint: weiv fo tniop s’aryl

TIG masterlist

[shanastoryteller]

Happy holidays!!! Some Lady Mo would be amazing :)

a continuation of 52 53 54 55 56 57 58

The banquet finally ends, half the attendants significantly more drunk than is wise considering the competitions scheduled for tomorrow. Oddly, Jiang Cheng is among them. Lan Wangji has seen him drink often enough, but this is the first time he's seen him properly drunk in over a decade. Li Shuchun drags him back to his room with his arm slung over her shoulder.

One of Jiang disciples wolf whistles and Xuanyu sends them a glare that has him shrinking back and ducking his head, then frowning and giving her an odd look which Xuanyu misses since she's already turned away.

Lan Wangji is glad to finally have Xuanyu back at his side as they walk to their assigned room. He closes the door and Xuanyu instantly slumps, tugging on her belt and shrugging off her thick, heavily embroidered outer robe so it's only her thin white inner robe. He leans down, picking it up and folding it as she goes over to the mirror and starts pulling out pins. "Finally! Yanli-jie went way too far with this. My hair would have stayed in place with even half of these."

Xuanyu wears her hair simply and struggles with the more complicated Lan styles and ornaments the few times she's bothered. But her hands move smoothly and easily as she unpins the Jiang style, picking out each pin and unwinding the complicated braid.

There is so much he wants to say, so much he feels like he should say, but it's all tangled and confused and he's older than her, has scene more than her and endured the horrors of war she escaped due to her age, but just then he wants to bury his head in her skirts like he once did to his mother until the throbbing behind his eyes eases.

Xuanyu catches his gaze in the mirror, one side of her mouth quirking up in a smile. "You okay, Wangji?"

"You did not know?" he asks, because that feels less fraught than everything else he wants to say.

She lowers a hand to rest on her stomach. There's no hint of the child she's carrying there, not yet. "No. Yanli-jie figured it out almost immediately, though. In my defense, I've never had a child before."

He does not want to be indelicate, but, "You did not notice when your bleeding stopped?"

An odd look crosses her face then she shrugs. "It, um, never really started?" He stares and she adds, "I was really skinny, Wangji."

He remembers. She's still small, but there's muscle and fat where before she'd been angular plans of skin and bones. The robes she'd wore had disguised a lot and then when she was living with him and couldn't help but notice he'd try to ignore her even still, leaving her to her own training and her own devices until he couldn't anymore.

He can't decide who he hates more just then. Jin Guangshan, the Mo family, or himself.

"Come on," she says softly, "let's get some sleep, yeah? It's been a long day."

He nods, silently disrobing. By the time he's brushed out his hair and changed, Xuanyu is already in bed, curled on her side and her hair in an unbrushed, haphazard bed and in the same white underrobe.

She looks even younger, face relaxed and breathing even.

It takes him a long time to follow her into sleep.

[mojo-bro-tho]

Blood Sugar… Chapter 12

~For reasons beyond all of us, I won’t say much. But I will ask that we hold hands for this because oh boy I had a time writing this. Preemptive apologies, ahoy.~

Tags: @my-queen-rhaenyra-targaryen

Word count: 10k (yikes)

Content Warnings: Suggestive content that boarders on smut that might be a bit uncomfortable, bones, topics of death, less than mature actions, and depictions of anxiety

AO3 link!

Previous!

Alas, Poor Emmrich

The only good taste in Emmrich’s mouth was what lingered of the wine from dinner. The rest made the base of his neck feel tense. Iron and the filmy essence of lipstick. Like blood being swished through the gaps in his teeth. Dry, dyed hair ran against the knuckles hovering close to her jawline, scratching him.

He had seen the new growth of grey hair at the root during dinner. But the dye she used was too harsh on the threads, making him worried to run a hand through it on the off chance it broke from brittleness. Rather jarring considering the lack of defined lines in her features while being a similar age to him. Though the hair seemed to be the only frail thing about her, everything else was razored and angular.

The attack on his lips stung, taking in the unfamiliar scent of a home he’d never been inside before. Something woody hidden beneath multiple layers of cleaning solution, extremely clinical. This seemed like a good idea a few days ago… Perhaps he should have walked out the moment he’d seen the color of her dress. The bright red fabric gathered between his fingers, hand clinging to her hip. It practically glowed against her pale skin, and it did look nice on her just… Also made him feel oddly threatened.

Aside from her lips and teeth, he felt no real reciprocation from her. At least none of the intimacy he usually anticipated with these sorts of first encounters. No hands cresting over his shoulders, rising up his chest, or tugging at his belt. She stood at the vanity, long, thin fingers curled around the edge of the wood. And despite him being the one leaned into her, with a thumb gently smoothing over a still clothed stomach, it was distinctly her kissing him. Rushed and somehow coming off as annoyed by his presence.

It had been the same during dinner too. She mostly talked about herself, which he didn’t mind, he wasn’t exactly in the mood to discuss himself at length anyway. And he imagined she at least knew some things from Johanna. He was too distracted by the very reason he’d agreed to arrange the dinner. Every time his phone buzzed in his pocket, he waited for the moment she’d inevitably pull out a compact mirror to fuss over herself so that he could check who it was.

Because it was always Rook.

He’d chastise himself internally every time he replied to her. It was rude and frankly unbecoming of him to be on his phone at all during a first date, and especially given the circumstances. But he couldn’t help himself, even if he was meant to be doing this to take his mind off of Rook. It made the event at least tolerable. He didn’t want to be there. And despite the fact that he was currently pushing this woman onto the nearest flat surface of her bedroom, he had no real desire to be here either.

Maker, why was he even doing this? The phone in his pocket buzzed quietly, and a pleased hum escaped his throat. She had positively diabolical timing. It was so late at night too. Perhaps she’s working, it was a Saturday after all. The hand at the dress shifted, curving up into the underside of a bare thigh.

The memory of Rook was there again, searing hot like a brand against his impulses. He wondered why she always wore nylons or fishnets when her legs were more exposed. Wondered if all of them had cutouts like the ones she wore to the Memorial Gardens. It would make sense if they did, given her job, but part of him hoped not. First, because the idea of always having that much access would raise his blood pressure. And second, because the unfortunate satisfaction of tearing the cheap material apart was irresistible to his subconscious.

Rook existed in the endless void of his sight, eyes shut and locked tight. Could practically see the scornful smile on her pretty face if he tore open her clothes with his own hands. Some sort of cheeky retort already falling from her lips about how beastly he always seems to become around her. No doubt she would keep taunting him that way until the ability to form words became too laborious to bother. The echo of those shameless whimpers rattled at his brain stem. Nearly a petulant cry-

“There you are.” A voice carved into him, making every muscle in his body retract with a shudder.

When his eyes opened, shoulders pulling way, he found the steely eyes slicing through him. Her cheeks, high and proud, held no heat that he could see but the apparent condescending smirk on her face told him so much more about the predicament he’d put himself in. A red nailed thumb rose to swipe at the smudge he’d made of her lipstick. Then her other hand pressed and slid down the front of his trousers.

“Oh! Well, you were there for a second. Did I distract you?” She asked. It took an embarrassing amount of time for him to catch her meaning.

When Emmrich took a much needed retreat, he found his fingers tangled in the fabric of her underwear. He smoothed the other over his hair to hide the fumbling of his attempt to unravel himself. “Forgive me, Zara. It would seem I got ahead of myself.” His words partly swallowed the bloody taste. “Perhaps we may slow down for a moment?” Her brows, thin and perfectly filled with solid black, remained unmoving despite her eyelids lowering disapprovingly. Then her eyes rolled with a groan, pushing herself away from the vanity.

“Johanna did warn me you were sentimental. Pity.” And under her breath she sighed. “This is why I prefer the younger ones.”

“Pardon?”

“If that was all you ‘getting ahead of yourself’ means, then I’m not interested.”

With a slender arm, she reached for the back of her dress, strutting past Emmrich as though he were more of a plant than a person she was speaking to. His body remained unmoving, eyes fixed on the reflection in the vanity mirror until he saw the dress fall from her body.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be taking a bath. You are free to join me if you manage to grow a spine in the next few minutes. Otherwise, you’re free to see yourself out.” Zara waved him off nonchalantly, entering through a door on the opposite side of her and promptly closing it. He stood still for a few seconds. Waiting. The sound of rushing water soon came. He turned to face the door, almost impressed by how quickly everything shifted. Should… should he be offended? She certainly took a cut out of his pride, though the professor had plenty of that to spare at this time. And frankly, he didn’t exactly feel justified in being slighted because of what had been on his mind.

Emmrich sighed. The weight of a dull pain forming behind his eyes. He shouldn’t be here. Didn’t even want to be here. The only part of his night that he enjoyed was-

The phone buzzed again. A hand smoothed over his barely tousled hair, and he made quick strides over to the door. Back down the hall, with footsteps louder than he usually allowed himself to carry. Emmrich pulled the handkerchief from his vest pocket and began swiping at his mouth. On his way, he passed by a man, some years younger than him, carrying a vacuum cleaner towards the staircase who flashed a tight lipped, sympathetic smile. It would seem this is not an uncommon occurrence.

He was in his car not long after, slamming the door and fighting the urge to bang his head against the steering wheel. The massive house loomed high, hiding a majority of the moon and encasing his world in darkness once the overhead light faded. He pulled the phone from his pocket, opening his messages and rereading part of the conversation again.

‘Hey, I’ve got another question but this one might be stupid.’

‘My dear, there are no stupid questions.’

‘So I started War Torn Alienage. And at the beginning, the author quoted something from some Tevene document about the first Archon. I was wondering if this would be important enough for me to read something about it later?’

‘Initially, I did not see it necessary.’

‘Was there something specific to the passage that caught your attention?’

‘Yeah, hold on. I’ll find it again.’

The new messages were below. One having taken longer to send than the other, likely from some kind of delay. Emmrich felt a strike to his spine.

‘It’s this bit here. Sorry if I don’t get back to you before morning, I’m going to work and the service out here is pissing me off.’

Beneath that was a picture. Partially of a book and an Orlesian tipped nail pointing towards a line of text. But it was the rest of the image that caught him off guard enough to immediately force his phone into the passenger seat and start driving.

His grip split between holding the device down as if it were a living being and the wheel grew more vicious, trying to push the scar of the picture away from his memory. If she had not said she was working, he would’ve absolutely guessed. Did she mean to show that much? Knowing Rook, it was certainly possible that it was intentional.

Sitting in the driver’s seat of a car with her thighs well spilling into view. Most especially over the hem of her socks and the leather strappings with silver rings upholding them. Peeks of smooth skin glowing in the heavy, warm toned light. Just keep driving. Was she even wearing shorts? A few calming breaths through the nose. It was only a photo, and it barely showed her at all. The thought that it possibly didn’t even matter how much was revealed but simply the fact that he knew it was her that made him stir was disquieting.

Strife was right, he was doing ‘the thing’. And it was reprehensible that he’d let it get this far that simply seeing a sliver of her bare legs made him harder than anything that was happening in Zara’s room. Every time he attempted to calm himself, he only became all the more aware of the throbbing ache straining him. Then the flavor of his teeth not matching where his mind was firmly planted just made the experience all the more grotesque.

Rook wouldn’t taste of acrid blood and bitter wine, her mouth had been too close to his enough times to know that for certain. But at this point, he just felt juvenile for getting this worked up over nothing. The back of his skull bounced against the headrest.

The neighborhood was quiet. Sprinklings of light seeping through curtains were the only proof of life aside from himself. By the time Emmrich entered his driveway, he was doing everything he could to safely barrel his way out into his house. But at least he locked both the car and the front door behind him. So, he wasn’t a total wreck just yet.

The rituals of his home were merely a haze of motion to ease the suffocation of his clothing. His first instinct was to find the bar in his office in order to snuff out what was left behind. But his body turned on its own, heading for his room instead. The rings on his right hand pulled away in a fury, breath becoming ragged, head pounding. Metal clattered against the surface of his bedside table before he began rifling through the drawer.

Emmrich had often found himself asking the same questions. Why not just throw them away? But this time, as he grasped the delicate white stick from the very back of the drawer and brought it out into the moonlight, he could only find solemn gratitude. Its plastic covered surface still marked with a line of candle wax. And without thought, doubt, or care, he tore the plastic away.

What pieces of work men could be. The candy pressed into his tongue and stung like a shock to the mouth. Unbearably sweet and sending a toothsome shiver throughout his body. A perfect balm to soothe his own foolish decision and make his blood sing.

How noble in reasoning he could be. His free right hand reached for his belt, making quick work of unfastening it. Legs giving out and falling to the bed while working on his trousers. A hiss caught on the sticky surface of the sucker, freeing his painfully swollen length. Tongue swirling around the circular path of the sweet and giving an exploratory, dry stroke. It all hurts so terribly.

Men often think themselves infinite in their faculties. Express and admirable in existence. In apprehension, how very godlike. And how comical it is to see oneself be reduced to this. A whimpering husk of dust and skin, collecting sugary saliva into his palm. Imagining the taste of her. Mouth, skin, and sex. Wanting to simulate in lieu of having. Coveting in its most obscene shape.

The sounds of the world falling away with his shoulders hitting the bed. Mind made more of images than white or grey matter. Every axon, a basting stitch to hold him together. The thighs in that picture pressed into his ears. And the hope that she might look down at him from high above with a lazy smile only exciting him further would later reignite the devouring storm of regret when the madness stopped.

…

The clock in Emmrich’s head may as well have been running at the same pace as his heart rate. Which was to say it had been erratic, unpredictable, and often completely unmoving. He’d made it a point ever since Saturday to be more strict with his screen time. If he didn’t need his phone for work or potential emergencies with his son, then he may have just shut the whole thing off all together. It wasn’t enough just mute their text conversations because the temptation to check was still there.

Of course, he played it well. About as well as any man probably would be able to if in his position. Being given the attention of someone like her. And he still was, infuriatingly, determined to follow his friend’s warning. Despite these repetitive lapses in his discipline. Funnily enough, taking longer in between messages had done little to deter her from doing as she pleased or him from feeling even a modicum of comfort.

Once again, both of their next sessions had been outside, making Emmrich grow suspicious. It had been nicer out on Monday, so that was fine. But on Wednesday, it had begun drizzling. Thankfully he’d had his umbrella with him because Rook was still adamant that she wasn’t ready to go back to Blackthorn yet. He tried to press but she merely deflected and said they could ‘cozy up’ in his car if he was worried about a bit of rain. So they stayed outside.

But now, it was Friday. And Rook had not spoken to him yet, not even by the end of school hours. Correction, she had not replied to him since that morning. Which was equal parts a relief and a bit troubling. She was likely busy. Or possibly had no more inquiries for him. Though an involuntary thought had crossed his mind to go see her… No, he shouldn’t. She would be in Johanna’s classroom or moved into her office. Here, on campus, well within walking distance. This same debate cropped up last week too.

After he had dropped Manfred off at Belfry, where he’d had a nice chat with Vorgoth about how Miss Ingellvar was doing. Emmrich debated going back to his own room. Feigning to have forgotten something. If not only so he could at least have the chance to glance at her, but to make sure she's alright. After all, Johanna knew how to push. No. He can’t interrupt them, no matter how terribly he wants to.

If not only because it would be disruptive to Rook but also his friend would need to be contended with. That woman could smell blood in the water, regardless of how deeply it sunk. Her comment had not been forgotten by any stretch of the imagination.

‘He hasn’t fucked you yet, as he?’

She knew him far too well, better than Strife did in many regards. If he let her see him beside her, she would know. Possibly even if he wasn’t sure what that knowing was. Try to hide it all he’d like but Johanna ‘Never Cross’ Henzenkoss always knew something. So Emmrich forced himself to work once more.

In the cold depths of the Necropolis, the tips of his ears always peaked with pink. Slightly behind schedule today, but that would be fine. Many of the rooms here were only accessible with the presence of a faculty member and many of his colleagues had rooms reserved for projects both with or without students. However, many of the rooms were actually broken into parts, including this one. The door to the isolation portion locked behind him, leaving the dim light from the thin strips of windows above him to guide him through the sanitation process again. Soon after, he was able to enter the restoration chamber and add the appropriate layers.

His attention set to the table, ready to fill it. A new set of remains had arrived that morning. This one was in fact missing their entire left arm, so that was promising! Arranging every piece took a fair bit of time, and he always did so in full despite only needing measurements of the arms and hands. It helped him see the full picture. Because aside from just trying to find whomever the Hand of Glory belonged to, he was still an academic. There would always be something to glean from the deceased.

A light hum rumbled through his throat, one of the songs he’d played for Manfred today. Piece by piece, they came into fruition. A break on the first metatarsal was the initial curiosity. He reviewed the paper work again, no documentation of damage post excavation. So it likely occurred either closely before or after death, or possibly during burial. Another break, this time in the fibula from the same left side, a crack on the tibia as well. It would appear this poor soul was quite unlucky with their lefts.

Indeed, half of the arm was missing. Everything from the elbow down. Damage to the capitulum and trochlea suggested a removal of some sort. Plague, perhaps? Odd to only see it on the left side though. Typically they’d be symmetrical. A failed amputation was more likely. Although, the skull added a few questions. The break-

Someone knocked on the door. Loud enough that Emmrich could hear over the secondary entrance. He made quick work of turning the light off the table and shrouding the remains in a thin cloth before taking off the sterile layers. Another knock came as he re-entered the isolation room and from the sliver of vertical glass lain between the metal he could make out looked like a dark pant leg. The door was quickly unlocked and slowly opened in case whoever stood outside of it was too close. And he was surprised to find a figure dressed entirely in black and white.

“Merda, took you long enough-”

“Miss Rook?” He interrupted her huff. The surprised expression on his face must have been enough to make her crack a grin, as her mild annoyance faded like smoke. “What are you doing here?”

Rook raised a brow, as if the answer should be plain as day. “To see you? Duh?” See him…?

“But aren’t you in a session with Johanna?”

“We’re done for today. I came in at 3:00, it’s a bit past 5:00 now. And you said you work here when we aren’t together, so I got curious.” Without the ability to peer over his shoulder, Rook bent her knees to look below his arm. “Can I… go in? Or are we just going to stand out here and look at each other awkwardly?” That made him blink. A heartbeat passed before he poked his head from the door to glance about.

“You may enter.” He replied. Her perfume was stronger today, he noted that as she half hopped through the gap he’d made. Instinctually, he glanced at her attire. “You’re… wearing loafers?” Still slightly heeled, but different all the same.

She chuckled. “Yes, if my memory serves, I was told I can’t dress like a ‘lazy tramp’. So, I’ve been trying to go for a more modest approach with her sessions. Well, not totally modest, I guess.”

Her trousers were neatly ironed. Oddly prim for her but was brought back to something more recognizable with a ringed corset belt tucked into them. It was the blouse that was different. Rather than having buttons up the front, it was simply tied off at the ruffled collar with a black ribbon. The ‘not totally modest’ aspect of the ensemble was naturally just below. A teardrop shaped cutout that he tried his damnedest not to focus on.

“Figured she might go for something like this, considering how she dresses. No complaints yet but if you see me walking around looking like a chantry sister next time I’m with her, then you know why.” She joked with an unbothered wave. Hm, maybe that’s a scene idea she should run by Ashur. He might enjoy that.

“You look nice, if that is any consolation.” He admitted.

“And here I thought you fancied my more rambunctious fashion choices.”

“I do.” Emmrich watched her drop her bag to the floor, she had carried in nothing else. “Though, you could stand to wear your coat more often. It’s far too cold already in the year to be without one.”

“Aw, look who’s worried about-” Rook spun back on her heels and her demeanor faltered for a moment. “…me… Woah, you’re like naked right now.”

He followed down to where he thought her sights had landed. “Ah, my grave gold? Well, I suppose I’ve yet to take it off around you, haven’t I?” Not even in the garden.

With how wide her eyes had become, one might think he might have shown her something indecent. Or perhaps seeing him in this state had triggered the same memory for her as well. Without hesitating, she reached forward and took him by the forearm, bringing his hand up to her face.

“This is… so fucking weird.” Pressing both her thumbs into his palm, the professor nearly scowled.

“‘Weird’ is a less than complimentary remark to make, Miss de Riva.” But it would seem she did not hear him as her brow drew further together. The pads of fingers traced a path across the bends of his own, pointedly all where his gold had previously been.

Did she remember where each ring was? He supposed they had spent a lot of time together, perhaps she had memorized it. But that made him wonder how often exactly she was looking at his hands. And when? The idea of her watching him more intently than brief flicks of curiosity…

Oh, how could he possibly even conceive of acting cross at that face? So inquisitive and charming. And the feeling of her being so careful to avoid scratching him with her long nails, going between the gaps made him feel like his chest was being stuffed with cotton. “You called it grave gold?” She questioned, peeking out from behind his hand.

The words she spoke to him last week rang again in his head. Focus up, Volkarin. “It’s traditional.” He responds and manages to will the strength of Andraste just to pull his hand away. She does not resist it. “It’s like a dowry of sorts. Not everyone practices it nowadays, I’m afraid. But grave gold dates back to some of our earliest recollections of ancient Nevarran society. And pardon an anthropology professor for finding some allure to fragments of the past.”

When she thought about it, she guessed a lot of people wore gold in Nevarra. Though she never thought much of it since that was common amongst the Clans too. Without his hands to occupy her, she quietly stepped back and spun around to examine the small room. “So, you’re the romantic type then? Old fashioned? Very fitting.” She said with a bemused smirk.

“I hardly see wearing gold as particularly romantic, and I’d prefer to think of it as timeless rather than old fashioned.” Emmrich countered. But Rook was all the more tickled by it.

“It’s not the what, it’s the why.” She did not elaborate further on this point. “Why are you gold-naked anyways?” In her peripherals, she caught him making a gesture with his hands.

“I was working.” He answered.

“In here? Kinda cramped.”

The professor cocked a brow to the same side she tilted her head towards. “Not here, specifically. My work lies beyond.” He replied while looking towards the next door. This one did not hold a window, but Rook peered at it as though there was one regardless.

“No wonder I had to bang on the door… Well, the fist kind of bang… I had to knock loudly.” That second one was an accident and Emmrich almost snickered at it. Almost. She reached for the door handle only a moment later. Which she did manage to grasp and turn only for Emmrich to catch the edge with the heel of his palm and fingers clawing at the frame.

“And where precisely do you think you’re going, young lady?” Something flashed behind her eyes as soon as he said it, making dread splash in his stomach.

“To see what you’re up to. Pardon a prostitute for finding some allure in what others do in private.” She parodied his own words, making his eyes sharpen.

“Forgive me, my dear, but I did not give you permission to do so.” This was a terrible idea.

“Oh, is that all?” Rook swayed in a falsely guileless half-circle. “Then, can I, pretty please, see? Just a peek. I promise to be on my behavior, sir.”

It wasn’t the act itself that made his thoughts cloud with doom. It was the fact that he knew it was an act. And in a way, it was worse now than it would’ve been before. Because now she knew what he was capable of, yet she continued. If frailty’s name was Emmrich, it would seem wickedness’s was Rook. He felt his heart, thundering so loud it pulsed in his ears, begin to turn black.

“You may. But not as you are.” He placed himself in front of the door, lightly leaning against it. Rook thankfully backed away. “Contaminants and hazards are left here, so you’d have to follow some instructions before I can let you in. Can you do that?”

A blue tongue gingerly poked out from between her teeth as she contemplated that, taking an unneeded amount of time to answer. “Hm…Yeah. I think so.” She answered. “Just tell me what to do.” Honestly, he was surprised she didn’t try to tease him again. Emmrich approached the cabinet where his grave gold sat and took an additional tray from it, setting it on the countertop.

“First, you’ll need to remove all your jewelry.” A small pause.

“All my jewelry?”

“Any that have the potential of falling, which is typically all.” He clarified while facing her.

“Ah, okay, so the nipple rings can stay.” Maker- “Ha! Made you look.” Rook laughed fully while moving her hands towards the multitude of silver pieces decorating her ear. “I don’t actually have those. Well, not anymore. I used to but I had to take them out.” She still remembered how pissed her mother had been when she found out about them. The debate to get them redone again came up fairly often, but Rook never committed to it. Things like that could limit the amount of jobs she could get so it made more sense not to.

Emmrich decided to remain quiet, opting instead to watch the process of her nimble fingers removing bits of metal and let them rattle against the tray. And in the silence, he considered what Strife had asked him.

”So… I’m assuming you prefer silver.” Don’t frame it as a question, simply observe. Rook hummed.

“It’s popular in Antiva.” Technically true because anything expensive was. “But I also like what it represents, I guess. In Dalish culture, gold is associated with most of the pantheon, but more specifically Elgar’nan. So it’s everywhere. Silver is less common and almost exclusively used to represent his wife, Mythal. It’s rarely worn. And if it is, it’s usually out of reverence or mourning. To calm your spirit like how the moon does for the sun.” She took extra time to carefully unfasten the safety pin. That was far from the answer he’d been expecting. Rook rarely voluntarily offered information regarding her being Dalish. Mourning and reverence stuck out to him. “But just to be clear, it’s mostly the Antivan thing. I don’t really think gold suits me anyway.”

“What makes you say that?”

His question made Rook pause, rolling a small hoop between her fingers. “Don’t know. Just a feeling I get. Why do you ask?”

Because he vehemently disagreed. “Mostly wondering if you own any. Gold is common enough here that not wearing it raises eyebrows. So, for events, you may wish to.” With her ears now empty, he couldn’t help but picture the points lined instead in Nevarran colors. “Your watch will also need to be removed. But if you wish to take it with you, you may keep it in your pocket.” Rook slipped the watch onto the tray. “But Miss Ingellvar herself was partial to gold as well, naturally.” Dainty odds and ends, unique pieces all layered together to create something bold where each piece aided the other. Very Rook.

“I have one piece.” But she never wears it. She was told that she was allowed to but… it always put a bad taste in her mouth. Then again, if it was to pretend to be Franzsika then it’d only be for a couple hours. “We have an event near the end of Harvestmere, right? I can wear it then. Do you think that’ll be enough?”

“Be sure to wash your hands thoroughly.” He instructed, searching another cabinet for disinfectant wipes to clean the door handle. “And that depends on what it is. A necklace? A ring, perhaps?”

“Hairpin.” Interesting, Emmrich thought to himself. “If it isn’t enough, I could always borrow something of yours. I doubt anyone would notice you’re one bracelet short.”

‘Borrow something of yours’ made his blood slow to a crawl. Relax. Rook doesn’t know what she’s saying. She isn’t from Nevarra. Her comments may typically run the line of suggestive but that one was an innocent slip. But he couldn’t help the thought it invoked, especially after he just considered what pieces she might enjoy. His palm began to hurt from how fiercely he was gripping the door. It was an innocent mistake. The sound of rushing water filled his mind.

“I’m afraid my collection may be ill-fitting. But I can see about possibly finding something for you if need be.” That was, in its own way, far too thrilling of an endeavor. But it would be leagues better than her suggestion.

“Will do, Professor.” She saluted while going to turn off the faucet.

Silence befell them. Rook drying her hands as Emmrich stowed away her earrings and watch beside his gold. Then washed his own hands again. She patiently waited for him this time. Once he was ready, the professor entered and allowed her to follow behind him. “There are lab coats in that second drawer there. Masks and gloves are above.” He informed. “Coats are organized by size. You will likely need a small.”

She nodded and quietly set to the task, repeating it as well for himself.

“Before we continue, I must ask.” His volume shifted slightly with the covering being settled onto his face. “How comfortable are you around the deceased?” Rook looked over her shoulder towards him, eerily stagnant.

“Like animals or people?”

“People.”

She contemplated for a moment before replying. “Can’t say I have a whole lot of experience. But I can manage.”

“Are you certain?” This may have been another foolishly rash decision. But Rook nodded.

“I’m a Crow. I’ve got this.”

“I hardly see how being a Crow might lend you assistance in something like this.” Rather than retort, she chuckled. In a way that told him he didn’t want to know the answer to that. “Regardless, if you find yourself feeling unwell, I’d like for you to tell me.”

Shockingly, Rook did not argue. Emmrich guided her towards the table, having her take a stance opposite of him. And although the light had been turned off, some aspects of the silhouette were distinct enough that many would recognize it.

“I didn’t realize we already had a guest. Or maybe I’m the guest?” She asked rhetorically with a bit of somber laughter.

“They are my current subject in trying to uncover more about the Hand of Glory. But I assure you, they will not be disruptive.” Those types of jokes normally helped students ease into specimen work. “The room remains dim so that the table can be more visible. Are you ready?”

The young woman nodded. And Emmrich twisted the knob. Rather than focusing on the table itself, he watched her carefully. Hands apprehensively curl around the edge. White gloves and shroud ruffled together like snowy hills. With most of her face hidden, he had to rely on her eyes to tell him what was going through her mind. Which was strangely more difficult than he’d imagined. Pupils shrink with the harsh light and her brow did not move. But her sight did deepen. A ceaseless fascination that intruded on anxiety.

“Oh…” It was like he could hear her heart fracture at the sight. Taking pity. Rook continued to examine everything in full, including him. Checking to make sure he was okay, possibly? “Not even a flinch from you. I guess I can’t doubt your expertise. Not like I did before, but still.”

“Experience is the greatest teacher. As well as an open heart, to not stifle one’s self in the process. Though, I can promise you that you will always be more scared of them than they are of you.” Best to keep his tone light, even if his warning was genuine.

“They can’t get scared, so I hope that means they don’t get jealous either. I bet they’ve never been worked on by such a dapper archeologist before.”

The nerves were there, but Rook had looked right at him when she said it. Impossibly sobering. It took a moment for him to recontroll the slackness of his jaw that was thankfully hidden. “You choose the most extraordinary time for compliments, Miss Rook.”

“Is that… bad?” Andraste, no, don’t do this to him now. He felt it again. Saw it right there, pulling taut like a thread begging to be snipped.

“Quite the opposite.” He answered. “Would you like me to continue as if I were teaching you?” Emmrich asked.

“Mhm.” The soft sound in response allowed him to reach for the lower edge of the sheet.

“We shall start from the bottom.” Slowly lifted with both hands, then settled again midway through the tibia. Rook’s shoulders rose a bit, but made no other indication of being unnerved. “I’m assuming Johanna is starting you with anatomy?” She hummed again affirmatively. “Then we shall go over that as well once we’re done with our current lesson. But I am curious if you’re able to notice anything even without the textbook knowledge.”

In the time they’d spent together, Emmrich had found Rook to be rather intuitive. And impressively observant. This would be an ample exercise to see just how gifted she was in that regard.

“The foot is a bit broken.” A good start. Her finger hovered a few inches above, tracing the line of the left side’s first metatarsal. “Do you know how it happened?”

“If you don���t mind, I’d like to hear your theory first.”

Lavender eyes briefly flicked to his own. “I’m not exactly trained yet, Professor. I have no idea what I’m talking about.”

“Humor me.”

“Well, the humerus is actually in the arm-” She stopped herself with the sound of him breathing in a bit more sharply. “Fine. If I had to guess, probably a stupid one… It looks like something landed on it, maybe.”

“What makes you say that?”

“The break is shaped sort of like this.” She bent her wrist to demonstrate. “Something hit it from above. Something heavy.” Emmrich smiled, and it showed in the crinkle of his eyes.

“Very well done, Miss de Riva. I thought much the same.” The rise of her brow told him she was taken aback by being correct. “I’ve told you before, you’re quite clever. I may just have to have you assist me more often.”

“Oh, as if you hadn’t already guessed that. You’re the teacher here.”

“And a teacher should not be afraid of hearing another perspective. Perhaps, after our base history lessons are finished, we may have our lessons here. There is no learning quite like the hands-on sort.” He took the shroud in his hands again. “Are you ready to see the next segment?”

“Yes, please.”

Emmrich would ask the Maker to give him strength for that comment but it was clear no god was listening in on his plight. It wasn’t even how she said it… Or maybe it was, but not for that reason. He silently raised the sheet to the hip and folded it once more.

“Damn… Poor bastard.” Rook muttered while softly leaning into the table. “That’s a nasty one. Looks like a trauma break. But it cuts in at the side and not the top like the foot.”

“Indeed. Strange, isn’t it?” He was honestly quite impressed.

“Could be a coincidence. Two separate injuries not related to each other, maybe?”

“That is a possibility. Though I doubt it.” He raised the sheet again to reveal the ribcage. But more importantly, the missing left arm.

Rook’s fingers twitched. Eyebrows scrunched with obvious displeasure at the sight. Emmrich watched as she took a step away from the table and took a deep breath with her eyes forced shut.

“Rook? Are you alright? We can stop if you wish-”

“I’m okay.” She sighed. Blinking back whatever thought had overcome her. But he wasn’t convinced and lowered the shroud back to the hip. “I said I’m fine.” The professor rounded the table to stand adjacent to her. Without hesitation, he reached forward and pinched her arm through the fabric. Only a little. “Hey!” She exclaimed.

“There is no need to lie to me about your comfort.” He chastised.

Rook glowered, though on her it just came off as endearing. “You can’t just pinch me when we aren’t playing the game.” She said with a slight pout. “And it wasn’t even a lie.”

“It was a half truth. In which case, I shall return half of the punishment.” A thumb pressed into the same spot on her arm, swiping tenderly. “Better?” The evident softening at her lower lashes told him yes.

“Can we keep going? Just.. maybe skip the arm?” Part of him wanted to ask. Usually, it was the skull that garnered this reaction. But something else nipped at his thoughts.

“You needn’t push yourself. I was eventually planning on you observing this type of work, but not for a while yet. It isn’t necessary for us to rush you into this. You said you wanted to see what I do, and these days it’s a lot of this.” He explained. “I arrange bones, catalogue measurements, cast judgements. Is that not enough?”

Rook turned pensive for a while. Eyes dawdling on their journey away from the table to examine the pattern of his vest. But when they eventually met his own, he couldn’t quite find a way to make sense of it. The affection he tried to deny was there, trampling over nervousness. Nervousness. How many times had he genuinely seen her act bashful?

“I’m starting to think that with you there rarely is enough.”

And the clock stopped. Everything did. Because somehow, in the entire time they had been speaking, he’d neglected a vital artery in need of pressing. She was here, right now, off the books. Rook was with him and not while fulfilling their contract. How had he neglected that until this moment? She walked out from her session with Johanna, took the time to find the room he’d reserved, just to see what he was doing. Because she wanted to see him.

The world folded in on itself as if it were nothing more than paper. It might as well have been, compared to that way a single look from her could make it all seem so trivial. Every worry, every fear, crumpled between her hands, no more real or significant than the wrappers concealing her candies.

A thought overcame him. An impulse born of his own wonder taking root. Resituating himself at the head of the table, he found the top of the sheet. Peeling it away and watching carefully. With steady movements, Emmrich scooped the skull into his hand. Allowing the underside of the mandible to rest in his palm while fingers upheld the occipital. Staring briefly into the sockets. His body turned, hip slightly leaning against the edge of the table.

“What are you doing?” Rook asked.

“Just admiring how carefully crafted mortality is.” He mused. “The curation and subsequent cultivation of both the dead and the forgotten is my life’s work, though I never personally tire of it.” The gentle adoration laced in his voice, a sharp contrast to the grimness beholden to him, was fascinating to Rook.

“Well, that’s history for you. Intrigue everywhere you look. And also where you don’t.” He heard the smile fading in. This was the first and possibly the only opportunity he had where he could be candid.

“You know, in many respects, I do envy you, Rook.”

She sputtered half a laugh, as though what he said was unfathomable. “Really?”

”I can hardly imagine what it’s like to be you. Though I do try. Admittedly, not unlike how I do with the deceased” He slowly shifted his gaze between the skull and her. “Kind, quick, and at times all-consuming in your presence. You haven’t the faintest idea just how enviable that is.”

“You cut a pretty intriguing figure yourself.” She replied, deflecting once again and tapping him on the calf with the side of her shoe. “Do you really think of me like that?”

“I may be looking more closely than intended. But something thrills at having the company of a striking young woman who seems to perplex me at every turn. Especially if she’s shown… unexpected interest in someone she’s not meant to.”

In the small gap of silence, fear and assurance grappled to dominate his mind. But at the forefront, was her standing hand in hand with clarity. The endless questioning he felt, the terror of impropriety or rejection, was a string made tight between the empty distance of their chests. He could ignore his own affections, grinding them into nothing but dust even if it hurt. But hers, he could not, would not. He knew now what he’d seen. And that clarity came with an itemized list of every moment it should have become obvious before he realized the fact that she was here. He pulled his attention back to the sockets. Their emptiness, a morbid comfort.

“You really weren’t what I expected.” She had said something similar before. The fact that she didn’t deny what he said made him lightheaded. “I suppose I didn't think you’d be so sweet, but I really like that about you.”

Emmrich grinned to himself. “You humble me.” Admiring her eyes again, he saw honest virtue. Vulnerability soon followed from both of them. “May I show a greater aspect of work?”

“Go ahead.” Encouraging without hesitation. He began to remove his weight from the table. “Close your eyes, take a breath.”

There was a fraction of a second where Rook looked up at him with foreboding. But it instantly melted into mischief. Her eyes did close, and in knowing her, knowing the parts of her that truly mattered, he waited. One lid peeked open. “Ah.” Emmrich softly scolded, and a bit of the mischief filtered into him as well. “Slow. Deep.”

Rook obeyed this time. In the darkness, she felt him. His hand grazing down her arm, still perceptible through the multiple layers of sleeves. Taking her by the back of her wrist to guide her. Until he could shepard her to the crown to the skull where her touch melded to its shape. And then the weight of his palm atop her.

He moved her carefully. Weaving a path for her intrigue to be sated. The cloth bound pads of fingers smoothing over the brow, rounding down closer to the jaw. She felt something. Even through the gloves, the shapes were there. A large, splintering crack somewhere between the temporal and the parietal. But she did not pull away, instead weakening whatever remained of her trepidation to caress it as though it was a lover’s cheek.

“We are all born, thrown into the great currents of time.” He began, allowing his sight to darken for a moment and anchor himself to the warmth of her. “Here, now, we may be able to glimpse into the far reaches of that tide. To see as they see.”

Rook traced the fracture several times to commit it to memory. Every gap of silence never being empty. Always filled with a sense of palpable devotion to something never fully known.

“When we care for the dead, their echoes abide with us.” Echoes… “Thoughts and passions. Hopes and desires. Aspects of their beginning and always the end.” Rook opened her eyes, and found Emmrich looking directly at her. Searching for evidence rather than an answer. “Do you feel that?” He asked, applying the most subtle of additional pressure.

“Yes.”

“Tell me, what do you see?” Emmrich watched her look down at their hands, tilting to the side.

“Sudden impact. Lots of force but dampened by…something.” Large surface area but not deep enough to break through. “Helmet?”

“Potentially. Though one was not found at the site.”

“What was found then?”

“Clothing, mostly.” He replied.

Rook’s voice lowered, speaking more to herself than to him. “I guess that’s where the arm comes into play.” And in her mind she heard her mother’s voice. ‘Falon’Din enasal enaste.’ She didn’t know if this person had been elven when they were alive. But just in case, she repeated the prayer again in her thoughts.

“One must hope that, despite the end, the journey was worthwhile. And with diligent work, we may yet learn who this person once was and bring them some proper peace.”

“Yeah. That would be nice.”

“Hundreds of years may separate us. Thousands, even. Cultures and morality building fortresses that we may only climb as ruins. But here, in taking care and in learning, we find the greatest commonality. We all die. And in the remnants of what was left, we may find that we aren’t as different as we claim to be. Aspects of ourselves being born from the fruit of those long gone. It’s what I love most about my work, and I theorize that in some ways it isn’t too dissimilar to what you love about yours.”

The air felt like it was rushing up her body in an attempt to sweep her from the linoleum. Emmrich’s words, rather than sinking into her, floated overhead. It was difficult for her to understand how these two things could possibly be similar. But it was him saying so, and he wouldn’t lie. She somehow convinced herself of that certainty.

“For someone who’s scared of dying, you sure have a pretty way of talking about it.” She remarked.

The professor had a habit of making her feel small but notably not insignificant. A tiny thread that was lovingly woven into the tapestry of existence itself. Beyond comprehension, beyond reason, and even further beyond callousness. Where she often saw nihilism in the vastness, Emmrich cradled kinship. Entirely ironic, or hypocritical in a poetic sense.

He must’ve found whatever evidence he’d been seeking, as their hands well away. Silently returning their new friend to the table to join the rest of themselves. The man kept a steady hand there, bound to the topmost curve of the bone.

“Because the shades of life run even deeper than any of us may know, Rook. And with that in mind, there is something I must confess.” His posture remained perfect, and frightfully calm. Voice holding none of the anxiety she typically found in their past interactions. Only this one was nothing like anything else she’d come to understand. “If your attentions go beyond charming flattery or voracious curiosity, that would interest me indeed.”

The organ swelled. A dark and melancholic tune. “I think they might.” The words tumbled before she could think to try and lie. He was getting closer. Or perhaps she was, it was impossible to tell. It didn’t matter either. Drawing each other in. Every shadow made more jagged, denser, inescapable. The cold at her neck combined with the furious heat of her cheeks. His eyes, so full and expressive, lingered wistfully on the lower half of her covered face.

“Careful there, Sweets…” She whispered, roughly pushed through the mask that hid her.

“What’s there to be careful of?” A torrent swirled about his brow and he felt all his breath leaving him. Rook’s gaze never faltered.

“I can see what you’re thinking, remember?” A small puff of air escaped her, and he was denied the feeling of it rising to meet his skin.

A still gloved hand rose. “Then, if you'd be so kind, tell me what thought has overwhelmed me this time, my Dear. I can’t seem to quite grasp it myself.” Fingers hooked into the strap and slowly pulled. The ghost of a touch from covered joints ran up the shell of her bare ears. In a way, both of them were stripped. Barren of the weight that tethered them to what they were and left behind only the bloody, raw sinew of who they were. And so every touch, no matter how light, was excruciating.

Rook shivered. The slight twitch of her waterline and the stifled yelp caught on her tongue told him he’d just found a weakness. Her ears were sensitive. But she did not attempt to stop him. Oh, he must be careful not to make the poor thing suffer. The strap pulled over the point, and she was revealed to him in full once more.

“You’re thinking about kissing me…” She sighed.

“Perhaps I am.” Maker, forgive him for the thoughts her smeared lip gloss painted. Or smite him for it so that he might find merciful rest from the cacophonous hammering behind his ribs.

“So you better be careful.” Despite her words and his inability to tear his sights away from her mouth or eyes, he felt her mimicking his own act. Slowly peeling away what hid him. The last defense. “Since it’s a very bad idea.”

That made him pause, brow furrowing as his hand retreated. “Because you don’t want it?” He asked earnestly. Those pretty, purple eyes seemed like nothing but a well of sorrow attempting to drown him.

“Because of what comes after.” Rook swallowed. “It’ll be scary”

It took him a moment to collect himself. “There are more things in the Heavens and Earth, little Rook, than are dreamt of in my terror. And being ignorant to that would make cowards of us both.”

She was already rising on her toes, and Emmrich bending his shoulders and back down to meet her when she could rise no further. The heat of each other’s breath stuck to their mouths but… But one must be cruel, if only to be kind. And so, where bad begins, only what’s worse will rot like remains left behind.

“I’m not what you want.” She protested as the gutting sensation lifted to her throat. The sides of their noses was the only point of real contact between them.

Then she saw Emmrich’s eyes. Just as sharp as they had been in her dream many nights ago, just as lethal and precarious. And he moved away. “I would ask you not to make judgements I can make for myself, Miss de Riva.”

“You can’t make a good judgement when you don’t know everything. And you don’t know me.”

“I know more than you give me credit for.” He countered.

Rook scowled, briefly biting her cheek. “You’re a good person, Emmrich. I can tell. And I’m not.”

As sweet of a fantasy that this was, as much as she’d let herself get carried away in the ‘what if’s’, it was far too malicious to make reality. She’d let it get too far. She always lets things go too far. And once she did, she made bad decisions. Desperate ones. Every second that passed was another where Rook’s strength drained from her. It’d be one thing if this was just a Rook interest. But it wasn’t. The proximity between her and ‘Rook’ stretched unnaturally with him around. She’d have to be a truly heinous person to not at least warn him. It wasn’t fair.

For a handful of seconds, Emmrich entertained the idea that she was making an excuse. Like this whole thing had been a game, just to toy with him, and his heart shattered. It would be easy to think that, given what she had just told him mere minutes ago. But it did not last. Evaporating into nothingness just as quickly as it had been conceived. Because he soon found that it wasn’t a lie, at least not an intentional one. No, Rook believed it wholeheartedly. She wanted this but felt guilty, and he understood that feeling all too well.

“I disagree.” He argued, and a sense of tenderness covered him. Overriding the immense need his teeth held for her bottom lip. It was a kindness that befuddled Rook.

“That’s not how it works.”

“And I simply don’t believe you.” Though he stepped away from her, his burdening presence remained a constant. A hundred different versions of him would have wrapped his arms around her waist to claim her mouth as his, to show her the error of her self judgements. But a thousand others would act as he was now. “To use your own words against you for a moment, you are a good person. And I can tell. You may choose to hide it as best as you can. But you cannot decide for me how I ought to interpret it.”

The professor, ever the proud sort, straightened his spine and softened his expression into one of neutrality. Before adjusting the mask hanging off his ear to resituate where it was meant to. And going back over to the drawers to find new gloves. Rook stood there, dumbfounded and blinking. Enraptured by the sort of haunting chord that could only come from someone dying on the keys.

“That’s… that’s it?” She asked. Emmrich looked over his shoulder.

“Of course it is.”

“Why aren’t you mad?”

“I’ve found that anger is rather unbecoming of a man of my years, in most circumstances.” He answered simply. “Were you expecting something else of me?”

“Fucking maybe!” At this point, Rook was confusing herself.

“Such as?”

“Like- Che cazzo? I don’t know!”

Moments like these, though they were rare, proved just how different they were. It was hard for Emmrich not to see this reaction as the fatal flaw of naivete. Youth paid its penance with complication and contradiction. Asking for one thing, but meaning another. Wanting something else, only to need what they can’t see. And the sacrifice of being the older of the two bit in his veins. Every beat of his heart aching with want, with need, with fear. But it would not be enough to make him reconsider.

“This room only has one exit.” He began, turning slowly on his heel. “You rarely put your phone in your pocket, so I assume it’s in your bag. And you took off your watch before entering. I would ask you to consider those points for a moment.” Emmrich didn’t raise his voice, simply stating a fact. And he waited some seconds for it to sink in. “If I had done what you’re suggesting, and you are suggesting it, what sort of man would that make me?”

“I don’t-” Rook… hadn’t thought of that. She bit the inside of her bottom lip to avoid saying something even stupider. Emmrich tossed the old gloves aside and approached her once more, dropping his voice to something soft and quiet for her.

“I shall tell you now, whatever sort of person they are, it certainly isn’t who I wish to be. I hold no desire to go beyond your readiness. And I would beg for your forgiveness if our time in the gardens told you otherwise.”

“That isn’t what I’m trying to say.” Her head shook furiously.

“Yes, it may not be what you are trying to say. But it very much is what you’re saying.” Hesitantly, Emmrich raised his hand. Worried that the advance might be counterintuitive. But Rook leaned into it, allowing her cheek to sink into the cup of his palm. It was just instinct. With a sublet lift, he guided her gaze from his collar and to his re-covered face. “If I were to believe you had any reservations, I would not overstep. I can promise you that much.”

Rook’s shoulders tensed, rising like a cat on the defense. Why was she so pissed off? Isn’t this the part where he’s supposed to get so swept up that he kisses her even if it was a bad idea? This isn’t normal. Is that what she expected to happen? Nothing about this was normal. Is that what she wanted to happen? Rook was impossibly confused, and that was decidedly very irritating. “You’re not getting what I mean.”

“I’m afraid I do.”

Emmrich felt the rise of embarrassed heat against his hand, and Rook quickly moved around him. A series of half formed curses stabbed with her tongue in a blend of languages that, from Emmrich’s perspective, sounded an awful lot like… “Vaffanculo-stupid-merda-merda-merda-fenedhis-fuck-” Along with a few others that didn’t come out clear enough for him to understand.

Catching the swirl of white cloth, she was throwing the coat and gloves onto the counter, Emmrich tried to follow. “Rook?” The mask crumbled into her hand before finding its place in the waste bin. Back into the isolation area, she yanked her bag up off the floor, went to the cabinet, and dumped the tray holding her belongings into the worn pouch. He was not far behind after that. “Can you please stop for a moment?”

She did not answer, already having undone the lock and pushing herself out the final door, then into the hallway. Hardly able to breathe, let alone consider she should probably do as he says and try to. Stomach twisting into knots and gnawing on her bottom lip. Too much proximity. Too much, not enough, way too much. Having an increasingly difficult time flipping the switch. Just put on the face. Put it on. Smile. People are watching so fucking smile.

The corners of her mouth upturned as she passed by someone, a real student, who returned it in kind. They always did.

[scoundrels-in-love]

This could be the one (Could this be the one?) Our new year

When Meryl storms to scold her grumpy old neighbor for misfire of fireworks, who she meets instead might just change the trajectory of her new year. | VashMeryl | First meeting | Fluff | Also on Ao3 | | Commission me! |

Meryl’s evening goes from bad to worse with a sudden burst of noise and color in her neighbor’s garden.

She’s been fighting a headache the entire day while three articles demand her full focus, tomorrow’s work party looms over her like an axe and her general dim mood around holidays gnaws away at a hole in her chest. 

“For fuck’s sake,” she exclaims to no one in particular and pushes her chair away from the table angrily, sparks still firing off beyond the window. Her boots and winter coat are put on with equal annoyance and Meryl practically stomps over to the gate of the property next to her.

She’s never gotten along well with the old man next door, not since he decided he had any say in how she kept her garden and generally poking his nose in her business. Nothing she did was half as disruptive as this, Meryl groused as she rang the bell with more force than needed.

But instead of the expected grump, a young man with messy mop of blond hair near tumbles out of the house and down the driveaway. He is bundled up in a bright red coat and when he skid-halts at the gate, huffing and puffing, she has to tilt her back to have a proper look at his face, that’s how tall he is. But it’s a pretty face, Meryl has to admit, even through her annoyance. Angular, brightened by his awkward smile and expressive blue-green eyes. He looks nothing like her neighbor and she hadn’t known he had any family in the first place.

Still. She’s here for a reason. With her hands on her hips, Meryl juts her chin out: “Excuse me, could you please tell Mr. Geoff to wait until New Year’s for his obnoxious fireworks? Some of us would like some peace and quiet when the calendar doesn’t dictate otherwise.” 

The man flushes and shrinks a little on himself, a hand scratching at the back of his neck. “Oh no, that was me. Mr. Geoff doesn’t live here anymore, I moved in last week.”

Oh.

Shit.

Well, actually.

It’s not like she’s in the wrong, even if this is one hell of a first impression to make.

“My statement still stands,” she doubles down in the typical Stryfe fashion, as Roberto calls it. 

Her new neighbor shrinks beneath her stare and his whole face falls. It’s almost the theatrical perfection of misery.  “I am very sorry about that, miss. But I can explain, I swear. There’s this kitten that lives in my backyard, I keep trying to capture it to bring inside, but she always eludes me. And while my friend was helping me set up the fireworks ahead of time, we noticed her again and in the rush to get a hold of her, he dropped his cigarette and accidentally ignited the chain we’d just set up. It wasn’t on purpose at all!”

He speaks so fast she barely catches everything, gesturing to accompany his story, and now he’s giving her unreasonably effective puppy eyes. The combination of it all is somewhere in the miracle zone between annoying and oddly charming (closer to the latter) and Meryl feels her disposition shifting accordingly.

“Well, if that’s the case, you’ve definitely scared her off with fireworks for the night if not more,” she states and watches the man’s shoulders slump. “However, if she does come back, you’d have more chances in the future with a trap, rather than chasing her around the yard. If you want, I could help you set one up.”

Bright blue eyes widen almost comically as he gasps, clasping hands together, which is when she notices his left is curiously clad in black leather glove while the other is bare: “Really? You could?”

“Yes, I’ve written an article on it, so people would know how to set up traps for local TNRs,” she nods, confidently.

In return, she gets an almost blindingly bright smile from the blond. “That’s wonderful, miss! You're a reporter? Amazing! Would you like to come in? Oh, I forgot to introduce myself - my name’s Vash Saverem.” He fires it all off all the while opening the gate and gesturing an invite and extending hand for a shake, all of which Meryl accepts. 

“Meryl Stryfe,” she says as he leads her further inside and realizes that despite everything, her headache has eased as if Vash has miraculously melted it with his overeager energy.

Maybe there is something to look forward to in the next year, after all.

[tiredfoxtf]

Joel is so fascinated by how unique every human is, he finds himself comparing Etho and Tango. One thing he's oddly captivated by are their eyebrows, especially Tango's. They're so expressive and the little stray hairs remind Joel of a tree shedding its leaves. Meanwhile everything about Joel's face was a deliberate design choice, each hair and eyelash placed by hand.

Tango carefully asks Joel if something's wrong, he's just been staring at his face. Joel denies everything and claims he was just on stand-by for a moment, shut up

Human faces are not only unique, they are imperfect. There are no perfectly symmetrical features, even if they seem symmetrical at first glance. This, combined with the fact that human traits are not "tailored" for each person makes it fascinating to study them to Joel. Even though every person ended up with their faces by pure chance Joel thinks it's so curious how many people ended up with a face that matched their personality. Or a personality that matched their face? Joel isn't sure on the causality and he wasn't about to run his logic in circle of chicken and an egg dilemma.

But Tango was angular and sharp, but in a disorganised sense. A perfect reflection of his chaotic and anxious character. But he had that curious and concentrated look whenever he was working on something, his traits became sharper and more symmetrical or perfectly asymmetrical, depending on level of confusion. His face always lost in some of it's angular nature, softening every time he would be pleased with something.

Etho, on the other hand practically always wore a mask, so most of the times Joel had to judge his already limited expressions by just eyes and eyebrows. Etho's features were always soft and smooth, especially when unstained by strong emotions. He gained more straight and angular shapes whenever he was truly laughing or annoyed at something. Even in confusion and skepticism his eyebrows and eyes hardly loose their smooth silky nature. Etho only subtly had a change in wrinkles around his eyes whenever he was being mischievous or lying.

Joel has been caught staring on more than one occasion, but he always had a dozen of excuses that he would juggle through. He isn't watching their faces when he professionally makes up another one. He doesn't want to know what they think. He doesn't want to see Etho's raised messy unkempt eyebrow be raised as his smart eyes would try to discern Joel's hidden intent or Tango's puzzled look with a head tilt and wrinkle between raised eyebrows as if looking a bit under different angle will help him to understand Joel. He didn't want to know they know he lies without a second thought. He doesn't want to confront the fact he doesn't know what he wants more to be something like them or with them.

[getvalentined]

there is no reason for this other than that I was reading through RTGT aloud to check for errors (because that's how I do that) and thought it might be fun to record and play it back. I did a little cleanup, but not a lot, if that's not ridiculously obvious. It was a good way to test the mic on my new headset.

Transcript, snippet taken from chapter 5 of RTGT:

The inside of the house was dim, lit only where sunlight squeezed through the gaps between boards on the windows. It had been abandoned since the Crisis, so it was no surprise that there weren’t many active signs of human habitation, but Cloud was surprised to find most of the furniture he’d seen on his last visit still seemed to be in place, everything now covered in a thick layer of dust. Still, the house seemed barren with no tea towels on the wall pegs, no dishes in the sink, no pots and pans hanging on the rack overhead. All the knobs had been pulled from the stove for some reason, left lined up on the counter, strikingly white compared to anything else in the open, even through the grime. When Cloud picked one up, the void in the dust underneath seemed to indicate they’d been there since the employee charged with residence had finally left sometime after Meteorfall. “It’s a fire risk,” Vincent explained. “If the stove were still powered, something knocking into one of the dials right or left sharply enough to activate the hob could burn the place down. It’s much more difficult to accidentally turn just a stem.” “I guess so,” Cloud agreed, frowning. “It’s still kinda...weird, though.” He looked at the backside of the knob, then to the stems on the stove, then back. He’d cleaned the stove face enough times that he didn’t really need to look, but he had to double-check anyway—it wasn’t the same stove, so disparities in design were likely, but his memory proved correct. The stems were metal, the cross-section shaped into a smooth arc not unlike a hollow tube cut lengthwise, with one notch about a centimeter down—and another much closer to the end. The one further down was unfamiliar, but it was also a bit ragged, clearly not properly machined, added manually to line up with the depth of the knobs that had been removed. The stem slot on the back of those knobs was slightly worn down from use, but oddly angular, a hexagon with a plastic stopper as opposed to the smooth semicircle of the stems. “The stove is the same kind we had, but these aren’t the right knobs.” He picked up another, checking the slot on the back and finding the same sectioned plastic hexagon instead of the metal half-circle from his childhood. “They’re kinda….new? Not new, I guess, but newer. Weird.” Vincent made a curious sound, moving in to look over Cloud’s shoulder at the plastic attachment, then turning to the stove itself. He reached down to run the index finger of his right hand over a metal stem, testing the shape of it, tapping with one fingernail as if testing the material. “This is quite old,” he said at last. “It was probably fairly expensive for its time. It could be original to the structure—the knobs would have been damaged in the fire and need replacement, but it would be difficult to find genuine hardware for an appliance this old.” A cold shock rushed through Cloud, eyes widening as he looked to Vincent. “What?” “If the original knobs were bakelite or some other early to mid-century polym—” “How could this be original?” He interrupted. “The house burned down. They replaced everything.” Vincent pursed his lips just slightly in thought, eyes narrowing, the crimson glow within brightening by the slimmest measure. “Contrary to their image, Shinra never actually had unlimited finances,” he said slowly, not looking up. “I know Veld, the director before Tseng, oversaw the rebuilding of Nibelheim. He did the same with Kalm a few years prior, and…he’d done similar in Banora, just a little prior to the formal launch of the Jenova Project. His work on complex coverups was highly regarded within the company even in my day, mostly because of his rather spendthrift nature.” At last, Vincent raised his head, giving Cloud a look that seemed to suggest caution, although his words offered something else entirely. “Old Nibel construction was very stable, so I doubt this place burned to the ground. Anything in the house that survived the fire would have been salvaged for reuse.”

[handsofaman]

“The fuck is this?”

Warm shafts of light poked through the rusted, shattered windows of the warehouse. The for-sale signs smothered on every tarp glinted in the glow of aged and mostly functioning fluorescent lamps. In the center of the room, catching the warped rectangular sheen of a few windows, was a mound. Oddly shaped, with all kinds of angular and vaguely mechanical points jutting out of the thick canvas tarp, it was without a shadow of a doubt the centerpiece of the exhibit.

“Oh, that?” The curator tried to stifle his grin, fumbling in his pocket for the remote as an old, worn-out crane squealed. The winch stuttered for a few moments before dragging up the cloak, revealing the titanic, hunched figure beneath.

It was a battle frame, bigger than the ones they had on the Air Force base. Everything about this one looked off. Its body just bit too bulky and angular, its head dashed in an antenna and shielding around its burnt out mono-eye. From foot to helmet it was adorned in bright white paint, only broken up by a black panel on the right shoulder.

“Jesus… you’re allowed to sell these?”

“It’s not a fighting vehicle, moron, it’s an antique.”

“Antique my fuckin ass man, it’s got a missile rack.”

“Hey!” The owner glared at the guest, his eyes narrowing as he almost protectively leaned his arm over the things knee. Its leg alone was nearly twice the width of his torso, and even hunched over it poked its head through the wooden girders and threatened to break through the sheet metal roof. “This thing’s from the lunar war, ya hear? Type 91 Sternjager, limited production and even more limited survival rate.”

“Lunar war? Fuck, that’s gotta be worth like a couple million.”

“Millions? Jesus Christ, will you have a little respect? This motherfucker saved our country and you’re worried about-”

“The hell kind of name is Sternjager? Why’d we be using a German MAX?”

The curator’s eyes twinkled a little at the question, grinning as he looked up at the veteran’s enormous arm. Crossed over its chest and resting against the monumental rifle between the goliaths legs, its arm still bore the faded logo of the ICAR. A white Pegasus over a black shield, ‘Victory Over Honor’ emblazoned below.

“Well that’s the beauty, we didn’t. 5 noble, good men decided they’d defect and help save America.” He nodded slowly, eyes shut as he thought back. He’d never been to space, but he could picture it in his head. Clear as day, he could see them. See their wizened faces, the resolve in their eyes as they carried that bomb through the abyss and into the heart of the rebel stronghold. God, he wished he was there. Able to watch as the nuke pierced the heart of the moon. Sure, they lost the war, but what’s there to win when you’ve decimated so much.

[timesleatherjacket]

Vice Versa

Written for @flashfictionfridayofficial! With the prompt:

[over on ao3] Fandom: Doctor Who Pairing: Tenth Doctor/Rose Tyler WC: 719 The console room being upside-down's one heck of a way to wake a person up. And what's with the rabbit-themed walls?

Rubbing at her eyes, Rose steps out onto the ceiling. And slips down the curved wall with a yelp. Scrabbling for purchase, her fingernails scrape across worn copper, then oddly-indented roundels… before she rolls to a stop at the bottom.

"Ow," she says.

Overhead the door that'd led her into this mess clicks shut; the quiet sound echoes through the cavernous space.

"Sorry, sorry," a cheerful and all too familiar voice calls. "Everything's just a little… wonky, right now. I'll get it fixed in a jiffy!"

On automatic, she looks down.

Below her cyan gleams across thick branches that stretch outward from their coral base, catching on wild hair and a beaming angular face.

The Doctor's currently clinging half-way up one of the struts like his very life depends on it, sonic screwdriver held in one hand.

"Looks like you've been trying to fix this for more than a jiffy," Rose calls back. "How's this happened?" She eases herself into a sitting position, trying to ignore how her stomach's currently doing backflips on how far off from the safe ground she is… and the stings from newly borne grazes. Won't be surprised if she winds up with bruises after this, that was far from a fun fall.

"Ah yes, well," with a grimace, he scratches behind his ear, "she doesn't like the rabbit-themed desktop I er, installed."

"The what?" She squints at the odd shapes situated around the roundels. Usually they're hexagons but these have sets of rounded out-rectangles sprouting out that look a lot like… "Oh."

Fiddling with the sonic's settings, the Doctor hurries on with adding, "With all that jabbering on you did on the phone with Jackie about chocolate eggs and all of that. I thought, Easter, you know, bit of celebration, bit of fun! Bring a bit of a festive touch to the ship!"

"An' you didn't think to ask about stopping off to celebrate it with me and my mum?" Amusement bubbles up before she can stop it, knowing fully well how awkward he can be about anything close to 'domestic'. … Despite his whole time spent celebrating Christmas with her shortly after he'd regenerated.

"Welll…" He trails off, squinting at the monitor blaring dimly down below. Then points the screwdriver at it. There's a whirr, an irritated grating noise similar to someone clearing their throat, then… the rabbit outlines around every roundel are replaced by angles again.

And Rose realises she's being turned around mid-air - floating in place.

Before gravity notices it exists and pulls her down at a surprisingly gentle pace. Trainers clacking against the metal grating, she turns to catch a blur of pinstripes halt before the console.

Tapping on the chunky keyboard, the Doctor turns the monitor screen off before twirling to face her, tucking the sonic screwdriver back into his pocket. "Told you fixing it wouldn't take too long," he says, sounding way too smug over sorting out something he'd caused. "Now, what do you say to visiting a particular planet over in the Oryctolagus system? Has giant rabbits over there. Just imagine it! Fluffy giant rabbits, with floppy ears!"

Running her hand through her hair to disentangle the mussed-up strands, she quirks an eyebrow at him. "You're still thinking 'bout the chocolate eggs, aren't you?"

Tilting his head a bit to the left, he leans further against the console's edge. "Who says I am? Might not be." He tugs at his ear. "Well, little bit. Can't go wrong with those ones with the little surprises in the middle. Pralines. Chocolate itself used to be a luxury item, you know. Up until the late 19th century. Speaking of luxury items with surprises inside - Jewelled Fabergé eggs! They were grand gifts created for Russian Tsars by Peter Carl Fabergé himself."

"Could always stop off to pick some of the Easter eggs up," Rose suggests, keeping it casual as she goes over to rest against the railing. "Head over to the… Oric-whatever system."

"Oryctolagus," he corrects. Tapping out a random beat against the coral surface, he turns to eye the doors before looking back at her. "Could do. Quick pop in, then off again. Just… for the eggs."

"Just for them," Rose agrees with a small grin.

And he grins back at her, that small moment of hesitance gone in an instant.

[bettergeology]

I don’t spend a lot of time thinking about sculpture. I don’t know much about its history, famous sculptures, influences on modernism or whatever – but I love this piece. (Thoughts about sculpture below.)

It’s tucked away in a corner of the big park in my neighborhood, next to an old bridge that’s since been removed and is now a dead-end path. I found this by accident, and I’m sure others have as well. It’s called Uroboros, by Chuck Kibby (1979), and is unmistakably a product of its time. I don’t know why, but it exudes an essence of the 70s. It’s made of concrete stained brick red with brick-size holes in the front. Angularity in conjunction with the cylindrical form and wavy ends. It’s very non-pretentious I think - partly due to its location off the main path - and the incessant greenery of the Pacific Northwest has colonized its surfaces and recesses so as to emphasize the forms and contours of the sculpture. 

Art critics sometimes call work like this “Plop Art” – a non-endearing term to describe large works of public art usually paid for in part by taxes. Public art is often contentious, I think in part because we are so focused on humanitarian or bureaucratic problems we see rather than making public space fun and valuable. How do you justify spending a hundred thousand dollars on viewable concrete art when there are people eating out of dumpsters?  In a time and place where everything is expensive, rapid urban developments are largely congruent, extreme political tension, art is - oddly enough - more important than ever.

This work is nearing the age of being historic and is no longer cutting-edge Modernism, so its power as modern art is now softened, accessible, even welcoming. I’ve spent dedicated time and effort over the last couple years trying to understand more about “Fine Art” because the range of human expression is fascinating but often difficult to understand. It turns out that all there is to understand is that all art needs to do to be Art is elicit a feeling - good, bad, angry, lonesome, wistful - and everybody’s feelings are unique to themselves.

My own local sculpture in the park is not much to look at, or think about, and maybe went unnoticed even when new. Maybe it was tucked away because somebody thought it looked out of place. I don’t know much about its history, but I’ll probably read about it just because it could be interesting. The moss encroaches more every year, and it never gets completely cleaned off. The moss ties it to the landscape of the park, camouflages it into the riparian greenery along the creek very, very slowly eroding the cement and returning it to the Earth. 

Somebody talked about this piece better than I HERE, and some more history can be found HERE.

[lightnersdream-archive]

BLACK FOOTED FERRET (AJPW)

DESIGN:

i think its really cute honestly. the body is slinky enough (especially when running/dancing) that its immediately recognizable as a ferret to me. i'm often on the fence when they make the face of an animal that i envision as pointy or wedge-shaped flat (like the otters, lemurs, sugar gliders), but this is a design decision ive always been on the fence with since the original AJ classic designs like the otter and lemur so this is basically just keeping with theme.

i honestly think some of the most lastest animals like the sugar glider, ferret have looked a lot more in line with classic design style than ones like the quokka.. i will say the newer model style of making everything very "angular" i'm mixed on. it's a little hard to see in pictures, but all the models have very sharp edges, like each section is made of "panels". eg, the tail is four panels, if cross-sectioned twice you would have a perfect cube. you can see it on the paws and legs as well. it's part of the effort to make the 3d models match the current AJ 2d style. they've done varying levels of this throughout the years and some classic models have it too, but since 2023 when i believe they changed modellers/designers they decided to really amp up how angular the models were and have only continued to increase it. not consistently, but generally

i think it works and looks very clean and stylized sometimes, and less others. i think its MOSTLY pretty good here aside from the paws looking a little strange and certain animations not playing nice with the angles, leading to weird rumpling effects because the "seams" on the panels are pixel-sharp. otherwise im neutral on it

it DOES have other patterns and they DO fit the aj style this time (unlike the leopard)! they have a handful of your basic classic patterns like stars, hearts, swirls, leaves, etc. those are all pretty basic this time, just being the plain decal placed at random spots on the body, but they've been doing that for years beforehand so that's not a change. it does have 3 other completely unique patterns though! which is always fun

ANIMATIONS:

they're all preddy good also! the animations were pretty rough for a while after the modeller change but theyve gotten a lot better recently. the dance is simple but smooth, the play supposed to be a "weasel war dance" i think, which i really like. the sit IS NOT nice to the angular design, causing a lot of weird rumpling, and the jump is a little stiff and awkward, but that's all i can really say about the sit/sleep/jump animations, they're perfectly fine

unfortunately all the animations were very clearly rushed this time because they have little quirks to them, like the idle doesn't loop properly so there's a pause on the last frame every time where the model goes stock still before looping again, the jump rotates oddly, the one arm jitters during the dance animation, etc. everything is a little stiffer than usual. it's minor but shows they ran out of time to finish polishing them which is kind of what happens when you insist on a new animal every month

overall weasel/10 i think its really cute ! one of my new favorites. ive been wanting a playable ferret for ages

[b-afterhours]

Avenue of Sins: Neon

A Sequel to Avenue of Sins

SUMMARY: ‘90s. It’s the aftermath. Jaded, Bill and Alma navigate their new lives as they try to drag themselves out of the dark debaucherous trenches they had once ensnared themselves in. It’s easy to forget their evils when a silver lining introduces itself into their lives but can they create a less hedonistic life that would be just as satisfying?

WARNINGS: adult content, mature readers only.

The completed first series can be read and found here.

Chapter Sixteen

April 1993

In a musty, oddly humid boxing gym in New York City, Bill was picking out dumbbells ten pounds over what he usually curled. He had been back for a week now. He had fallen back into his old routine, but his mind had been flooded with thoughts and plans he hadn’t quite imagined having. Forming and rearranging them. Making pros and cons lists. Ultimately, he left Seattle with work to do. 

He was deep in thought as he worked out, in the pushup position, holding on to the dumbbells and interchangeably lifting them when he rose. He had lost count a long time ago. Sweat was beading on his forehead, running down the length of his nose, and dripping off the angular tip. His mind was far off thinking about Alma. How she broke down when they arrived at the airport to catch his departing flight.

Alma had to face her reality again. She was in a bit of a mood, but she stuffed it down. Bill could still sense it. He didn’t mind how clingy she was on the last day he spent at her apartment. However, it felt a little overboard, even for her. It didn’t shock him, though. She had been subtly cluing him in about how she didn’t want him to leave during this trip. While it was hard to make out her drunken mumbling when he put her to bed after their night at The Rooster, again, she told him not to leave. Nearly begging before she went lights out.

He had pulled into a parking space at the airport and looked in the rearview to see that Echo had fallen asleep on the ride and sighed, knowing she’d be grumpy being woken up. Alma had suddenly sunken into herself and stared out the window with her hand over her mouth. She had gotten a bit of freedom, and now she was dreading him leaving and going back to doing everything on her own. She feared this. That she’d get a small taste of her old life and start questioning the one she was living now. She felt like a terrible mother for those thoughts. Even if the reprieve from everything was much needed.

“Alma?” Bill spoke carefully, finding her behavior concerning. 

He saw her other arm holding herself, and a light sob escaped. He bit his lip, unsure of what to do. “Hey… Look at me.” He softly pled. “What. What can I do?” 

Though she wasn’t looking at him, he could see tears glinting down the side of her cheek. He tried to reach out to her, but she just shrugged him off, which slightly irritated him. 

“Look at me,” he said again, more firmly. 

“No,” she cried. “Stop talking, and I’ll be able to stop.” She said it with a shaky voice. She was even surprised at her behavior. She knew everything had been building up inside her, but it hit her at such an inconvenient time. She thought she’d be able to hold it in until he walked past the gate, at least.

“No,” he said, shaking his head, unaccepting. “You can’t just hold this in. It’s making you sick. I-It’s kind of scaring me. Can’t you just look at me?” 

He could see her trembling as she held her breath, but his words caused the tears she tried to hold back to slip from her eyes. He huffed and stepped out of the Jeep. As he strode over to her side of the car, he saw her quickly cover her face with both hands before he opened the passenger door. 

“Alma, please,” he said sadly standing in front of her outside the car. 

“I don’t want to do this.” She choked out a sob but then fully succumbed to her tears. Unleashing them into her hands. Bill quickly unbuckled her and pulled her close. “I don’t want you to leave.” 

Bill tightly shut his eyes and felt his heart break. “Alma, I’ll be-” 

“No. Please, don’t go.” She said, now holding onto him tightly.

He pursed his lips and looked up at the sky, blinking quickly, when he felt his eyes water with her pleas. It felt eerily familiar. She had once begged him not to go during the last week he was in Strathburg, in her old room, when the sudden realization he would be moving really hit her. It was the first time he’d ever seen her cry. He couldn’t help but think she looked beautiful, even in her distressed state. No one had ever been so vulnerable in that way in front of him before.

“This is all my fault,” she sobbed. “I feel so fucking stupid. I should just leave too.”

Bill swallowed the lump in his throat harshly. “You were only doing what you thought was right. But, Alma, you can’t just hold all this in. I care. You matter to me too.” He could feel her tears soaking through his black shirt. 

“It feels so wrong to complain, but I need you. I see her, and I see you, but you’re not here. I can’t do it anymore,” she cried. “I want to be done with all this.” 

“You’re almost done. I can’t let you quit…” He took a deep breath. “I have this feeling that you really don’t want to leave Seattle…” 

“Bill. I don’t care about this place,” she sniffled, trying to settle herself with a deep, shaky breath. 

“Okay…” he said, but he didn’t feel like she meant that. “I have to go.” He hated his wording because—did he have to? “I’ll be back soon.” 

“In June?!” 

“Yes,” he sighed while rubbing her back. “But I need you to tell me when stuff happens with you too. I know you don’t like me worrying, but Alma I’m going to fucking worry whether you tell me things or not.”

She finally looked up at him, wiping her nose and damp cheeks with the back of her hand. Her face flushed, and her lips were swollen. “Fuck,” she sniffled. “I think I had too much fun during this visit...” She said in an attempt at downplaying her little breakdown. She was embarrassed. 

Bill smiled sadly. “Mhmm.” 

“I’m sorry…” 

“There’s nothing to be sorry about. I’m just glad you let it out, finally.” He said, wiping away the clumps of black mascara from her damp cheeks with his thumbs. “Do you feel better?” 

“Kinda… You’re still leaving.” She frowned. 

He nodded. Alma noticed his gaze looking towards their sleeping daughter in the back seat. She felt like such a baby too at the moment. 

“I’ll wake her up,” she said to him. 

“Mm. No… Just let her sleep,” he sighed. “I don’t think I can handle it if she cries too.” He decided that he would just enter the airport without them. 

Alma frowned. “You sure?” she asked gently. 

“No. But that’s okay.” He leaned down to kiss her deeply. And he could feel tears slip from her eyes again and graze his cheeks as they went down hers. 

Bill was doing his reps in the gym much harder than usual while in thought. He had his lips pulled tight against his teeth as he huffed. There was a presence looming over him, which he ignored. There were always people walking around or standing about in the gym. 

“Mr. Skarsgård?” 

“Huh?” He said harshly as he rose on his arms and paused. “Oh.” He said, looking up and seeing Giancarlo looking at him oddly after having said his name several times to get his attention. 

“I gotta leave.” He said. 

“Right.” He cleared his throat and rose to his feet. “I lost track of the time.” 

Giancarlo had been coming to the gym with him two days out of the week, very early in the morning before school started. Bianca had grounded him. Bill felt sorry for him, though, and suggested to her that maybe he should go work out with him and maybe learn how to throw a punch. Gian mostly jumproped or jogged so far, though. Which was fine because Bill liked to do his own thing anyway. 

“You don’t have to stop?” 

“Nah. I got shit to do.” He said adjusting the band of his running shorts. 

Bill pulled the hood of his gray sweater over his head when they stepped outside the bustling street. He had to buy a new one weeks ago since Alma kept his. That was brand new, too. He decided to walk Giancarlo to the subway station and take a lap around the block before heading back home. It would help clear his head better. 

“You’re not going to be late, right? Bian– your mom told me if you’re late even one day, you can’t come anymore.” 

“I’ll make it, fine. I’m not trying to get stuck in the dish pit at the club instead of doing this.” 

“Mhm,” he smirked. "Do, uh, do you like growing up in Brooklyn? In New York in general, I guess?” He asked him as he weaved through a group of people. Even at his fast pace, Gian kept up just fine.  

“I mean,” Gian said, looking up at him strangely. “I don’t really know anything else. So sure. There was a time when Lorenzo and I would have to go to New Jersey every other weekend because my dad had work there when I was younger. I prefer Brooklyn.” 

“But it was less crowded, right?” He said cutting through another group of slow walkers. 

“Less tourists,” he stated, annoyed by the slow walkers as well. It was always a tell. It was so early in the morning that locals usually walked quickly to their day jobs. “Um. How is Miss Alma?” He had the habit of calling adults mister and missus. Even when Alma told him it was okay to address her by her first name, he couldn’t help himself. “You were in Seattle last week for her birthday, right?” His mother told him after he showed up to the gym alone last week, feeling a lot more awkward without him there. 

“Uhm, yeah.” Bill nodded, looking down at him. “She’s good. The baby too,” he said, knowing that would be his second question. 

Giancarlo lightly smiled, glad to hear so. “It’s not as crowded there?” 

“Nah,” he chuckled under his breath. “A lot greener. It rains a lot, but it doesn’t dredge up the smell of motor oil like it does here.” He slowed down once they were by the station and let Gian go ahead of him. “See you.” 

“See you. Do you think we could get breakfast one of these mornings?” He asked a bit bashfully, but he was always so hungry during his morning classes on the days he went to the gym because he would miss his mother’s breakfast. A dry, crumbling granola bar wasn’t cutting it for the teen boy. 

“You paying?” Bill pointed at him.

“Uhm…” He shuffled his feet awkwardly.

“I’m kidding,” he said, amused. “We just have to keep watch of the time if we do.” 

Once he saw Giancarlo disappear down the subway stairs, he took a glance at his wristwatch and then took off jogging. Time. Time was on his mind. The plans he was working through were erasing the ones he had made with Alma when she was in town. Money moves. The money was the least on his mind now; it was time. He had to start making calls and start schmoozing. It wasn’t something he liked to do, but he knew how to talk his way into getting what he wanted fairly easily. 

It didn’t take much. He’d find out one or two big interests about who he spoke to and work with that enough to impress them. Once, he spent time talking about the intricacies of clock building with a city worker to clear off the building permits for the club’s remodel. He could form himself into whoever the person wanted him to be to get exactly what he needed from them. It could be tedious with all the leading questions he’d ask to hide the fact he didn’t truly give a shit, but it worked. 

Back in his penthouse, he was eating a banana-nut muffin he bought at a bodega on his way home. He was stretched along his velvet couch and flipping through the TV channels in only socks and his boxers after his shower. He was feeling lazy now. And his arms and chest were sore from overdoing it in the gym. But he didn’t feel like he had time to laze about this morning. 

With a groan, he got up from the couch to grab his telephone from the hallway and drag it back to the living area. He made a note to buy a wireless one soon, ideally with caller ID. As the line rang, he stretched his sore body along the couch again and eased in. He heard his daughter crying on the line once it was picked up.

"Look, Echo.” Alma knew who was calling and tried to settle her grumpy daughter. “It’s Papa on the phone.” 

Her cries started to sound less faint, and he could hear Alma sigh in relief. Echo sniffled but smiled despite the last of her fat crocodile tears running down her cheeks.

“Can you talk to her while I get ready?” she asked, sounding a little frazzled speaking to him.

“Um well–” 

"Here, talk to Daddy, Echo,” she said, handing the phone off to her. “Say good morning.” 

“Good mo’nin’.” She sniffled but began giggling when her father spoke in a silly voice, asking her what the matter was. 

Alma was halfway dressed when Echo suddenly woke up like she had decided to take up an issue with the world. Their time at the hotel and spending the night at her babysitter's house seemed to have caused her sleep routine to regress. All week, she had been fighting sleep and waking up too early. She was even giving Yolani trouble trying to skip out on her afternoon nap. She was phasing into her toddler era, and it was getting more and more obvious by the day. 

Alma pulled on a pair of stonewashed jeans and sat on the edge of her bed to put her socks on, listening to her daughter, who was digging her little bare feet into her plush pillows. 

“Ha! Silly Papa!” She squealed.

After gathering her hair into a half pony with a scrunchie, she laid down next to her. “Can I speak to him now?” She asked, looking directly into her daughter's big, doe eyes. Of course, she didn’t want to hand it back. “Echo?” She said it with a pointed look, and the baby surrendered the phone. “Thank you, honey. Hey.” 

Bill smiled. “Mo’nin’.” He said playfully mocking his daughter which made Alma giggle.  

“I think you were trying to say something?” She said holding on to Echo, who had climbed on top of her and was sitting on her torso. 

“Uhm,” he pursed his lips. Suddenly, he felt he was being too rash. “Well, I, I’m going to need your help.” 

“Oh? Okay, with what?” 

“I know you’re busy... Hmm,” he bit his lip. Maybe he should hold off; he knew she had too much on her plate lately. 

“Is everything okay? Did you speak to my dad or something?” Alma became worried when he hadn’t spoken for a long beat. 

“Shit,” he said under his breath, knowing that was next up on the chopping block. He sat up then and winced at how his sore muscles ached. “No, not that. Well, I need your help because if I do this, you’re my way in. I’ve been thinking, and it’s not like it just happened after I left Seattle this time. It’s been a thought, but...” He sighed harshly, feeling like he was rambling a bit. Meanwhile, Alma’s heartbeat started to pick up. “Look, I’m thinking that maybe I should buy the record shop.” 

Alma shook her head and carefully sat up, placing Echo in her lap. “Bill?” 

“It’s just a thought for now but, but I’m actually serious.” 

“What the hell…” she said in disbelief. “What happened to me moving back, and what about the club?” 

“I’ll handle that if it comes to it,” he said, rubbing the side of his mustache. “I took down your boss's number in February, along with your dad's. But you know the numbers and books there at the shop. With what you know, we could get it for a fair price, I think. I already know about the leaky roof.” 

She was slightly shocked to hear all of this from him all of a sudden. For months, he’d mention new places and things they could see once she moved back with him. Her sights for the future were long gone from Seattle now. She wondered if her breakdown had given him a change of heart, but hearing that he had acquired her boss’s phone number a few months ago, he had been contemplating this. 

“Uh, if you don’t think it’s a good idea, we’ll just continue like we had planned.” He said when she hadn’t spoken. 

Alma took a deep breath while running her hands through her daughter's soft hair. “This just changes a lot…” 

“Mhmm.” He closed his eyes, feeling a little overwhelmed by the prospect but hopeful. “So, you’ll help me.” 

Alma began to chuckle lightly. “Let’s see where this goes. But… you know, I think you’re fucking crazy, right?” While Alma had a lot of questions for him, she held off. This was still just a prospect, but her curiosity had her interested in seeing if he could pull this off. 

…

A week had gone by since their conversation. Bill had left three voicemails for Lewis and had been waiting for a callback. He found it rather annoying and somewhat worrisome. Was it too late, and someone had bought the place before he could put his bid in? He wondered as he sat in his private booth at the club. The show was going on as it always did there. He pushed his unfinished drink aside and decided to leave early. 

In the loft, he yawned loudly while Bianca was sitting at the desk, having a moment to herself before he had walked in. While Bill was the same as he always was, she couldn’t help but notice he’d been in his head lately. Maybe more than usual. She wasn’t in the mood to ask him what his deal was; she figured he’d bring it up if he wanted to. Besides, she knew he didn’t like being questioned; it was a pet peeve of his. 

“Tomorrow.” He simply said to her before heading out the back door to the loft. 

“Of course, honey.” She smiled at him, patting a wrinkle on her tight leopard-print skirt. 

When he arrived at his penthouse, he turned on his computer in the guest room. It took a while to fire up, but once it did, he found a search engine and looked up the record shop in Seattle. The page slowly loaded. The modem’s fan whirred loudly while odd electronic crunching sounds came from it. He unbuttoned his pants to get comfortable and then leaned back in his chair with his arms crossed, impatiently swiveling back and forth. The search didn’t pull up much at all but he was wary of clicking the few hyperlinks because of the loading time. While searching, he found an email address for Lewis Condor, the owner. 

He had only read about electronic mail in the newspaper not so long ago. He wrote down the address on a torn-open envelope and struggled to write the “@” symbol. At first, he had drawn a circle and written an “a” inside it, but realized that didn’t look right at all. He knew the owner was older, but how did he have an email before he did? He thought to himself. Quickly, he went on to create one and then draft his first email. Once he was satisfied with what he had written up, he clicked send and sat there until the page confirmed it before going to bed. 

He was woken the next day by the telephone ringing. He decided to just slip into the guest bed to sleep, so he was forced to get up to grab the telephone in the hallway. He groaned while getting up and lazily dragged his heavy, bare feet. He cleared his throat and picked up the phone while scratching his hairy lower belly. 

“Hello.” 

“Hi. I’m trying to reach Bill Skarsgård.” The voice on the other end of the line pronounced his last name completely wrong, but it was too early for Bill to even care to correct it. 

“Speaking.” 

“This is Lewis Condor. I own Sheisty Sound Records. I, uh,” he paused to adjust his reading glasses and peered at the computer screen. He was in his office, which overlooked the beach in his Malibu home. “I received your email inquiring about purchasing it.” 

“Oh. Yes,” he said, a bit impressed that his email went through, he wasn’t positive it did. 

He walked off with his new wireless telephone to his kitchen to start his coffee pot and went on to speak to the owner a bit and discuss prices, and when Bill countered, Lewis mentioned a buyer was willing to pay more. Most likely a bluff, Bill thought. That was business. 

“Are you local?” Lewis asked. 

“I travel there often,” he said, pouring himself a cup of black coffee. “My family lives in Seattle. I’m based in New York City, but I’m familiar with the shop.” 

“Oh, have you gone to a show there? It’s part of the reasoning for the price point. The venue brings terrific revenue.”

“I have, yes.” He said walking to the living room with his mug and sitting down on the couch. “I work in entertainment as well. So I have knowledge on that aspect of your business.” He also knew the kind of money the record shop made thanks to Alma, who relayed the quarterly numbers and ticket sales to him while he’d complain that he hadn’t gotten a call back from her boss. 

“I like that,” Lewis nodded to himself. He liked how the young man on the other side of the line spoke. Sure of himself and confident. “Well, I’ll get back to you. I’ve enjoyed our conversation, but, uh, it looks like breakfast is ready waiting for me.” He said while leaning back in his office chair, peering out the door, and seeing his wife plating hot country-fried potatoes. “I’ll definitely be keeping in touch.” 

“Phone or email?” Bill smirked. 

Lewis lightly chuckled, taking his reading glasses off. “You’ve been trying to call, huh? Yeah… I don’t answer too often or check my voicemail, to my detriment sometimes. But, uh, I like this email stuff. The computer I like most. I like to tinker. Grew up taking radios apart and such, and well, this is the new thing.” 

“Hmm. Do you still do the radio stuff?” 

“Ah. No, my wife would kick my rear,” he laughed. “Takes up too much space. Parts here, parts there, you know. I’m lucky I got away with acquiring a computer.” 

“So, I’ll look for an email soon. I don’t want to keep holding you up from your breakfast.” 

“Sure, sure. A lot faster than the post, right?”

…

Bill was back home, coughing and hacking still after his long run in Central Park. He needed to lay off his cigarettes. It didn’t help that he was in a perpetual state of boredom, which kept him in the habit. It had been roughly a week since he had spoken to Lewis on the phone. He checked his email that morning, and the inbox had remained empty. Over the phone with Alma, she suggested that maybe she could help contact her boss on his behalf but he told her not to. He didn’t think it would be such a good idea if Lewis knew he had a mole in his business. That he wouldn’t appreciate his employee supplying him with information he shouldn’t be privy to. 

“Just send him another one of those emails, then?” Alma said a bit short towards him that morning over the phone, slightly annoyed that he was overthinking it. But she was also in the middle of wrestling her daughter into leggings while holding the phone between her head and shoulder. 

He was doing just that before leaving for the club that evening. Rather than focus on whether he’d get a quick reply, he went on to his next order of business, calling Alma’s father Antonio. That he could at least get out of the way. When he got to the club, he was stopped by Raven, who was asking for some days off for a camping trip, and told her that she’d need to settle it with Queenie but that he didn’t mind. When he reached the loft, Bianca was doing some calculations on a printing calculator at the desk when she paused to say hello. 

“Hey, hey. Uhm, are you almost done?” He asked, putting his light bomber jacket up on the coat rack by the door. 

“You need the room?” 

Bill took a deep breath while scratching his stubbly neck. “Yeah. I, uh, gotta talk to Alma’s dad.” 

She abruptly stopped typing on the calculator and looked up at him with raised brows. “Oh. Say less.” 

“Mhmm,” he expressed with a pursed-lip smile while opening the door for her. 

"Everything alright,” she asked just before stepping out.

He clicked his tongue and raised his brows. “Guess we’ll see.” 

Now sitting at the desk, he harshly exhaled before hitting the call button on the phone. Alma’s dad, Antonio, didn’t particularly intimidate him, but what he was going to reveal made him a bit anxious. There was no way he wasn’t going to be upset to some degree. 

“Bueno?” A woman on the other end of the line answered. 

“Uh,” he said, sitting there stunned for a moment, not expecting that. “Uh, is Antonio there?” 

“Ah, si. Un momento.” The woman said and he heard her call out to him. 

“Quien es?” Antonio said in the distance. 

“Pues no se, pero te llaman a ti.” 

He heard the old man grumble a bit before picking up the line. “Hello? Who’s speaking?” He had an accent, but not a hard one to understand. 

“Hey. It’s Bill.” There was a pause on the line when he announced himself. “Bill Skars-” 

“I know. Why are you calling? Is something wrong with my daughter?” He said it suspiciously. 

“No. Alma is doing fine.” 

He could hear the old man sigh in relief. “So then, what’s the reason for the call?”

“Well, I’m calling about Alma’s mother's property.” 

“Mhm,” he said curtly. “So she noticed, huh? And what? Are you a realtor or something? What do you even do?” 

Bill stood up then, rolling his eyes. He cleared across the loft quickly, looked out the window to the club floor, and saw his topless dancers working the side stages. “A little of this and that. But,” he steadily continued on. “Alma didn’t notice the discrepancy I did.”

“So she wants my half or... I’m surprised she hadn’t burned it to the ground on her way back out of here if I’m honest.”

“She wants to sell it, but I wouldn’t doubt she’d just decide to pay off her half to you instead and be done with it that way.” He countered.

Antonio was silent for a moment, wondering why his daughter wasn’t the one discussing this with him. “Tell her I’m not doing this over the phone. And I don’t want to go through lawyers either. If she comes to Strathburg, I’ll give her what she wants.” 

“You want her to travel back home for your share?” His brows furrowed, not liking what he was hearing. 

He could hear Antonio speaking in Spanish to his wife and some other shuffling. Bill assumed he was asking for privacy. “Listen, I know you and my daughter are together, but you’re not married, so I don’t find that this is any of your business... but because of Alma, I will say this. She can wait ‘til I’m dead, but that means she has to fight her stepmother for the house, and I doubt she’d be pleased about that. So tell her to come here, and she will get what she wants. No problem.” 

“Hmm. Well, I’ll see what she’ll think about that.” He knew she was going to be pissed. 

“Good luck,” her father said, knowing she would not be happy with her boyfriend. The thought pleased him a bit.

“Wait. Don’t hang up on me. That’s not all.” He didn’t want to come off as argumentative, but it was hard not to. 

“Oh?” He raised a brow.

“Look, I don’t know how you feel about me. Honestly, it’s whatever at this point,” he sighed, sitting down on the couch. “I’m with your daughter, yes. Are we married? No. But I love her. I take care of her.”

“I don’t know she was in pretty bad shape when she came back. I can’t help but wonder what the hell went on between you two. She’s my only child, I don’t think you’d understand that.” 

“I do.” 

“Excuse me?” He scoffed incredulously. 

“We have a daughter together.” 

There, he did it. He was met by silence on the phone, and he heard Antonio let out a deep sigh from his whole being.

“Why…” he gulped. “Is she okay? Is the baby okay?” His elderly heart raced, knowing what happened to his ex-wife. It frightened him. He didn’t want his only child to suffer the same way. 

“Yes,” Bill nodded, understanding his concern. “Her and the baby are fine. Alma’s healthy. Yeah…” 

He uttered a blessing in Spanish under his breath in relief. “Why wouldn’t she tell me this?” 

Bill frowned, feeling sorry for him and feeling old emotions he had himself. “I don’t know,” he said earnestly. “But when I learned she hadn’t, I felt that it should be me to tell you. Next week, she’ll be sixteen months. I currently travel to see her. I’m still in New York, so... 

“Mhmm,” he sighed. “Oh, Alma…” He said, rubbing his wrinkly forehead. “Okay,” he cleared his throat. “Well, more reason for her to come here then. I want to meet her. What’s her name?” 

“Echo. Alma named her.” 

“Enzo?” 

“Echo,” he enunciated. 

“Is it short for something?” He said confused by her unusual name. 

“No. It’s just Echo.” When he learned his child's name, he even felt it was a little strange at first. Sure, it was cool as a nickname, but not something you’d put on a birth certificate per se, but he didn’t like Antonio questioning it. “It fits her. She’s a very pretty little girl with a unique name,” he smiled. “Very pretty, like her mother.” 

"Unique, for sure. Well, um, okay. I have to get off the phone now.” 

“Sure. It was good talking to you.” 

“Sure,” he nodded in agreement. 

Alma was home vacuuming the bits of graham crackers from the carpet in the hallway when the phone rang. She pushed her hair out of her face and met Echo, who was in the living room, pointing at the phone.

“Mama. Papa phone.” She smiled. 

“Maybe let’s see,” she smiled as well, excited to speak to her boyfriend. 

“Alma,” a voice said sternly. “You have a daughter and didn’t think that’s something I’d want to know?!” 

“Dad?” She frowned, and her eyes widened. “Uh,” she said, looking at her daughter, who looked at her curiously, hoping to speak to her own dad. 

Meanwhile, Bill tried to reach Alma right after his call with Antonio but was met with a busy tone, and his stomach sank. “Fuck,” he uttered. He knew Antonio had intercepted him before he was able to give her a heads-up. 

“Your boyfriend told me.” 

“Um yeah. We had a baby. Okay…” 

“Okay!? Alma, a baby is a blessing. Is it because you don’t think I like him or..." 

“Well, you have never acted like you approved of him.” 

“I know his family. I know how-” 

“He’s not like them. He’s a good man, dad. He’s also a really good dad to our kid.”

“Hmm,” he grumbled. “And yet he still hasn’t made an honest woman out of you.” 

Alma rolled her eyes. “That’s so old-fashioned,” she sneered. 

“It’s only the right thing to do. Is he in it all the way or not? He doesn’t even live in Washington.” 

“Papa phone, Mama?” Echo said, still standing by, hoping to talk to her dad. 

“What!? Of course, he’s in it.” 

“Papa phoooone?” Echo said, sounding a little impatient now. 

“Is that her, I hear? M-my granddaughter?” 

“Yes. It’s her. Bill calls every day so she thinks it’s him on the phone.” She pulled the phone a bit away from her face. “It’s not Papa, honey. It’s your grandpa. My Papa.” Echo looked a little disappointed to learn it wasn’t her father. “Do you want to say hello?” Echo just shook her head, uninterested in the phone her mother held out to her. "Oh, come on, girly. Just say, hi.” 

“Hiiiii.” 

Antonio smiled when he heard the tiny child’s voice. He thought back to when Alma was a child herself, and it warmed his heart. So innocent. A miracle. 

"Echo, is that right?” He asked Alma when she put the receiver back to her ear.

“Mhmm,” she said, looking after her daughter, who went back to lining up her various stuffed animals to look like they were watching the cartoons on the TV with her. 

“And are you okay, Alma? I worry, you know, because…”

“Yes,” she sighed. “I’m fine, dad. I promise.” 

“I’m serious. You don’t tell me about-” 

“I swear.” 

“Good. I’m happy about that. Very,” he said, relieved. “Well, I’m happy for you two. I mean it. I’m your father, so of course I’m going to have issues with any guy you’d be with. You’re my little girl. It’s your life, though. I have to respect that, but don’t keep something like this from me again. Please.” 

“I won’t. It’s not very nice of me. I’m sorry.” 

“Yeah, it’s a bit much. Even for you.” 

Alma rolled her eyes. “Yeah…” 

“I’ll let you go. Please call more.” 

She wanted to be smart and retort that the phone goes both ways, but she bit her tongue. “Okay, Dad. You know a few weeks ago we took some family photos, so I can send those? So you can see her. I think she looks like Bill. She has light hair and his dimples, her cheeks are just chubbier.” 

“I would like that,” he smiled. “I love you, Mija.” 

“I love you too, Dad,” she said, making her eyes water a bit. 

Alma took a deep breath and slumped down on the couch. She scratched her head a bit, stressed until Echo got up to sit next to her and climb into her lap. She held her close for a moment. She was glad that it was mostly painless but she still felt a little shitty regardless. 

“You surprise everyone, little one,” she said, kissing the top of her head. 

The phone, which rested on the couch cushion, rang, which made her groan a bit under her breath. 

“Hello?” 

“Papa phone?” Echo pouted when Alma just shook her head, no, for the time being. 

“Alma, did he call you?” He said sitting slumped on the couch in the loft with one arm crossing his chest to support the other holding the phone. He had been repeatedly dialing her number until it rang through. “I tried to call you right after, but… what did he say? Did he talk to you all, shitty?” 

“Babe.” She said exasperated after she heard how he was getting increasingly aggravated. “He said he was happy for us.” 

“Oh,” he said, pleased to hear that, which settled his nerves. “Well, that’s that, then.” 

“Yeah… Thank you for doing that.” She said sincerely. 

“Of course, love. Is there anyone else you need me to tell?” 

Alma scoffed. “Shut up.” 

“Sorry,” he lightly chuckled, plucking a piece of lint from his jeans. “It was a bad joke.” 

…

May 1993

Bill was half dressed, paging Bianca from his penthouse. He needed to speak to her because he was leaving the city at short notice. The latest flight he could book after calling the airline would be a red-eye, unfortunately. He was in the midst of packing a duffle bag when his phone rang. It was Bianca responding to his page. 

“What’s up?” She said on the line.

“I gotta head to Seattle. I know it’s last minute, but something came up.” 

“I hope everything is okay, but I understand. We beat Cinco De Mayo week so it’s all gravy from here. You know I can handle this place just fine.” 

Bill smiled. “You know I trust you. Just didn’t want to ghost you. And let Gian know I won’t see him this week.” 

“Sure thing. Have a safe flight, B.” 

…

Alma was so happy to see Bill in Seattle. She was surprised by his arrival and was curious as to why he showed up. Inside the office at Sheisty Sound Records, Alma sat in the office chair while she watched Bill pull the canvas blinds down on the windows the cash wrap faced before sitting down in front of her. She noticed him stare at her chest for a moment before smiling at her. 

“So you said you didn’t find out you were coming here until this morning?” she asked. 

“More like last morning,” he said, blinking his tired eyes. “The only direct flight out was at eleven last night.” He explained with hand gestures. 

“Fuck, Bill, have you slept?” 

His eyes lowered to her chest again before answering. “For a bit on the plane,” he shrugged. “I got an email from Lewis. He is still keeping me on the line. In the email, he mentioned he was coming for the secret show. I’m trying to run into him.” 

“He’s in town?” She was a bit alarmed. 

“You didn’t know?” 

“No.” She shook her head. “I need to tell everyone.” 

Bill smirked, knowing Lewis employees probably did a lot of things they weren’t supposed to since he wasn’t around to oversee them. Especially Alma with her illegal biker run bar. “That’s one reason I came, but there's also something I need to tell you before you find out some other way. I didn’t want to do it over the phone.” Alma nodded, waiting for him to continue. “When I called your dad, we talked about the house too. Anyway, he said, if you visit him, he’ll just give you his share. No questions asked.” 

“Visit?” Her head went back, disgusted by the thought. “And you told him, ‘fuck that she’ll pay what you want’, right?” 

Bill scratched the back of his neck nervously. “No… I didn’t tell him that. But-”

“But, what?” 

“But maybe… we should.” He said, tilting his head and shrugging.

“Are you serious right now? You haven’t slept well…” 

“Alma,” he said, shaking his head at her stubbornness. “We go. Hash out the house bullshit. Your dad meets Echo. And we’re out of there. Besides, I also talked to my brother, Gustaf. He told me they’re about to bulldoze half your block. Which includes your house. To,” he yawned, “uh build a strip mall. Hold off long enough; the development will pay more for it.” 

“Well shit,” she said, leaning back in her chair, which caused her chest to push out more. She was just wearing a nice white tank without a bra and jeans that day. “Can I think about it?” He lightly shrugged indifferently. “You’re making me, aren’t you?” 

“Yeah,” he smirked, looking back down at her chest. “Do you know your nipples show through that top?” He pointed. 

Alma looked down, but at her angle, she saw nothing. She put her hands under her breasts and pushed them against the fabric more to see if they revealed themselves. 

“Even more when you do that,” he laughed. 

“No wonder Gregory was being weird earlier. Like he didn’t really want to look at me,” she laughed with him. 

He took a glance at his wristwatch. “Do you have lunch soon?” 

“I can take an early one,” she smirked. 

“Could you? Technically, I shouldn’t be in here because I don’t know you.” 

Alma nodded, getting up from her seat and leading him out. He grabbed his duffle bag that he left behind the cash wrap with Ulyssa and Ash. 

“See you at the Double Helix show, ladies.” He nodded.

Bill put his sunglasses back on before taking Alma's hand in his as they left. “Go straight to my apartment.” 

He gave her a dimpled smile, looking down at her. “That’s where I was going. Unless you’re hungry for something else?” He laughed when she playfully nudged him. 

[aparticularbandit]

Danganronpa Femslash February: Simulation

Summary: Miu wakes up after her death.

for @danggirlronpa's Femslash February event!

TW for Needles and Panic and Choking and Strangulation and Miu definitely has PTSD and goes over those last moments a bit.

Rating: M for the Above TW Reasons.

AO3

next fic

Miu gasps.

She claws at her throat, but there’s nothing there to grasp, just her skin.  But she still feels that tight – toilet paper – constricting around her, tighter and tighter, and she can’t breathe, but she also feels like her bones are breaking – someone doesn’t know their own strength – and the thing is that if she hadn’t made herself an unbreakable object, she’s pretty sure her neck would break and her head would be severed completely from her own body—

Except her eyes flash open and she’s breathing and there’s nothing around her throat at all anymore.

Nothing at all.

Miu takes in another heavy, deep gasp of air – she didn’t know how great it was to breathe until she couldn’t – and she can’t really see much of anything because there are so many tears in her eyes and—

When Miu tries to sit up, something keeps her strapped down to wherever she is.  That makes it worse.  She opens her mouth to scream, but all that comes out is a raspy, rasping screech of a sound that feels like it’s clawing its way out of her throat.

“Iruma Miu?”

A voice – loud and deep and familiar but in a way that feels so unfamiliar, like when she hears a voice in a children’s cartoon and knows she’s heard it before, but she can’t place it, only in real life she can’t check Wikikumia or IKDB – reverberates around her.  She can’t pinpoint where it’s coming from; it sounds like it’s coming from everywhere all at once; it sounds like it’s coming from inside her own skull.

Everything hurts.

Miu shrinks in on herself.  “Am…am…am I—”

“Someone give her a tranquilizer.”

That answers that question.  They wouldn’t need to tranquilize her if she was dead.  She isn’t dead, right?  She’s still breathing.  Which means she didn’t…she isn’t—

Miu feels the needle prick her skin, but she doesn’t see anyone else around her.  Her fingers curl, nails scratching against whatever she’s strapped to, and then everything goes dark.

~

When Miu wakes again, she’s in an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar room.  It’s full of trinkets that probably should feel familiar, but don’t, and she picks them out visually from rows of bouquets and chocolates and caramels and oddly enough no cards, like maybe no one wanted to write her anything personal (or maybe anything personal got stripped away from them).  She licks her lips.  Swallows.  She’s…she’s out.  She made it out.

Maybe she wasn’t ever really—

“Iruma-chan.”

Someone touches her hand.

Miu startles and sits up – she isn’t constrained anymore, and she’s in a soft white cotton gown with her hair down past her shoulders, and her throat still feels—

She doesn’t want to think about that, doesn’t want to remember it—

Miu starts to take her hand back, only to see Tsumugi sitting next to her.  She settles.  “Shitogane.”  Her voice is still raspy, although if that’s from disuse or….

Tsumugi smiles, but she doesn’t look like herself.  She’s thinner, more angular, and her hair hangs past her waist like wet noodles.  Her cheeks are hollowed out.  There are bags under her eyes.  “You plainly don’t hold anything against me, do you, Iruma-chan?”  What little light is in her eyes fades.  “They thought you might want to hear the plain truth from plain old me.”  Her voice isn’t raspy, but it’s wispy.  “But if I tell you, you just plain won’t like me anymore, will you, Iruma-chan?”  She sighs.

“Didn’t like you anyway,” Miu tries to spit out, but it sounds wrong.  “You’re too plain, Tsupoopie, and you won’t fucking shut up about it.”

Talking like this makes her feel a bit more like herself.  Not entirely, but a bit.

Tsumugi chuckles.  She chuckles.  Not that high-pitched fangirlish squeal or giggling she normally does, but a fucking chuckle.  “Oh, Miu,” she murmurs, wrapping her finger in the dark blue fabric of her skirt and refusing to lift her eyes.  “You’re only like that because I wrote you that way.”

~

Miu watches the last several videos.

She doesn’t need to see the ones she’s in – she lived through them, after all – but she wants to catch up on everything that happened after.

Except.

The investigation into her own death, the trial that ended in Gonta’s death – or not death, as the case may be, since she’s still alive and well and breathing – Miu….

They give her the tapes, so she can start there, but the moment she sees her own corpse, Miu heaves and heaves, and she can’t breathe again, and she remembers waking in that room where she was constrained, and she remembers the feel of that stupid toilet paper around her throat and how her neck should have snapped off but it couldn’t because she was an object which meant she was unbreakable which meant the only way she could die was scratching at the unbreakable toilet paper while she choked to death—

She couldn’t see it.

She couldn’t listen to them make jokes about how it was a fitting end for her.

The toilet paper was a fitting end for her.

Miu hates them.

She hates them all.

(Except Kiibo.  He was right, after all.  If she’d survived long enough, she would have loved what they found after her death.  Out of all of them, he was the only one she thought deserved better.  He was right to want to burn the entire place to the ground.)

~

Tsumugi comes by exactly once.  She sits next to Miu’s hospital bed and stares up at a television that shows her true face – the haunted eyes, the dark shadows and bags beneath them, a maniacal light in her eyes – and sighs.  For a moment, it looks like she wants to say something – and she opens her mouth as though she will – but she shuts it just as quickly, just as quietly.  Then she stands, leans heavily on her cane, and hobbles out of the room.

“Where you going, Shitogane-san?”

A quirk of a smile lifts one corner of Tsumugi’s lips, but it disappears.  “I don’t like seeing my death, either.”

~

Miu doesn’t leave her room.  She doesn’t need physical therapy, like some of the others; her death didn’t cause that much of a physical effect.  When Gonta visits her, apologies heavy on his lips, she tells him he’s lucky.  If she hadn’t made herself an unbreakable object, the force of his murder would have shattered her neck, damaging her spinal cord, and she likely would have been permanently paralyzed.

Gonta falls into her trap when he asks, “Don’t you mean you’re lucky, Iruma-san?”

“No.”  Miu’s eyes grow hard as she meets his questioning gaze.  “You’re lucky.”

Gonta doesn’t visit again after that.

~

There are no funerals.

None of them really permanently died.

Except for whoever she was before she was Miu Iruma.

They tell her once that, if she wants, she can undergo the memory modification process again – to have her current personality erased and her old one restored, along with all the memories she’d uploaded to their data libraries.  She could become whoever she was before.

Some of the old participants in the Games sign to have their memories replaced as soon as they make it out.  They don’t have any lasting effects from their time in their Game, no trauma, no brain damage.  Of course, the ones whose deaths require them to make some lifestyle adjustments are shocked when they wake up, so there’s still some trauma, and they usually hate who they were in the Game and how the Game turned out.  They can’t sue, unfortunately, because they sign those rights away, but….

Miu isn’t one of those.  Whoever she was before didn’t seem to care enough about herself to demand she be put back afterwards.  Maybe she wanted the enduring fame of staying her character after the Game finished; maybe she thought it would be her character’s right to make that choice.  It’s not like Miu can be sure without any of her memories, and they won’t let her look through those without agreeing to be erased.

Despite everything that’s happened….

Miu doesn’t want to be erased.

~

Kiibo – whoever he was before – wanted to return to himself afterwards.

This was probably for the best.

In fact, he had to agree to that (and more) to become what Kiibo was – a character controlled in so many ways by an external chat.  They made so many changes and modifications to him that by all rights, he should not have survived.  It’s amazing that he’s still a person.  There’s no way he would ever still be Kiibo.

Miu mourns him all the same.

She honestly thinks she’s the only one who does.

~

(After all of his posturing at the end of the Game, Shuichi returns to his former self, too.  So does Maki.  And Kaito.  All three of them still sticking together, even when they choose to leave.)

~

Miu waits for someone else to visit her.

No one does.

Miu waits to see if she wants to visit one of them.

Only one person comes to mind.

~

“Come in.”

Miu hears the flinch in Tsumugi’s tone when she speaks.  It’s the one in her own whenever she’s been given a tongue-lashing by one of the others.  Sheepish.  Weak.  Ashamed.  When she opens the door, she takes in Tsumugi’s room, completely empty of any gifts or flowers or candies or trinkets, and Tsumugi herself.  The other girl still looks tired, maybe more so now, and she sits in a wheelchair, her cane set to one side.  Miu raises an eyebrow at that.  “Nice wheels, Tsupoopie.”

“More plain than nice,” Tsumugi murmurs, tracing her fingers along the tread of one wheel.  She won’t meet Miu’s eyes.  “What do you want, Iruma-san?”

That flinch again.

Miu tilts her head to one side and tugs on the collar of her shirt.  It’s too tight.  They’re all too tight.  When she gets out of here, she’s going to make sure that none of her shirts have collars like this ever again.  Whenever anything brushes against her neck, she feels sick.  At least she isn’t immediately breaking into sweats anymore.

Most of the time.

“Someone sent me a bunch of cupcakes.”

“Good for you.”

“It’s all plain vanilla.  White cream.  Boring.”  Miu purses her lips to one side.  “Think they were probably meant for you.”

Tsumugi’s eyes widen, and a light of something that looks like hope flickers within.  She still doesn’t meet Miu’s eyes.  “I don’t understand."

Miu sighs and rubs the back of her neck.  (In a few months, she will cut her hair.  She doesn’t want it on her neck.  Even the brush of her own hair makes her uncomfortable now.  She hates it.)  “Come on, Tsupoopie.  Let’s get something to eat.”

When Tsumugi looks up and meets her eyes, it’s with a curious expression.  Then she chuckles again and rolls forward, wordless.

~

By all accounts, Miu should hate Tsumugi as much as she hates the others who survived after her death.  More, maybe, since Tsumugi created all of them like this, created the people who were only meant to hate her.  But in the end, she sees something admirable in Tsumugi’s ending.

She just can’t put her finger on what.

[mojo-bro-tho]

WIP (I thought I’d be done by now but I’m never done) Wednesday!

Back at it again folks! Alas, Poor Emmrich has been destroying me in every conceivable way. I had most of it finished basically once I posted chapter 11 and then I had a fuck ass idea and spiraled from there so it’s taking a while for me to hodgepodge this motherfucker into something coherent.

So anyways, have THE VERY COLD OPEN and UNADULTERATED intro to Blood Sugar, Chapter 12: Alas, Poor Emmrich

_________

The only good taste in Emmrich’s mouth was what lingered of the wine from dinner. The rest made the base of his neck feel tense. Iron and the filmy essence of lipstick. Like blood being swished through the gaps in his teeth. Dry, dyed hair ran against the knuckles hovering close to her jawline, scratching him.

He had seen the new growth of grey hair at the root during dinner. But the dye she used was too harsh on the threads, making him worried to run a hand through it on the off chance it broke from brittleness. Rather jarring considering the lack of defined lines in her features while being a similar age to him. Though the hair seemed to be the only frail thing about her, everything else was razored and angular.

The attack on his lips stung, taking in the unfamiliar scent of a home he’d never been inside before. Something woody hidden beneath multiple layers of cleaning solution, extremely clinical. This seemed like a good idea a few days ago… Perhaps he should have walked out the moment he’d seen the color of her dress. The bright red fabric gathered between his fingers, hand clinging to her hip. It practically glowed against her pale skin, and it did look nice on her just… Also made him feel oddly threatened.

Aside from her lips and teeth, he felt no real reciprocation from her. At least none of the intimacy he usually anticipated with these sorts of first encounters. No hands cresting over his shoulders, rising up his chest, or tugging at his belt. She stood at the vanity, long, thin fingers curled around the edge of the wood. And despite him being the one leaned into her, with a thumb gently smoothing over a still clothed stomach, it was distinctly her kissing him. Rushed and somehow coming off as annoyed by his presence.

It had been the same during dinner too. She mostly talked about herself, which he didn’t mind, he wasn’t exactly in the mood to discuss himself at length anyway. And he imagined she at least knew some things from Johanna. He was too distracted by the very reason he’d agreed to arrange the dinner. Every time his phone buzzed in his pocket, he waited for the moment she’d inevitably pull out a compact mirror to fuss over herself so that he could check who it was.

Because it was always Rook.

He’d chastise himself internally every time he replied to her. It was rude and frankly unbecoming of him to be on his phone at all during a first date, and especially given the circumstances. But he couldn’t help himself, even if he was meant to be doing this to take his mind off of Rook. It made the event at least tolerable. He didn’t want to be there. And despite the fact that he was currently pushing this woman onto the nearest flat surface of her bedroom, he had no real desire to be here either.

Maker, why was he even doing this? The phone in his pocket buzzed quietly, and a pleased hum escaped his throat. She had positively diabolical timing. It was so late at night too. Perhaps she’s working, it was a Saturday after all. The hand at the dress shifted, curving up into the underside of a bare thigh.

The memory of Rook was there again, searing hot like a brand against his impulses. He wondered why she always wore nylons or fishnets when her legs were more exposed. Wondered if all of them had cutouts like the ones she wore to the Memorial Gardens. It would make sense if they did, given her job, but part of him hoped not. First, because the idea of always having that much access would raise his blood pressure. And second, because the unfortunate satisfaction of tearing the cheap material apart was irresistible to his subconscious.

Rook existed in the endless void of his sight, eyes shut and locked tight. Could practically see the scornful smile on her pretty face if he tore open her clothes with his own hands. Some sort of cheeky retort already falling from her lips about how beastly he always seems to become around her. No doubt she would keep taunting him that way until the ability to form words became too laborious to bother. The echo of those shameless whimpers rattled at his brain stem. Nearly a petulant cry-

“There you are.” A voice carved into him, making every muscle in his body retract with a shudder.

[4056domepp]

Character Factory

Pepi, a creature of dichotomies, defies the mundane expectations of a household cat. Her fur is an intricate quilt of grays and splashes of muted gold, as if someone scattered autumn leaves across a canvas of steel. The colors blend seamlessly, giving her an almost ethereal, smoky appearance. The patches of cream and yellow, though subtle, glimmer in the low light, adding an air of mystery to her presence. Her fur is thick and textured, like velvet pressed under shadows, creating the sense that she belongs not in this world, but somewhere between the folds of dusk and dawn. Her face, angular and sharply defined, frames eyes that are simultaneously feral and profound like molten amber peering out from a dark cave. They burn with the intensity of something ancient, something that remembers being wild.

Her movements are sleek, predatory, yet oddly familiar. Pepi’s compact body navigates through space with the surety of a dancer rehearsing steps long mastered. She doesn't merely walk; she glides her paws barely making a sound as they touch the ground. Though small in size, her presence commands attention. She fills the room with an understated authority, the way a queen occupies a throne without ever needing to raise her voice. She stalks her surroundings like a predator surveying its territory, but there’s no malice only purpose. Pepi's physicality is a contrast study: while her serious expression suggests stillness and patience, her every movement hums with latent energy, like a bowstring drawn taut, waiting to be released.

In this moment, Pepi stands on the threshold of action. Her head tilts slightly, just enough to catch something perhaps a fleeting sound or the smallest flicker of movement. Her sharp eyes focus on the unseen, and though she does not yet move, you can feel her muscles tensing under her luxurious fur. It’s as though she’s perpetually poised between curiosity and indifference, her thoughts unknowable but fascinating to watch unfold. The room around her fades into insignificance; it becomes her domain, a space where only she matters. Even in this stillness, Pepi is anything but passive. She absorbs everything, calculating her next move with feline precision.

If she were to speak, her voice would likely be soft but commanding, cutting through the air like a whisper carried by the wind. Pepi doesn’t need to make much noise to be heard. Her presence alone speaks volumes. Every flick of her ear or twitch of her tail is its own form of communication, and though she rarely “talks” in the way most expect, her body language is far more eloquent.

[evilasiangenius]

From his distinctly upside-down seat upon the far end of the couch, which was of course covered with blankets as Aziraphale hated him putting his feet upon it even if the shoes were infernally willed and not likely to be dirty, Crowley slipped in and out of pleasant unconsciousness.

The back room of the bookshop echoed with a flurry of sound, a clicking and clattering of a computer keyboard being used at an almost improbable high speed, and Crowley wondered how often Aziraphale had to replace that piece of equipment, unless of course it was miraculously reinforced or more likely, the angel had no idea that such hard use could wear it out and neither did the keyboard.

He wondered what the angel was doing – was it a game, perhaps? It seemed that Aziraphale liked those sometimes, ones made up completely of words and actions that had to be typed in that scrolled past the screen at blazing speed. Or perhaps it was a conversation with someone far away, something on elliptic curve cryptography or analytic number theory or algebraic topology – the angel always had more than a few mathematicians up his sleeve. But most likely, Crowley concluded, getting up from the couch in an awkward fumble of angular limbs to stand and lean against the doorway, looking over at Aziraphale in his little reading glasses, it was something involving accounting.

Hardly maths at all, he imagined Aziraphale saying. Barely counts as calculation.

He watched, waiting quietly for the angel to stop, not wanting to interrupt.

The keyboard fell silent. The angel stared unmoving at the black screen, green cursor blinking, fingertips still lightly touching the keyboard as if a musician waiting for the cue.

Even so, Crowley waited for the duration of a song, one with no words and no notes he could think of, just the sensation of a song.

“Angel.” The word was somewhere between a sigh and a yawn, and Aziraphale looked up from the computer.

“Yes?”

“Done?”

“Almost. No. Yes, no. I’m done.” Aziraphale turned off the computer, slipping off his glasses and setting them down before he turned to face Crowley and Crowley found that oddly disappointing.

“Everything reconciled?”

“No. Not everything. But in regards to the bookstore, yes. As much as possible has been reconciled. How did you guess it was the accounts?”

“Accounting face. That’s different from maths face. Or game face or any number of other faces.”

“You know me too well,” Aziraphale demurred with the hint of a little smile.

“Eh,” Crowley managed a syllable that was meant to sum everything up. “So, erm.”

“Dinner?”

“Dinner.” But then Crowley looked at his watch. “Wait, it’s afternoon. Sometime past lunch, if you must know.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale sighed. “I suppose we’ll have missed the lunch service.”

“Yeah.”

“Afternoon tea?”

“Nah. I mean, unless you really would want tea-”

“What are you in the mood for, Crowley?”

“No, it’s fine. You can ask...erm, properly. Going to...try to practice. You know,” Crowley looked away, uncomfortable. “Um. Having preferences?”

“Oh, I see. Then, I suppose if you don’t mind me asking… Crowley, what would you like to do?” Aziraphale’s eyes sparkled.

“Erm...soup? Can we have soup?”

day21:dancing

day22:song