#its like a never ending backlog of screams

[ihatebrainstorm]

Day 5857849 of thinking about Brainstorm and Perceptor and Brainstorm and Perceptor and Brainstorm and Brainstorm and Perceptor and-

[ladykailitha]

Paper Hearts Part 1

Remember how my posting schedule was going to be based on strictly vibes from now on? Yeah this is why. I have three chapters of this completed and only two of most everything else because I hurt my right wrist on Wednesday evening (I think I overextended my elbow and it fucked up the tendons in my wrist, because I've done that before on my arm and it feels like that).

So instead of getting more work done on stuff that is literally paragraphs away from the end of the chapter I'm having to tap into my backlog. Which is what it's for. But it is annoying.

I am also aware it's nearly May, but my muse was never one for sense.

Summary: Hawkins High is selling paper hearts to help raise for senior prom. $3 for red romantic hearts and $1 for pink friendship hearts. Steve hasn't dated anyone since the horrific breakup with Nancy on Halloween and so he decides that he's going to send pink hearts to senior girls who wouldn't normally get any hearts at all. When Eddie hears about this he can't help be intrigued. It goes against his very well curated Munson Doctrine. But as events keep throwing them together, Eddie learns there is more to King Steve then meets the eye.

Also a note: the use of the other's last name when it's their point of view is deliberate. As they get to know each other more, the more first names get used.

****

Steve was staring at the huge sign with a sense of dread. In big pink and white letters on a red background screamed the words:

PAPER HEARTS FOR YOUR VALENTINE $1 FOR PINK FRIENDSHIP HEARTS $3 FOR RED ROMANTIC HEARTS ALL PROCEEDS GO TO CLASS OF 1985 SENIOR BALL

Valentine’s Day. That time of year for lovers and romantics. That used to be him. But not since Nancy broke his heart by breaking up with him for Jonathan Byers.

There would be no paper hearts in locker this year. Not even pink ones. Nancy had well and truly blown up his life and she got to walk away scott free.

He didn’t know what to do anymore. He pinched his nosed and rubbed the end. He wasn’t going to cry in the middle of the fucking main hall of Hawkins High.

Just before he was about to start moving again someone shoulder checked him, sending back to the floor and all his stuff sprawling around it like some fucked flower.

“Watch it, Harrington!” the voice growled as whoever it was sped off down the hall.

Steve didn’t even bother looking to see who it was. It could have been anyone these days. His former friends. Billy and his ilk. Hell, even the nerds and geeks got in on the action lately.

He knelt down to start cleaning it up when someone else kicked his books toward the lockers. He managed to get most of it picked up when he reached for the last notebook. Someone stepped on his hand and ground down, hurting Steve and ripping the cover off the notebook, crinkling the first couple of pages.

He shoved it into his bag and cradled his hand to his chest. He looked at his watch and sighed. Lunch was nearly over and he hadn’t even made it to the cafeteria yet.

There was nothing for it, he had to get to his next class. He walked into the class room just as the bell rang, but instead of heading for his usual spot near the front he made for the back of the class. There were always a few empty seats around Munson. The guy was terrifying on a good day.

And Steve hoped it was a good day.

****

Eddie made to class on time by the skin of his teeth. He slid through door just as the bell rang above his head. He was about to lope over to his usual spot in the back when he stopped dead in his tracks.

He looked up at the front at the deliberately left open seat and back at the seat next to his with a raised eyebrow. He wisely said nothing as he flopped into the torture device known as the chesk. Dair? Whatever the hell it was called where some unspeakable horror thought to combine a desk and a chair.

Eddie glanced sidelong at his new companion. The recently deposed king of Hawkins High sat slumped in his chesk, head down, just staring at its surface as if held the meaning to life the universe and everything.

Which if Harrington asked him, he would have been told forty-two.

He pulled out his notebook and noticed that Harrington did not do the same. Curiouser and curiouser. He pulled out a pencil and settled in to avoid falling to sleep today.

He was taking notes and doing the assignment like he was supposed to when about half way through class the teacher called out to him.

“Mr. Harrington!” she shrieked. “If you are going to be sitting in the back, please have the decency to pay attention in class!”

A couple of kids snickered.

“You were talking about how the Fool is used to lighten the absolutely horrific scene above him of Lady Macbeth as she tries to get blood out of her gown,” he muttered, scratching his cheek with his left hand.

That was when the teacher and Eddie noticed the same thing at the same time.

Harrington was cradling his right hand to his chest.

“Mr. Harrington is there something wrong with your right hand?”

“I accidentally hurt it during lunch,” he said with wince.

The teacher tapped her foot and crossed her arms. “And why didn’t you see the nurse?”

“It happened right before class,” Harrington muttered, “and I didn’t want to be late.”

The teacher huffed and shook her head. “I will give you note for your next teacher, but you will see the nurse after class, am I understood?”

He nodded.

“Mr. Munson,” she cried out, shrill. “If you’ll share your notes with Mr. Harrington after class so he does not fall behind.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He continued to keep an eye on Harrington throughout the whole class but whenever their English teacher tried to catch him out, she would fail every time.

When the bell rang Eddie started shoving his stuff into his backpack. “You sure you even need my notes, Harrington? That was pretty impressive shit you pulled out of your ass today.”

Harrington just shrugged. “Just because I was paying attention doesn’t mean it won’t bleed out of my ears with all the algebra and chemistry stuff I have later.”

Eddie winced in sympathy. “Yeah, I hear that. What’s your locker number and I’ll just slip a copy of my notes in the slots.”

“323B.”

“They got you on a lower locker?” he asked with a grimace. “That’s jacked up. Even Mr. Super Senior here got a top locker. Does the secretary hate you or some shit?”

Again Harrington shrugged. “I’ve got to go. I’ll catch you later.”

Eddie folded his arms at looked at him. “You’re not going to the nurse’s station, are you?”

This time it was Harrington who winced.

“That’s what I thought,” he huffed. “I’m walking you to said nurse’s station because it could be broken and if you don’t get that looked at, you’ll be in more than just a world of hurt, man. You could fuck up your hand for life and you wouldn’t be able to anything in that hand ever again.”

Steve’s eyes went wide as all color drained from his face.

“Shit.”

Eddie grabbed both of their backpacks and headed for the door. “Yeah, shit.”

Harrington hurried to catch up, hand still cradled to his chest.

“How did you know that could happen to my hand?” he asked softly.

Eddie eyed him sidelong, but the kid wasn’t being an ass. In fact he would say Harrington was being earnest.

“My uncle works at the machinist plant up the road,” Eddie explained. “One of his buddies broke his hand on the machine and refused to get it looked at. Guess how well that worked?”

“Was it the plant’s fault?” Harrington asked. Eddie cocked his head to the side. “That you uncle’s friend got hurt?”

Eddie reared his head back in shock that Harrington would even ask.

“No, man,” he said shaking his head. “He was goofing off, being a dick. Uncle Wayne always said that if you knock on every door asking for the devil, one day he’s gonna answer.”

“What happens when the devil comes looking for you?” Harrington muttered to himself and Eddie couldn’t help but wonder what this kid had seen.

Because he knows haunted. And Harrington looks like he has an attic full of ghosts.

Once they got to the nurse’s station Eddie waited for him. When the other boy came out he asked how it went.

“She says it doesn’t feel broken,” he huffed. “But that if it doesn’t improve over the weekend after icing at least three times a day, to come back on Monday and she’ll order an x-ray.”

Eddie nodded. “Right. See you around, Harrington.”

He had barely turned around when Harrington called out to him. “Wait!”

Eddie turned back around to have a piece of paper shoved into his hand. “I got the nurse to excuse us both.”

And before he could even reply the other boy was tearing off down the hall as if the devil himself was chasing him.

And after that comment he’d heard, Eddie couldn’t be sure he wasn’t.

****

Steve was curled up on his bed, icing his hand, staring up at the ceiling, and wondering where the fuck his life had gone so wrong.

Okay so he could answer that one, actually. Demogorgon ate his girlfriend’s best friend while in his backyard. While him and said girlfriend were having sex for the first time.

Yeah... that was all kinds of fucked up.

He still couldn’t believe that Nancy sided with Jonathan about him taking pictures of their first time.

So now Valentine’s Day was two week away and he was dateless, friendless, and unpopular. He wished he could just be called a loner. But a loner was cool and Steve wasn’t even that anymore.

He just had to make until the end of may and then he could graduate, leaving this town in his rearview mirror for good.

Steve knew that he would have to struggle through this fucking holiday and Senior prom then it would be smooth sailing from there.

He had all this money that he would normally spend on his girlfriends, but now he didn’t even have that. He supposed he could blow it all on beer and weed and then he could enjoy the weekend for a change.

Steve sat up suddenly, the ice pack falling from his hand to hit the floor with sploosh!

Now that was an idea.

He still had one thing in the school that was nonpareil and that was gossip. In fact, it was easier to hear all the dirty little secrets because no one cared if he was standing there.

A smile spread over his face.

That could actually work. It would be a great way to spend his allowance and it would be fun.

He got up and put the ice pack back in the freezer. He couldn’t do anything about it right then but once his hand was better he would formulate his little plan.

Steve was suddenly excited for the first time since he dropped Dustin off at the middle school’s Snow Ball.

He was going to make this holiday fun even if he had to manufacture the fun himself.

****

Eddie was pissed. A little at himself, but mostly at how Harrington was being treated.

He had to sit through lunch and listen a bunch of stupid jocks brag about stomping on Harrington’s hand when he was trying to pick up his stuff off the floor in the hallway yesterday.

They had been hoping for an actual break, but the asshole thought he’d only bruised it.

The reason Eddie was a little mad at himself for this was because he was the one that had shoulder checked Harrington. He had only been trying to get the guy out of his daze. Not send his shit flying.

And then to have someone deliberately stepping on his hand. Fuck. Not even Hagan ever went that far.

Stev–Harrington didn’t deserve that kind of bullying. No one did.

But he could see the twisted sort of appeal, though. And fuck if that didn’t make his stomach turn.

To see the deposed king and want to mock that? Want to dig the hurt in as deep as he could? To drive home the lesson that popularity was fleeting and that existence was a curse?

Yeah, Eddie could see the appeal.

But he wouldn’t. He might make fun of literally everyone and everything but his own interests, but to make turn that into actual cruelty? That was were he drew the line in the sand.

He went home feeling sick to his stomach. And of course Wayne picked up on it immediately.

He jutted his chin at the chicken and rice on Eddie plate that he had only merely pushed around with his fork.

“What’s got you so twisted around the bend?”

Eddie put his fork down and hid his mouth with his clasped hands, elbows on the table.

“I fucked up today,” he murmured. “I didn’t mean for it to go as it did.”

“What did you do?”

So Eddie told him. “I wasn’t trying to hurt him, but he got hurt anyway.”

“That does sound pretty bad,” Wayne agreed. “And as you say, you were trying to help only for it to go very awry. And since you didn’t about it until after the fact you couldn’t apologize and that’s what’s eating you up inside.”

Eddie nodded around his fists, his lower lip quivering.

“You’ll just have to find a way to apologize on Monday,” Wayne said wisely.

Eddie sighed. It was the best he could do. It wasn’t as though he could call the guy up or show up at his house. The first because he didn’t have the guy’s number and the second because he’d get the cops called on him so fast by the neighbors.

It would just have to wait until Monday.

****

Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8

Permanent Tag List:

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@chaosgremlinmunson @messrs-weasley @chaoticlovingdreamer @maya-custodios-dionach @danili666

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@useless-nb-bisexual @disrespectedgoatman @counting-dollars-counting-stars @tinyplanet95 @swimmingbirdrunningrock

[nightlightrequested]

TRIGUN STAMPEDE EPISODE 7 SPOILERS

To be honest I’m not as invested or intrigued or enjoying about Wolfwood in Trigun stampede?

Like even in the original trimax or original anime Wolfwood came across sleazy and weird but generally a good guy and even when he started to be tied to experiments, cults and being a double agent. But it never detracted from how genuine and kind he came across to others or never felt like it was shoved down our throats.

Trigun stampede Wolfwoods first episode is a good introduction, hes weird, unknown and kind of prickly but he helped the kid and laughed in everyone’s faces. But he also made it clear he was there primarily for Vash’s interest. And the next episode sets up perfectly the differences between him and Vash’s methods and morals.

However the next to episodes rapidly just isolate the two with each other and throw Wolfwoods character to the extreme in every fucking way. Over an extended slog out of screaming, shooting and fighting? and we’re just supposed to rapidly feel moved and connected to his backstory and comprehend the absolute bomb shell that is that fight between Livio, Vash and Wolfwood. while the orphanage is right at the end of the line? Like why the fuck would we care about the orphanage? We just watched two kids be brutally harmed, one died and was apart of a horrble accident that Wolfwood also was?!? And we’re supposed to extend further concern to this guy who looks, acts and does nothing to resemble the child in a flash back except for one hand gesture that is then never visually reflected to him AND ENDS WITH WOLFWOOD BASHING HIS HEAD AND SAYING “remember you crybaby lol your always doing this”?!? Vash’s revolation or confirmation about Wolfwoods character feels empty, or just really boring? I’m despondent about it when i really want to feel those happy vibes about them being so understandable to each other

Like I know its a hyperbole but that’s honestly how rapidly I could process what I was witnessing. We got more development for 2 characters we met not three episodes in 40 minutes then anything about the other characters not including Vash, who really we’ve still got eerily nothing yet still so much?

It’s just I’m left in this state of feeling like so much of Wolfwood got cramped into my head and I don’t enjoy it 

How can we get so much backstory and revealing about Vash yet it still feels like nothing has been developed? Maybe it’s just bashing out the backlog to start new things?

Was Roberto’s giving up, sitting down and having a drink supposed to be the comedic break? Like watching it a second time is that what it was and not just a tease that this old guy is going to have a breakdown lash out at Meryl, and then set off down another road?

There’s just been unending grit and angst that I’m just not enjoying it but consuming it because I want to enjoy something. As hopelessly sad as we could imagine trigun i really don’t want to watch just a endless hope beating curb stomp of these characters

[writers-ex]

hi you're back!! idk what happened, i don't wanna know as well but i'm sending you a huuug 💗 and hopefully you saw my ask about how to deal with nosy anons and found it helpful for you 💗

in celebration of me getting closer to finishing my backlogs (and claiming that I get all of it done today whew): a request! the one with the song stuff hihihi although i'll let you choose between two because i have lss from a lot of songs these days 🤧

A. Fluff!

song: I Feel Good by BINI

lyrics: *those in bold aren't sung in English*

"I feel good everytime that I'm with you, my eyes won't stray from you oh, oh, don't ever wanna part, even if I'll have to wait for you forever. Oh wait! turns out I can't wait anymore, I'm so eager for your love, and all emotions start to get real oh boy I love how you make me feel. It feels unbelievable, Cupid shot me, whenever you're there everything feels lighter yeah yeah"

idk but this song (and mv phew - it's a feast for my eyes lmao) is so colorful and fun it makes me feel like i'm also in love 😅

B. Angst :(

songs: Maharani (Great Queen)by Alamat and Hanggang Sa Huli (Until the End) by SB19

lyrics:

Maharani - "he doesn't understand what he's wasting, while I'm over here just waiting, like your numerous other suitors by the sides, I promise I'm not going crazy, you're my only Great Queen - will you give me a chance, if ever I might attain your love? Queen, let me be your King, I swear to god I'll never get tired of you, Great Queen"

Hanggang Sa Huli - "if our paths cross, then we're meant to be. Had I said everything then, would things be different now? With every breath, I pray that I could be with you. And if this is our last moment together, I want you to know that I love you, I love you, I love you"

okii I'm leaving it in your hands, hope you feel the vibe of the songs and get those creative juices flowing ang and and have fun with whichever prompt you wanna do!! don't forget to eat well todayyy 💗

- 😚

ok the girls in the MV are so cute and this at home arts and crafts vibe is so cute uwu so i thought of doing domestic things with lia bc yes like its a rainy day and you're both stuck at home so what better thing to do than use the paint set you bought a while ago and paint your jeans together to match each other while lia attempts to bake some cupcakes to watch a movie together however you panic and almost spill paint on the couch when you hear her cry out, running to the kitchen yuo see her sucking her finger that she managed to burn taking out the cupcake pan from the oven without gloves T_T so you kiss and wrap her boo-boo and start scolding her when she cheers and points out the window to show that the rain has stopped and a rainbow graces your window making you look at your shy girlfriend smiling before pulling each other into a soft kiss whispering how much you loved each other

the angst- its a bit dark for even my standards the mv actually made me think of arriving too late to stop yeji from leaving the office after your heated argument about a project you were both working on, she storms out furious and heads home but turns around to hear you calling out to her and…fails to notice the car turning the corner and hitting her, screaming you rush over to her bleeding body her face frozen in shock as the color drains from her face as she stares into your eyes, you plead and beg for her to hang on but its too late she can't hear your apologizes and i love yous as her body goes limp leaving you at the crossroad while the ambulance drives over too late T^T damn now im sad

[dreamingofaizawa]

You Left

Pro Hero! Bakugo Katsuki x Reader

No gendered terms are used for reader.

Warnings: Cheating, angst, a bit of a cliffhanger ending.

Author's Note: Hahaha....I just hurt myself writing this. I may or may not have a part 2 lined up...with a happier ending...and may or may not have two separate happy endings...because I'm weak and can't handle pure angst...

ANYWAY, ENJOY CRYING~

Part 2 here

*

*

*

"Oi, what's wrong?" Vermillion eyes focus solely on you, on your fidgeting fingers in your lap, on your bottom lip caught between your teeth.

"I just...I don't know, I feel like I'm not good enough for you. You're so handsome, and strong, and smart...I feel like I don't deserve you." The blonde scoffs, tugs you onto his lap and plants a gentle kiss on your lips.

"Dumbass. I've got standards. If you're here then you're clearly good enough. You think I'd fall in love with some extra?" His brash wording combined with the light tint of pink in his cheeks makes you smile. Always so articulate. You know he means well, Katsuki's just emotionally constipated. You giggle, wrap your arms around his neck and pepper his face with kisses.

"Of course not, 'Suki. No extras, just me." He mumbles out a 'damn right, brat' as he lifts you by your thighs, unceremoniously tossing you onto the bed.

"Let me show you just how much I love you, yeah?"

*

*

*

How long has it been since you'd gone to bed without the blonde beside you? Maybe six months? Maybe longer? It's all starting to blur together.

You know where he goes, late at night when he texts that he needs to stay late at the agency for 'unfinished paperwork'. Katsuki Bakugo doesn't have unfinished paperwork. He never has anything backlogged, always on top of everything.

He's out in someone else's bed, listening to someone else cry out his name.

You can't sleep. Haven't been able to at night for a long, long time. Without the explosive hero laying next to you, and with the knowledge that he's sleeping next to someone else...sleep has evaded you. Over the months you've noticed your skin lose its pallor, the dark circles beneath your eyes have only deepened, and more often than not your eyes are red and puffy from crying.

You're heartbroken.

You crawl out of bed, silently rummage in the kitchen and start a pot of boiling water. You zone out for a bit, in a haze as you think about your pro-hero boyfriend. But he isn't yours anymore, is he? No, he's just Katsuki Bakugo: Pro Hero Dynamight, liar and cheater.

The high-pitched whistle of the kettle snaps you from your daze. You wipe the tears from your cheeks and pour the hot water into a mug with the tea bag, take it to the dining table and wait for it to steep.

The light from the hallway is the only one on, casting everything in a soft yellow glow. It would feel homely, if this place felt like home anymore. You just feel empty. Like your bed.

The sound of the lock in the front door turning gets your attention. He's home. You don't have to look to know he's got a haughty pep in his walk, a confident stride and puffed out chest from tonight's conquest. All sounds stop when he sees you.

"You're awake." He sounds disappointed. You don't answer him, instead bobbing the tea bag in the cup to get it fully soaked. You can hear him huff, hear him shuffle closer to you until his chest is at your shoulders and his lips brush your cheek. It's robotic. Routine. There's no love behind anything he does anymore.

"You shouldn't be awake. You need your sleep." You stay silent. Whether it's because you're afraid of what you'll say or if you just have nothing to say, you don't know.

"Oi, are you there? You listenin' to me?" Not really.

"I told you I had paperwork to do," liar, "you should've gone to bed without me." You stop, stand, empty the still full mug into the sink because you don't drink this tea. This is the tea he drinks. It's his tea, in his mug, in his house that you can't sleep in anymore. You heave a sigh, turn around and look at him. He seems taken back by what he's looking at. Has he not noticed your slow deterioration?

"Was it good?" His brows furrow, head tilting ever so slightly.

"The sex. Whoever you've been sleeping with these past months must be pretty good for you to keep going back." He rolls his eyes, scoffs.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean? I'm not cheating on you, idiot."

"Liar." He blinks. He hates liars, hates being lied to. And now....

"What the fuck did you just call me?" You stare into those beautiful vermillion eyes. How hypocritical.

"I called you a liar. I can smell them on you, all the different people you've fucked late at night. I can smell the perfumes, the soaps."

"They're from my secretary at the agency! Smells don't mean shit!"

"I've seen the messages, Katsuki. Have you forgotten your phone is linked with our laptop?" He stops, eyes blowing just a fraction wider before his shoulders slump in defeat.

"I thought...I thought you loved me, Katsuki." He looks at you like you'd just stabbed him, reaching for you.

"I do, please baby I do I promise..."

"No the fuck you don't, Katsuki. If you loved me you'd be asleep with me, in our bed. Not with some easy fuck to de-stress!" Your voices are raising, both of you swearing and screaming and it comes to a point where you aren't even thinking, just spewing words that have been bottled up. And then it all comes crashing down.

"Well maybe I wouldn't have to go sleeping around if you were good enough for me! It's not my fault you can't do shit right!" Katsuki's heavy breathing cuts through the deadly silence. He blinks, only now registering the fact that you're not yelling back at him.

What he sees breaks his cold, dead heart. The tears don't stop, but you're like a ghost. Silent, still, pale. He can see it now, see how sickly you've become. See the exhaustion in your bones. He can see what he's done to you. Why had he done it?

You can't look at him anymore. You don't bother speaking as you walk out the front door.

The blonde collapses into the dining room chair, in shock.

You left.

Somewhere in his panicked, shocked brain, he worries if you'll ever walk back through that door.

[chockfullofsecrets]

Critical Role: The Importance of Timing, Ch 1

<<chapter navigation TBA>>

(Read on AO3)

Rating: Gen

Summary: Jester sobers quickly, though, pouting insistently down at them.“Four is pret-ty bad, you guys.”

Kingsley nods seriously. Thus validated, she starts bouncing excitedly on the balls of her feet. “I think we need to punish them, Fjord!”

Caleb and Essek make the mistake of overworking themselves right before the Mighty Nein are scheduled for a reunion. Lessons are learned.

Wordcount: 3.6k (yeah, this one’s going to take a while)

A/N: making some more progress on my backlog of prompts (this one happens to be both from the most recent vote and this lovely anon prompt)! cross your fingers that this is going to be my first finished chapter fic lol

---

Caleb hardly remembers it, later.

It was evening - not particularly late, but after three near-sleepless nights time stretched into its own kind of viscous liquidity. Like a soup.

He laughed to himself at the absurdity of it, too tired for more than the barest expense of breath. Essek would know better than he, of course - he turned to him, intending to share the thought, and found a sheaf of notes thrust mere inches from his face.

“Here,” Essek said brusquely. Exhaustion did not lend itself to the usual smoothness of his speech. “I think I have it, finally - if we engrave it this way, the spell will replenish itself without interrupting conversation, yes?”

“Oh.” He took the papers, looking them over blearily - his eyes widened, a brief rush of vigor returning. “Oh, this is - oh, this is good! Let me just fabricate the surface smooth again and we can try-”

There was a crash from a location beyond the lab and therefore currently unimportant. Neither of them looked up.

The interruption, then, arrived unexpectedly.

“Hel-loooo!”came a lilting Nicodranian accent from the hall. “We got here early and you didn’t answer your door so we used our super cool magic powers to come in, and we should to-tally make a hammock themed room in the mansion tonight because I think Fjord is kind of land sick - Caleb, look at me, why do you look so terrible?”

Caleb knew the consequences of ignoring that voice. He looked up.

After hours of gazing at runes, his eyes refused to fully adjust and take in the three figures in the doorway. He squinted and managed to make out a bit of blue. “Jester?”

“They look tired right out, the poor things,” a purple blob pronounced from Jester’s right. “We haven’t missed out on an adventure, have we?”

“No,” Jester said, “Essek would never go out with his hair looking like that. Right, Essek? Aren’t you, like, super embarrassed that your hair’s all floppy right now?”

Sitting shoulder to shoulder with the floppy-haired drow in question, Caleb could just barely hear him hiss in protest at the interruption. “Leave, then, if it disturbs you so.”

Caleb blinked, starting to fumble together a sentence to dull the reprimand, and suddenly the remaining green blob resolved into Fjord as he put a hand on Caleb’s forehead and crouched to look into his eyes. “All right, it’s bedtime for you two. Jes, can you get Essek?”

“Wait-” Caleb grabbed weakly for the table, for his notes at least, but he was already being swept up in Fjord’s arms and carried bodily from the room. Essek sounded much more awake - and irate, frankly - behind him, trying to explain something, but it had been far too long since he had been anywhere near horizontal - with his head pillowed against Fjord’s bicep, he was asleep before they reached the stairs.

---

Waking is a slow process.

He is not alone - there’s a weight to being tangled up in someone else, the warm scent of closeness, and even without his eidetic memory he does not think he can ever forget the stony, moon-soaked smell of having his face buried in the crook of Essek’s shoulder.

He yawns lazily. Essek must be very tired, if Caleb is awake and he is not, and he is the better cook of the two of them anyway - although of course neither of them have any comparison to Caduceus, or Yasha now that it’s been several months since her last poisoning incident. He presses a gentle kiss to Essek’s jaw and rolls out of bed to get started with breakfast.

Or tries to, at least. His top half makes it out of bed easily enough, but the rest of him does not seem inclined to follow.

Something clanks at the foot of the bed as he narrowly hauls himself up from a quick trip to the floor. He props himself up on an elbow, halfway through another yawn, and finds himself staring down a pair of manacles hooked around his ankles.

He kicks cautiously. The chain threaded through his bed posts clanks again.

Panic begins to stir low in his gut. “Essek!”

There’s a sleepy murmur next to him. He twists to find Essek blinking awake - there’s not much else he can do, with his arms shackled above his head and his legs chained below in similar fashion. The cuffs are padded at least, stuffed with what looks to be worn handkerchiefs, and they’re both fully dressed in sleep clothes - their captors don’t want to hurt them, then, not yet.

Caleb scans the room frantically. The book he has been reading is still propped open on the bedside table, the door knob Essek had pried from an Aeorian ruin after Caleb had commented on its sparkle still proudly adorns the bathroom door, Kingsley is still leaning against the window-

He grins smugly as Caleb’s gaze snaps back to him. “Oh, good, you’re both awake. Comfy watch, but it’s ever so much more boring without the-” He pulls his hands from his pockets and rocks them back and forth. “Oh, and also the fish folk trying to kill us, those are great.”

“Kingsley?” Caleb demands. Next to him, Essek makes a shocked sound as he presumably recognizes that he cannot move any of his limbs. “What is this?”

“Oh, I can’t rightly say.” Kingsley saunters over and swings himself neatly up onto the mattress, worming between him and Essek to sit cross-legged at the center of the bed. “Wasn’t my idea, at any rate-”

“Jester and Fjord were here too,” Essek interrupts. “Is this - this is a prank, is it not?”

“Hush, you,” Kingsley smirks. “All I’ve got is that I’m to ensure you don’t make your way free with any spellcasting before Fjord and Jester get back. And to that end…”

He breaks the pause with a dramatic flourish of his arms, spreading them wide before laying a palm down lightly on each of their bellies. “I’m told this should do just fine, if the two of you care to demonstrate?”

Caleb connects the dots just a moment too late to throw himself back off the edge of the bed. “Kingsley - wait - ah!”

There was a time when it would take minutes for his mind to link the intruding sensation of touch to anything but wariness. Now, the instant Kingsley’s fingers start scribbling he’s flat on his back, pushing weakly at the offending limb and doing his best not to collapse into hysterical snickering at how much it - it -

“Tickle, tickle, magic man,” Kingsley teases, pupilless eyes aflame with mischief. “No, no, don’t bother fighting it. I’ve heard tales about those ribs of yours, you know. Especially how much you love letting Jester play with them, hm?”

“N-nein, that’s not-” Caleb tries to protest, but he’s already giggling just at the thought - Fjord and Jester are here, and he’s stuck, and Kingsley won’t stop tickling him-

Kingsley’s grin grows another satisfied inch as he turns back to Essek. “And you, stubborn - oh, are you trying to cast something? Is that what that face means?”

Essek is struggling, jaw working and face scrunched as his entire body trembles in time with the claw vibrating its way into his belly. Caleb can practically see the Misty Step brewing on his tongue, just a few short words between him and freedom if only he can get them out without laughing.

Until Jester tracks him down, that is. He hasn’t - they’ve been apart, and then in Aeor, and then working on their big project for the past few weeks, and Caleb hasn’t exactly gotten around to admitting that he might like Essek to - admitting anything, really. Or telling Essek that now that Jester knows he’s ticklish and doesn’t entirely mind it, any attempt to escape will only end in more retribution.

An oversight, in retrospect.

Kingsley purrs, apparently entirely delighted with his victim’s predicament. “Oh, come on now, you can do it! It’s been a while since I’ve seen a good magic show.” Essek shakes his head frantically, lips pressed together even as his cheeks puff with repressed giggles, and Kingsley grins all the wider. “No? Let’s see how long you last when I really start pressing your buttons, then.”

On his side and snickering helplessly, Caleb cannot help but feel a little jealous as he watches Kingsley tug up Essek’s shirt and wait for his eyes to widen in terrible anticipation. “One last chance, then? Cause I think this is really going to tickle.”

Caleb wants him to succeed, really, he does - but watching Essek try as hard as he can to curl in on himself as a single fingertip starts to rub at his navel, squirming and squeezing his eyes shut and finally barking out the first two syllables of his incantation before the third succumbs to high, squeaking laughter holds its own considerable charm. “Ahahaaaa - nooo, hehe! - wh -” He laughs a little more, shoulders shaking, and barely manages to gasp out the words. “Fjord - Jester - where -”

“Couldn’t take it? Oh, you are a ticklish thing,” Kingsley tells him, laughing when Essek’s attempt at protesting collapses into a breathless snort. “You’re wondering where they are? Really, I couldn’t say. Maybe they’ll be gone for hours, and I’ll just have to keep tickling and tickling-”

He’s focused in on Essek now, taking his other hand off Caleb to wiggle it menacingly over a defenseless armpit - Essek takes one look at the new threat and screams. “Caleb!”

Kingsley’s replaced his hand with his tail squeezing around Caleb’s thigh, and it tickles so badly and unexpectedly that Caleb would like to curl up in a ball and do some screaming of his own, but with Essek pleading for his help there’s no other choice.

He pulls himself back onto his elbows and flops into Kingsley’s lap as best he can with his legs chained, reaching blindly for ticklish spots that used to belong to Mollymauk - gasping through a new wave of laughter as the spade of Kingsley’s tail starts to poke at the soft back of his knee, he crowds his fingernails against the small of Kingsley’s back and yelps in preemptive terror as Kingsley starts to laugh and reaches for him instead. “Fjord! Jester!” he shouts. “Help!”

“Gah - oh, fuck, thahat’s - haaaa-” Kingsley flails for a moment, legs kicking out as he tries to shimmy away, but in the next moment his fingers are tickling mercilessly under Caleb’s arms and Caleb can hardly breathe, let alone keep tickling him. He flails to escape, trying to wrap his arms around himself and use them to drag himself away at the same time, but really that just means that Kingsley’s hands are stuck in his armpits now and he’s going to die-

“Right, right, I’ve learned my lesson, no ganging up on our little star,” Kingsley grumbles. Caleb gasps in breathless relief as Kingsley works his hands free - he’s facedown on the mattress, but he hears Essek shout for Fjord and Jester too before dissolving into another fit of giggles. Presumably Kingsley’s putting his tail to good use somewhere.

A hand grabs his shoulder, and he’s rolled over onto his back with his legs untwisting beneath him. He blinks up into Kingsley’s gaze, eyebrows raised in apparent dudgeon. “You, on the other hand,” Kingsley growls, as if his lips weren’t curving up into a fanged smile already, “I am absolutely going to need both hands for what I’m about to do to your ribs.”

“Mist,” Caleb sputters reflexively, and then, louder, “Fjord! Jester! FJORD!”

Kingsley’s eyebrows rise even higher. “Oh, it’s sweet that you think they’re going to help you. Unless - oh, did you want more hands?”

Caleb hardly hears the approaching footsteps over his own anticipatory squeal as he watches Kingsley’s fingers start to wander back down towards his ribs. “Nein! - eheeheh, oh gods, nein-”

But then, suddenly, blessedly, the fingers ghost lightly over his ribs and settle for spidering across his tummy instead. He wheezes in relief - half of it comes out as giggles, his nerves still on high alert, but he fully intends to enjoy breathing while he can.

He flops tiredly back, eyes tracking to the doorway as Fjord and Jester stroll in. “Sorry for the wait,” Fjord says politely. “Jester and I were just finishing up lunch. Because it’s lunchtime.”

“No rush, Captain!” Kingsley practically chirps. “We’re having a wonderful time, aren’t we, boys?”

Fjord looks completely unsurprised to find the two of them in chains. Jester is practically bouncing beside him. Caleb imagines this does not bode well for them.

Essek pipes up from behind him, metal clanking as he tries to move to see around Kingsley. “Did - heh - did we oversleep? I think the shackles are a bit uncalled for-”

“Oh,” Fjord says, low and dangerous. He’s not smiling, not yet, but Caleb can see it in his eyes and that is even worse. “Don’t mind those. It would be a shame to let the two of you leave your bedroom so soon when you haven’t seen it in days and days, wouldn’t it?”

With Kingsley still tickling at his waist, Caleb can’t even begin to coax his stomach muscles to let him sit up as Fjord and Jester cross to the bed and loom over the both of them. Jester claps her hands together, looking dangerously pleased with herself. “Do you like them?” she enthuses. “We got them from a pirate raid, because someone put our other set on a fish person that jumped right back into the ocean.”

“They were getting rusted anyway - I don’t think we collected a single one of those at sea, they’re not even waterproofed.” Fjord grumbles amiably. “These, though-”

He hooks one finger delicately through the chain connecting Caleb’s ankles to the bedpost and tugs, dragging one helpless foot just close enough to scoop up in a waiting hand. “Now these are made for some real seafaring shit. Could hold a body for as long as you want, as long as they aren’t inclined to use any magic tricks.”

Caleb tries to yank his foot back. Fjord just chuckles and leans over to stare him down, his yellow eyes warm and amused. “Isn’t that right, Caleb.”

“No magic tricks,” he gasps out through another fit of giggles as Fjord rubs a warning thumb over his sole. It’s hardly a concession - between that and Kingsley, he hardly has the breath to try anything.

“Good,” Fjord says encouragingly. He puts Caleb’s foot gently down and turns to Essek. “Now you.”

Caleb turns to look at him - from what little of Essek’s body language he can read, he looks wholly confused. “You’re not going to let us go?”

Fjord crosses his arms. “Oh, I’m sure we can come to some kind of agreement. Just consider this a friendly reminder that Jester, Kingsley and I are quite capable of following any… magical exits.”

Essek visibly rallies at the mention of magic, quirking an eyebrow. “I wasn’t aware you had learned how to Teleport.”

“Essek,” Caleb hisses. Fjord shushes him and stalks a single step forward, just close enough to start tickling lightly at the bottom of one purple foot.

Essek’s superior expression lasts all of a moment before his entire body starts flailing to escape the single point of contact. “Ah! No, nohoho, wahahait, I didn’t - ahaha, stop that!”

“You’re right, I can’t Teleport,” Fjord says conversationally. “Good catch, I’d kind of forgotten about that one. Jes, we’ve got some antimagic stuff on the ship, right?”

Jester interrupts herself from making increasingly dramatic faces at Essek to answer. “I think so? You know, just in case if we meet someone icky like you know who.”

“Perfect. Maybe you and Kingsley can keep Essek busy, and I’ll head back to the ship and root around for it?” He looks calmly down at Essek, kicking as frantically as he can with the few inches of leeway the shackles afford him and still completely unable to avoid Fjord’s fingers. “It’ll take a while, mind you.”

Jester perks up, dancing over and reaching for Essek’s other foot. “Yes! Kingsley, did you try his ears yet? They get all flappy and it’s really really-”

“No!” Essek rushes out, squeaking in harried protest when they still don’t stop tickling up his arches. “I - wait,” he pleads. “No! I won’t cast, I won’t!”

Fjord grins. “That wasn’t so hard, was it? Alright, Kingsley, can we give them a moment?”

Kingsley removes his hands from both of them rather reluctantly. Fjord claps his shoulder in silent thanks. “Now, would either of you like to explain why we found the two of you half-dead from sleep deprivation?”

“Yeah, you guys, we were so worried!” Jester adds. “You can’t do that when we’re not around to take care of you! You guys haven’t been doing this all year, have you?”

“We’ve only met up in the last few months,” Caleb adds, wincing a little as their eyes turn to him. He sits up slowly, wincing apologetically in the direction of Essek’s wrist shackles. “But no, we have not, we are just working on this project - it is a real ficker, there are so many moving pieces - and we are nearly done, we meant to sleep last night.”

“How many days?” Fjord asks. “One? Two?”

When neither of them answer, sharing a silent look, he hovers a hand threateningly over each of their trapped feet. “Believe me, you really don’t want us to pick a number.”

“Four,” Essek says warily. “But Caleb slept for at least an hour each night, and I don’t need to-”

“Oh, four’s a lot,” Kingsley cuts in. “Did you not learn how to sleep in shifts, not being on the ocean, or do you just enjoy each other’s company that much?”

Essek turns bright red. Caleb’s pretty sure he turns even redder. Even Fjord looks a little embarrassed as Jester and Kingsley collapse into laughter.

Jester sobers quickly, though, pouting insistently down at them.“Four is pret-ty bad, you guys.”

Kingsley nods seriously. Thus validated, she starts bouncing excitedly on the balls of her feet. “I think we need to punish them, Fjord!”

Caleb can easily guess what this punishment will entail. “Wait a moment,” he says hastily, “we have not even told you about this project-”

“It will be worth it,” Essek adds. “If you would just let us-”

Fjord nods thoughtfully, ignoring their protests. “What do you say, a minute for each hour they should have been sleeping?”

“No-” Caleb starts.

“So that’s sixteen for Essek, and - Caleb’s been napping on and off, sounds like, so we’ll round it down to a neat half hour for him.”

Caleb gapes fearfully. A half hour of tickling, after months and months - he can admit to himself that he missed it a little, but- “That’s too much,” he blurts. “Bitte, you’ll kill me-”

“Really, this is unnecessary,” Essek adds, surprisingly dignified for the way he’s trying helplessly to press his feet against the bed. “Just - we are well rested now, we only need a few hours more to finish the project, there is no need!”

Jester pouts. “Oh, Essek, don’t you want to hang out with us?”

Essek flounders at that, and Caleb can’t help the soft smile that slips out of him. “I would like nothing more,” he assures her, “but being chained up and - and tortured - was not quite on my mind-”

“Well then, you shouldn’t have been so dumb, Essek,” she says cheerily. “Caleb, do you want me or Fjord to tickle you?”

His mouth goes dry. Jester will be - Fjord teases, but he is gentle at least, and Jester is - Jester-

He looks over at Essek, wide-eyed and eyes flicking between all of them in some strange combination of bewilderment and anticipation, and braces himself. “Jester.”

Kingsley laughs, delighted. “Oh, he must really love you,” he tells Essek. “He’s gone and given you the better option by far.”

Essek looks at Caleb, gaze softening. “Really?”

Caleb grimaces back at him, a little embarrassed by himself. “He’s exaggerating. And besides, I am not the one laid flat out here.”

Essek frowns. “Yes, about that.”

“Caleb doesn’t like having his wrists pinned down,” Jester says easily, scrambling up onto the bed and into Caleb’s lap. “Though you should know that already if you two are boning-”

“Jester,” Caleb pleads. Kingsley starts to laugh again.

She beams at him, darting in to press a kiss to the tip of his nose. “Hi, Caleb!”

It’s impossible not to smile back. “Hallo, blueberry.”

He looks around her to see Fjord walk over and settle on Essek’s side of the bed, patting his shoulder companionably. “It’s good to see you two, really.”

Essek just sighs.

Kingsley prods at his belly, earning a hasty yelp. “He’s in a mood, it seems. You want some help with him?”

His stomach grumbles, just then, and Fjord laughs. “Why don’t you get some lunch instead,” he suggests. “We’d have brought something up, but the screaming sounded rather urgent.”

“Aye-aye, Captain,” Kingsley cocks a loose salute and swings back off the bed with one more tickle under each of their arms, snorting in amusement as Caleb and Essek both squirm and protest. “The others should be arriving soon, I’ll keep a weather eye on the door.”

“Yes, do that,” Fjord says, waiting for him to round the corner and start down the stairs. “That guy is really into sea lingo.”

“Kingsley is great,” Jester enthuses. “Don’t you guys think he looks so much prettier now that he’s all tan?”

She’s not wrong. “Ja, sure.” Caleb says. “By the way, what exactly did the two of you tell him about-” He flushes. “About my ribs?”

“Oh, you know, just some stuff!” Jester says cheerfully. “Most of it is definitely not true by now, probably, since it’s been a super long time since we’ve seen you.”

She puts both of her hands on Caleb’s shoulders and presses, sending him flat on his back and leaning over with a mischievous smile. “Good thing we have a whole half hour to catch up, huh?”

Caleb gulps.

[junicai]

lights out.

| summary | In New York, the City that Never Sleeps, Aria can’t sleep. So, her roommate comes up with a skeptical idea, and ropes Mark into it as well. 

| word count | 3.7k

| warnings | one (1) curse word

| era | circa. April 2019

92. "Just remember if we get caught, you’re deaf and I don’t speak English."

New York City.

Forever illuminated in light, forever alive and bustling down below the skyrises that towered above the people that wandered through the streets no matter what time was displayed on the clocks. The city was teeming with energy, bubbling beneath the surface as it waited for a chance to explode.

Traffic backlogged street to street, wandering souls pattering around the block in search of nothing, aimlessly strolling past the busy business-goers, those that carried briefcases with carefully filed notes and papers, and those that had dragged themselves out of their beds for the graveyard shift in the neon-lighted coffeehouse.

24-hour Coffee! The best coffee you’ll find in the Big Apple!

The noise outside the window was muffled through the thick glass but the busy sounds of the city still filtered through, gently falling in to the otherwise silent hotel room.

Aria rolled over onto her side, pressing her head into the soft pillow. The red LED lights of the alarm clock sitting on the locker beside her bed was boring the colour into her retinas, and no good could come from simply watching the minutes tick by.

The blankets were soft, if not a little cold on her skin, and she pulled her legs into her chest to rub at the exposed skin lightly. Donghyuck had insisted on leaving the air conditioning on as they slept, the boy living up to his name Fullsun as he ran hot near-constantly, but that left Aria to shiver slightly despite the mountain of blankets she had buried herself beneath. 

Rolling back over to the cool side of the pillowcase, Aria let her eyes fall on Donghyuck’s back. 

The boy wasn’t asleep - she could hear the low sounds coming from the airpods in his ears as he watched something on his phone - but he looked comfortable enough that she was reluctant to disturb him.

It had been a long day, and tomorrow was their only real designated day in this area before they were scheduled to be flown out to their next concert.

Aria loved touring, but it was hard to keep going sometimes. She assumed that Donghyuck thought the same, and that’s why instead of insisting that the pair of them watched something on his laptop, or played a game, he was letting her sleep in peace.

He had watched Aria push herself past what they both had thought her limits had been that day - watched as she stumbled through the final songs of their set with blurry eyes and a shaking frame. He’d moved to wrap an arm around her waist as soon as they had broken formation, and she’d given him a shaky smile for his efforts. 

Donghyuck had guided a rapidly blinking Aria through their ending ments and off the stage, catching her as she slipped down the last two steps. He’d practically carried her into the car, waving off an insisting Yuta, who was adamant that he could help despite still favoring the ankle he had rolled two nights ago. 

They were all running a little worse-for-wear, but, by god the crowds made up for it. 

He had known that NCT 127 had an international fanbase, had known that they were popular overseas for years. But there was nothing like seeing a crowd of five thousand, even eight thousand people from a country that didn’t speak their language, singing their songs and screaming their fanchants at the top of their lungs.

It settled into his bones, pushed him past his old boundaries to create new ones, made him want to keep going and keep singing, keep dancing, keep performing until his knees went from beneath him and he fell to the ground with a thud.

Donghyuck knew Aria felt the same, and that’s why he took it upon himself to pull her away when she needed him to.

 Despite their broadly opposite personalities - truly the sun and the moon when it came down to it - they were similar in so many ways. Scarily so.

Scary, in so far as the fact that Donghyuck knew when Aria couldn’t take it anymore, knew when she was stumbling and falling not because she was tired but because she’d hurt her back again and was unwilling to talk about it. Scary, in the fact that he knew when she wasn’t telling them something, choosing to bite her lip instead of letting whatever worry that was bouncing around in her head fall onto their shoulders to help carry the weight. 

Donghyuck wanted to help her carry those things. Even if that meant carrying her as well. 

The two of them had slipped into the hotel room at nine minutes past ten, showering briefly in the small bathroom they had adjoined to the left wall and slid into the two beds with a quiet goodnight. It had been silent since Aria had leant down to turn off the centre light, only the light peeking through the curtains from the street and the light of Donghyuck’s phone screen to illuminate the dark room left.

He had thought she had fallen asleep soon after - given the bleary squinted look she had given him in the van home as she told her to not fall asleep just yet, that they’d be home soon and then she could sleep - so you could imagine his surprise as he flipped over in the bed, letting the phone fall face down and was met with the image of Aria starfished over her single bed, staring open-eyed at the ceiling.

“Ari?” Donghyuck cleared his throat. “Ari? Why’re you awake still?”

Aria’s head flopped to the side to look at Donghyuck in the opposite bed, blinking once at him before closing her eyes and groaning. “Can’t sleep.”

He hummed, lifting up the corner of his blanket with a hand as the other pushed his phone onto the bedside locker to make sure it didn’t fall off the bed. 

Without a word, Aria slid out from underneath her own blankets - pulling one from the top layer - and padded across the room to slide into Donghyuck’s embrace, fluffing the extra blanket on top of them both. 

Donghyuck sniffed a laugh at her, but said nothing as he dropped his arm around her waist to pull her closer to him and snuggled his head into where her shoulder meets her neck.

Aria giggled lightly at his hair tickling her skin, moving her head away from the strands until the hand around her waist squeezed once. 

“It tickles,” She whispered.

“But m’comfy like this,” He responded, shoving his head further in if possible and throwing a leg over hers. 

“Just-” Aria moved some of his hair away from her face. “Better.”

“Better?”

“Its not in my face anymore.”

Donghyuck lifted his head from her shoulder to peer up at her face. “Why couldn’t you sleep? You were sleepy in the van.”

Aria huffed. “No I wasn’t.”

“You hit your head against the window when you dozed off.”

“I-”

“Twice.”

She sighed through her nose. “If it bruises I’m going to be upset. My face is my only selling point right now.”

A silence permeated the room, and Donghyuck sat up. 

“Why couldn’t you sleep?” He asked again.

Aria flipped to lay on her stomach, shoving her head into the pillow. “I dunno. Think I have some excess energy to burn off or something.”

“You were literally dead on your feet three hours ago,” Donghyuck said. 

“I know that. I just, feel like I need to go on a walk or something. Just to move or do something that isn’t lying in a bed in the middle of New York.” Aria muffled out into the fabric, kicking her legs slightly. 

Donghyuck caught a wayward ankle before it could hit him in the face. “Hey, kicking your best friend was not on that list!”

“It could be.”

Scowling, he fell back beside her, scooching closer. The pair laid together for a moment, listening to the sound of traffic from outside. 

“You want to go for a walk?” Donghyuck was the one to break the silence, looking down at Aria.

“Yeah.”

“Then let’s go.”

Aria lifted her head to blink up at him. “It’s like,” she broke off to turn her head towards the clock, blinking rapidly to bring the LED numbers into view, “Half one in the morning, I don’t think the hotel gym is open.”

“I don’t mean the gym. I mean out there.” Donghyuck pointed to the window. 

This time it was Aria who sat up, rubbing at her eyes. “Hyuck, what?”

“You want to go for a walk? Let’s go for a walk. Who’s gonna stop us?”

“Our managers? The fact that its nearly two in the morning? The fact that Taeyong will kill us?” She said, bewildered. 

Donghyuck sat up to face her properly. “They won’t know! We could be quick - promise. You can’t tell me you don’t want to see the city properly.”

Aria spluttered. “We have seen the city! We took that bus tour around when we first arrived!” 

He scoffed. “I meant properly, Ari. Like a local. How the city is meant to be.”

“We could get murdered.”

“Bold of you to assume I’d let that happen.”

Aria swallowed. “What happens if we get caught on the way out?”

“Simple: Lie.” Donghyuck leant back on his hands like this wasn’t the worst plan he had ever come up with in his nineteen years of life. 

It wasn’t often that Aria went along with his ideas - nine times out of ten, she was usually the one talking him out of them. It was only when she’d run out of patience, or the will to give the effort to barter logic out with him that she’d give in. Or in cases like this. 

“Fine.” 

Donghyuck let out a whoop, reaching over to the locker to snag his phone off the top of it and flicking the screen unlocked. Aria in turn proceeded to roll off the bed and onto the carpet, looking for the pair of leggings she had worn through the airport to cover her legs so she didn’t go wandering around the city in a pair of sleep shorts. 

Finding the black coloured material hanging on the back of the chair, she could hear Donghyuck texting someone behind her. 

“Who’s that?” She asked, not bothering to turn around as she moved into the bathroom and partially shut the door to allow her both privacy and the ability to continue her conversation with him. 

“Mark - Thought we should tell someone where we’re gone, right?”

Aria stopped. “Does he want to come?” 

“Given the angry texts I’ve just received about quote, missing out on stuff like this now that he’s not in Dream: I’d say a solid yes.”

Aria nodded, before realizing that he couldn’t see her. “Is Jungwoo coming as well then?” 

Mark was rooming with Jungwoo this time around, the members alternating on a rotational basis.

Donghyuck shook his head. “No, he says that Jungwoo is too tired. He’ll keep a lookout for Taeyong for us though, which is good.”

“Huh, that’s nice of him.” Aria re-emerged from the bathroom, leggings pulled up over her hips and a large hoodie swamping her frame. With her thin wire glasses, she looked cosy and extremely comfortable. 

Donghyuck himself was still wearing a pair of sweatpants, and pulled one of his hoodies on over his t-shirt before rummaging in the pile of shoes to find something comfortable. 

Without looking back, he tossed out Aria’s runners, who caught them with a thanks before sitting down on the ground to do up the laces. 

He succeeded in finding his own pair of shoes, pulling them in just before two light knocks sounded against their door. Aria pulled it open to reveal a bleary-eyed but excited Mark, a padded jacket pulled over his jumper.

"You are insane." Was the first thing out of his mouth.

"You're welcome to leave?" Sniffed Aria.

Mark frowned. "I never said I wasn't."

Opening the door wider, she revealed Donghyuck who had just stood up from the edge of the bed, brushing down his pants. He looked up to meet Mark's eyes and grinned.

"Let's go!" He cheered, moving to walk out into the hallway but being stopped by Aria catching the neck of his jumper and tugging him back.

Looking at her quizzically, he raised an eyebrow.

"You need a coat? It's nearly two in the morning it's going to be cold outside."

Aria herself had pulled on a jacket once Mark had arrived, but Donghyuck was still only clad in a threadbare hoodie that wouldn't protect him from the cold outside.

Reaching back over the bed, he pulled out his cost from beneath a chair and slid his arms into it wordlessly. He turned to Aria and spread his arms out into a display. "Happy?"

"It's better."

"Guys do you think we could not do this in the hallway? I really don't want to get caught by someone right now." Mark's voice came from just inside the doorway.

"Right, right," Aria agreed, shoving Donghyuck out the door and snatching the keycard off the table just before they left.

She slipped the keycard into her inside pocket of her jacket, zipping it closed before patting the padded material lightly. “Safe and sound.”

Mark, closed the door behind them. The beep sounded as the mechanism locked itself, and the trio were left standing alone in the empty hallway.

Donghyuck stretched his arms above his head, wincing slightly as his shoulder clicked. “Just remember if we get caught, you’re deaf and I don’t speak English.” 

Aria paused. “Hyuck, you don’t speak English.”

“I’m deaf and you don’t speak English.”

“And what do I do? You planning on leaving me for dead?” Mark asked, arms crossed.

Donghyuck only pat him on the shoulder, moving to rest his weight onto his elbow. “You, are fast. You’ll be fine.”

“You, are a terrible influence.” 

“A proud one.”

Aria put a hand on one of their shoulders each, pushing the two boys forward down the hallway insistently. “Let’s not have this argument where we can be found in incriminating circumstances, okay boys?”

Donghyuck snorted. “Aria we’re not going to go to jail for sneaking out.”

“Doyoung might put Aria on house arrest,” Mark countered.

“Then let’s not wait around for him to find her!”

With that, the trio made their way down the hallway, choosing to take the stairs down to the ground floor instead of the elevator - hoping to avoid as many people as possible. Aria had slipped three black facemasks into her pocket before they had left the room, knowing that if they were to be spotted they’d need something to help them blend in. 

The front doors of the hotel slid open with a quiet beep, and she was blasted with a cold front of air. She could feel her nose twitch slightly at the breeze, and knew that she’d be returning with a rosy tinge to her skin if they stayed out longer than a few minutes.

But instead of letting that bother her, Aria chose to focus on the identical wide grins Donghyuck and Mark sported, both boys looking around in wonder at the lights that surrounded them on the pavement. 

“Shall we?” Aria extended her arms playfully, giggling lightly as they both linked their arms into hers. 

Beginning their walk down the pavement, she could only look around in wonder. New York truly lived up to it’s name - dozens of people were milling about even at this time, all clad in various thicknesses of coats, and Aria felt herself relax minutely at the knowledge that the trio didn’t stick out against the colorful lights like a sore thumb. 

Each street had something new, and her eyes grew wider with every sign they passed as they walked. 

“Mark look!” Aria pointed towards a small bookstore on the corner of the block, dropping his arm to run towards the window. “Doesn’t that look like the notebook you wanted to get in Atlanta?”

A small, green leather-bound notebook had piqued Mark’s interest in the city earlier that month, but by the time he had had the time to get to the bookstore, the notebook had been sold. 

The notebook that Aria pointed out was near identical - perhaps a little bit thicker, but close enough to the original that Mark was already planning on how he was going to get back to this street tomorrow when all the shops were opened back up.

“Do you think we could come back here tomorrow to get it for you?” Aria looked away from the window, eyes shining hopefully.

Mark reached out to tug Aria underneath his arm, pulling her into his side. “I’m sure we can figure something out, Ari.”

She clapped her hands lightly to celebrate, before Donghyuck was taking them both by the hand and dragging them both back down the street which they had walked up.

“Now, while you’ve both been looking for fancy notebooks, I’ve been doing some important area recon, and have discovered that,” He trailed off, continuing walking with a firm grip on their wrists.

“Ta-da!” Donghyuck came to a stop, releasing their wrists before making jazz hands beside his face. 

Behind him, was a small food cart with an attendee that looked like he’d rather be anywhere else in the world. 

“Pretzels?” Mark asked with a tilted head.

“Pretzels.” Donghyuck nodded emphatically. 

Aria tugged lightly on the younger boy’s sleeve. “Hyuck, I don’t think any of us brought money with us-”

Donghyuck hummed, cutting her off. “Got you covered, angel.” pulling out his phone and taking several small bills from behind his opaque phone case. 

Turning to the attendee with a blinding smile he strolled forward to the cart, opening his mouth to begin speaking. 

“Can I.. we..”

Mark stepped up behind him. “Order,” he whispered, facing the pavement so his lips weren’t visible to the man.

“Order.. three.. three,”

“Pretzels,”

“Pretzels please?” Donghyuck finished, looking up at the man curiously. 

“Yeah,” Came the deadened response. “That’ll be $9.87.” 

Donghyuck fumbled with his hands momentarily, before placing three bills into the awaiting hand and stepping back from the cart, shoving his hands into his pocket.

Aria came up beside him as Mark waited at the front of the cart. “Hyuck, I don’t think I should..”

He turned his head to look at her. “Hm?”

“I don’t think I should, eat that. You know?” She looked down knawing at her lip slightly. 

“I think you should.” He said.

“No I really shouldn’t-”

Aria was cut off by Mark approaching them, three warm pretzels in his hand. He handed one to Donghyuck who took it with an affirming hum before ripping into the bread with his teeth, and handed the other to a cautious Aria. 

After Mark had taken his first bite, he looked quizzically at Aria who was staring traitorously at the bread in her hand. “Ari?”

She sighed, dropping her shoulders a little. “I’m sorry, I don’t know if I should-”

Aria squeaked when both Donghyuck’s and Mark’s glare was turned on her. “Guys I-”

“Pretzel.”

A protest formed on the top of her tongue, but fell flat when Mark raised an eyebrow. 

“Ok, ok sorry.” Aria took a bite from the now-cooling snack. 

Satisfied, both boys went back to their own snacks, sighing lightly as the trio continued their walk back down the streets they had come. From a different angle, they noticed new things each time, and it was so easy to lose track of the time when they were staring up in wonder at the neon lights.

The atmosphere was broken by a ping from Mark’s phone.

Jungwoo [2:08] uh

Jungwoo [2:08] taeyong hyung started his rounds

Jungwoo [2:08] id recommend getting ur asses back

Jungwoo [2:09] ill stall him

Mark [2:09] how long do we have 

Jungwoo [2:09] seven minutes. tops

Mark [2:09] fuck

The trio turned on their heels, pelting down the pavement.

The people they passed looked oddly at them - they must have made a comical sight. Three twenty-year-olds, dressed in padded jackets and facemasks sprinting down the street at two am. They looked like they’d just committed a robbery.

Aria could feel sweat beading at her forehead beneath her headband, pulling it off and tucking it into her pocket. These shoes were not designed for sprinting, and she could feel the rough plastic digging into her ankle already.

“How long do you think it’ll take us to get back?” Aria yelled over to the other boys, the blood rushing in her ears. 

Mark slipped out his phone from his pocket, pulling it up close to his face and checking the time. “Four minutes? We’ve gone in a big circle.”

“We’re dead.” Donghyuck breathed out harshly, picking up speed.

Silence filled in the wind rushing past their ears, feet pounding against the pavement. Mark barely stopped himself before crashing into a small child clinging sleepily to an older woman’s hand; twisting his body out of the way at the last second before profusely apologizing. 

It seemed like an eternity before they reached the front doors of the hotel they were staying at for the next two nights. 

Panting, Aria slowed to a walk, pulling at the neck of her sweater to fan herself. She took slow and deep breaths, trying to calm her pulse before they made their way into the lobby.

Starting forward, she was stopped by Donghyuck’s hand on her shoulder and Mark’s sharp intake of breath. 

“Oh. Oh god.” 

“Mark? You alright?” Aria turned to face the boy, watching his face drain of colour. 

He lifted a hand, pointing to the one window on the fifth floor with a light still on. It stood out against the other darkened windows, like a lightstick in a sea of concert-goers. And there, illuminated against the cream-coloured curtains, was Taeyong’s silhouette. 

Donghyuck huffed. “Aria, this was a terrible idea!”

[joezworld]

Any headcanons about Ever Ace and the other new A-class Evergreen ships? This totally isn’t just because I love your version of Ever Given and want more of her and her family XD

The following is an excerpt from How to Avoid Huge Ships, Or: I Never Met a Ship I Liked by Capt. John W. Trimmer (National Writers Press, 1982)

Chapter 14: The Emotional State of Ships

For most captains, the emotional state of a seagoing vessel (other than your own, of course) is often seen as irrelevant - after all, who cares if the seven hundred foot tanker about to run over you and your ketch is a nice person or not?

However, like many common beliefs in the marine industry, this is an incorrect one. The mental state of vessels is vital to continued safe navigation.

First, we must mention the obvious: An unhappy ship is a dangerous ship. Think about the last time you drove to the store while upset. Now pretend you weighed several thousand tons and required a mile and a half to stop in an emergency. I imagine your car insurance premiums might be a bit higher, no?

Then we must mention Fleets.

Allow me to explain: While this may be seen as a massively reductive statement, most large vessels (and most living machines for that matter, including commercial aircraft, railway locomotives, and even large dragline cranes) are best viewed as pack animals. When left alone to their own devices (and the growing economic benefits of 'machine autonomy' have meant that more shipping lines are allowing ships to go off by themselves!) vessels will often form a "fleet", as they call them, which substitutes for what we humans would call a joint family.

A fleet may include any number of vessels and relationship combinations, ranging from a number of single vessels who consider themselves siblings, to sets of separate married couples, and even groups of non-monogamous vessels whose conduct would make a Mormon blush. That being said, regardless of type, bonds formed in this manner are extremely strong, and will often overcome any difference between vessels - see the growing trend of former US Pacific Fleet vessels and their former Imperial Japanese Navy spouses!

Now, what does any of this have to do with the continued safety of marine navigation, I hear you ask? Well, let me put it to you in the simplest terms possible:

If you were to wrong me in some way, I might decide to take legal action against you, or I might lick my wounds and walk away. I might even go to the police if the offense were serious enough.

If you were to wrong a ship, and the offense were serious enough, they wouldn't lick their wounds, they wouldn't pursue legal action, and they most certainly would not go to the police. Most ships believe quite strongly in the merits of what could be charitably called 'extrajudicial punishment'. Most ships, if they are in such a relationship, would bring this to the attention of their fleet-mates, at which point you would not have one, but several, maybe even a dozen, extremely large and extremely angry ships going after you.

-

Of course, any discussion of the often-overlooked subject of Fleets is incomplete without at least a brief mention of the US/Canadian Great Lakes Fleet, which has managed to continuously add to their numbers through a process they call 'Lake-napping'...

-----

April, 2021 - Great Bitter Lake, Suez, Egypt

The Egyptians were insane, Given concluded. Aside from the obvious - where in the name of all that floated was she going to get nine hundred million US Dollars? - they'd actually called their Navy on her, like some kind of Triad enforcer making sure a mark didn't get away without paying.

He was a tiny ship, really - some old design that made its priorities clear, judging from his open-air flying bridge and thick hull, but the massive anti-ship missile pods on his aft deck showed he could punch well above his weight.

She'd tried speaking to him, but they didn't have a language in common - and that was impressive all on its own. From the short, clipped sentences, and badly accented Arabic, he seemed both Eastern European and decidedly unfriendly.

As the sun set on the end of the first week of what might be a very long stay in Egypt, she wondered if the line might abandon her here. The cheap fucks had already been making noise about replacing her with another, bigger ship, but Ace - still in the shipyard, but already proving herself to be just as loud and annoying as any proper 20,000+ TEU ship, bless her - had made enough noise about "not being a rebound date" that their hand had been forced.

Of course, that was all before the Egyptians decided that they wanted nine hundred million dollars, so who knows?

Another ship went by - the backlog still wasn't through, and convoys continued at all hours. This one was one from CMA CGM, and while she couldn't quite catch his name in the dark, she could absolutely catch the scathing French insults being hurled her way as he passed by.

"Je parle français, toi voilier sans hélice." She sniped at him, relishing in the startled yelp that trailed him into the night. The tugboats pulling him along laughed, and he growled at them as he moved further into the lake.

The missile boat looked at her with what might have been admiration, but it didn't stop him from keeping his guns trained on her as he changed his watch position to a spot off of her stern.

She honestly considered running - the mockery she'd get once she left Egypt might be too much.

As the next ship in line approached, she got a ping on one of the company radio frequencies.

Tuning in, her brow furrowed in confusion - now that everyone had satellite internet downlinks, internet chatrooms had become the primary communication method across the fleet. Evergreen Lines ships had all gravitated towards Discord instead of WeChat or Line, but their server had been strangely silent for most of the last week.

Opening the channel, she caught a flash of a call sign - What was Elpida doing out here? Wasn't she on the Australia run?

"Don't say a word, we've got it under control."

"You what? Who's we?"

Elpida swept past , literally - she was breaking the speed limit for this part of the lake, and had probably been doing so in the Canal too - the ropes to her tugs were taut, and judging by the Arabic screaming, they were trying to get her to slow down or at least let go. She was high in the water - her decks empty of containers - what the hell was going on?

Given was too big for the swells to affect her, but the Egyptian Navy ship wasn't, and he yelped in whatever his native language was as he rocked and rolled in Elpida's wake.

Behind her, a distant cry that sounded suspiciously like the word "Now!" rang out, followed by a deafening cacophony of foghorns.

She'd shut down her radar - because what really was the point? - and it took a worrying few seconds for the Furuno system to spin to life and return a clear result.

Or... what might be a clear result.

All hell seemed to be breaking out behind her - the convoy had broken formation and was going in what seemed like every direction possible. At least ten ships were now going berserk behind her.

The Navy ship, by far the smallest vessel out there, (except the tugs, who were fleeing for their lives, it seemed) spun around towards the main shipping lane.

Collision alarms immediately started wailing on the Canal's common channel as a very large blip on the radar screen (Who turned off their AIS transponders in the Canal?) slowly swung towards him.

The Egyptian seemed stunned for a moment - he'd drifted back into Given's range of vision, and his expression ranged between sheer horror and mildly poleaxed - before he calmed himself and stood down the ship bearing down on him.

That calm look lasted for a few minutes, but as the blip got closer and closer his confidence faded. The doors to his missile pods swung open, but his nerve broke before he could fire them, and the water around his stern frothed up into a roiling tempest as he set off at full astern.

It wasn't enough. He'd held his ground for just long enough for the other ship to reach him.

Slowly - this whole event was playing out in breathless slow motion, because nobody was actually that speedy - a bulbous bow, riding high out of the water without a load of containers, ploughed towards him. It was followed by a bowsprit, one that was so huge it looked like it could have been Given's own.

Then came the name: EVER ACE.

Then came the collision.

Ace (?!) didn't so much collide with the Egyptian ship as she drove over him. His low freeboard meant that the impact with her bulbous bow had his far side dipping into the water. Once his deck hit the swells, it acted like a giant scoop, and his keel was to the night sky within a few seconds. He'd been hit at an angle, so once he'd been pushed free, he slowly rolled back up, a much more traumatized and injured vessel than he had been a minute ago. More importantly, the water gushing out of his missile tubes meant that he was no longer a problem.

"Hey!" Ace boomed as her pilothouse drew even with Given. "Best Sea Trials Ever!"

Behind her, another ship - this one laden and looking a lot like Golden - steamed by. "Stop hanging around and get her out of here!"

"That would be my cue." Another voice called from behind her.

"Tex?" He was in Manila!

"Who else would it be?" Texas Triumph, thick Texan accent and all, steamed up. "now let's jus' get you settled up here and we'll blow this joint."

"This is a rescue?!"

"For sure pardner! We've been planning this since those highwaymen said they was keepin' ya here."

"Stop talking and get her out of here!" Golden bellowed from further up the river. It seemed like she was now intimidating some other tugboats from intervening.

"Well, ya heard 'er." Tex said. "Les' go!"

Given had been so distracted by the appearance of so many members of her family that she hadn't even noticed Tex slipping lines through her hawseholes until they went taut and she was yanked from her moorings by Tex steaming out in pursuit of Ace's retreating form.

She just barely managed to get her anchors retracted before Tex really put some power on, and began to pull her across the lake entirely.

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

Later...

The War Zone

Ever Given Escapes Custody Suez Canal Authority claims no responsibility, Egyptian Navy vessel possibly damaged. BY TYLER ROGOWAY April 17, 2021 THE WAR ZONE

📷@mahmou10_ships VIA @SUEZWATCH_EGY

SHARE TYLER ROGOWAY View Tyler Rogoway's Articles @Aviation_Intel Details remain limited at this time, but there was an incident in the Great Bitter Lake. At least one Egyptian Navy vessel has been severely damaged, and MV Ever Given, who had been held in the Great Bitter Lake by the Suez Canal Authority, has now fled the Canal into the Mediterranean Sea.

Again, details are extremely limited, but based on social media reports, marine tracking data, and radio reports, at approximately 11:47 PM Egypt Standard Time (EGY) a disturbance was reported by the Egyptian Navy craft - their identity is still unconfirmed, but images posted to social media seem to indicate that the vessel is a former Soviet Osa-class missile craft. The vessel reported that "A convoy has gone mad" and he was "under attack from multiple vessels".

While a convoy had transited the canal at that time, it is unclear if they were involved in the attack, or if one occurred at all.

We've reached out to Evergreen Lines, The Suez Canal Authority, the Egyptian Navy, and the individual ships believed to be involved, including Ever Given.

We will update this piece as more information comes available.

Contact the author: Tyler@thedrive.com

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[whenisitenoughtrees]

infinity, and beyond

He remembers the first time he kissed Janus. He remembers the way they were curled up against each other, the lights dimmed and the television on low volume, neither of them paying attention to the images on the screen. It was messy and terrible, as far as kisses go, and Patton loved every moment of it, and when they pulled away from each other, they were both breathless, smiling, and he knew then that what he felt, Janus felt too.

He remembers, too, the moment he heard about Virgil.

It's not every day that your husband's long-lost kid breaks into your house. It's not every day that you find out your husband of four years is an alien.

Patton's just trying to roll with the punches.

Content Warnings: threats of violence, mild body horror, brief, non-graphic panic attack

Word Count: 7,168

Pairings: Moceit, parental Anxceit

(masterpost w/ ao3 links)

Patton’s day begins with a teenager holding a knife to his throat.

Technically, the day has already begun; it is mid-morning, the sun inching steadily toward noon. But Patton has barely been awake an hour, has been sitting at the kitchen table with his mug of coffee, staring at all the final exams he has yet to grade as he waits for his brain to start functioning. He likes Saturday mornings; he would go so far as to say that they’re usually his favorite part of the week, because usually, Saturday mornings mean sleeping in, wrapped in his husband’s arms, and later, a big brunch and a lazy day. But today, an emergency called Janus into the office, and he has a backlog of grading to finish this weekend, so here he is. Squinting, bleary-eyed, and with a sad lack of a husband to keep him company.

That is when the teenager appears.

Appears, because there is no better word for what happens. There is no break-in, no slamming of doors or shattering of windows. One minute, he is alone, and the next, there is another person in the kitchen, a young person who can’t be any older than seventeen or eighteen, and Patton barely has time to process that before they lunge for him, knocking him from his chair and to the floor, pinning him against the cool tile.

It takes a second to process the bite of cold, sharp metal against his throat, but as soon as he does, Patton wakes up very, very quickly.

“Please—” he tries, but the teenager hisses at him, actually hisses, and through the panic that is filling his mind and drowning out all logical thought, Patton realizes that something about this isn’t right. Something beyond the fact that there is a knife against his throat and oh god oh god oh god there is a knife against his throat—

The teenager opens their mouth, their face set in a harsh, threatening glare— and it’s their face, there’s something wrong about their face but he can’t quite— but the sounds that come out are gibberish, something guttural and rasping and nothing like any language that Patton has ever heard.

“Please,” he gasps, his voice thin and high and terrified, “please, I don’t know what you’re saying, I can’t—”

He breaks off, because he thinks that if he tries to say any more, it will come out as nonsensical crying, and somehow, he doesn’t particularly think that this person will be swayed by something like that.

The teenager’s lips twist into an impressive scowl, and with the hand not holding the knife, they reach for the pocket of their— hoodie? If it’s a hoodie, it doesn’t quite look like one. It’s something about the fabric, something about the way it moves as they do, but Patton can’t spend energy on figuring that out right now. He tenses as they root around in their pocket, clearly searching for something, and muttering to themself in that same garbled speech pattern. They come up holding something, and Patton can only catch a glimpse of it— what looks like a small, silver disk— before their hand is moving, clapping it against and then inside his ear and—

There is a moment of sharp, almost blinding pain, starting with his ear and shooting through his skull, and then nothing, and he struggles to regain his breath.

“I said,” the teenager growls, “where is he?”

Patton blinks. The sounds they are making are still the same, are still strange and incomprehensible, only, they’re not exactly, because they resolve into recognizable words inside his brain, and if he hadn’t been panicked before, this would definitely be enough to do the job, because what exactly did this person just shove inside his ear?

“What—” he starts, and then the words themselves catch up to him. “Where is who?”

The teenager growls— and it is truly a growl, like an animal would make— and presses the knife in closer. Patton valiantly resists the urge to whimper.

“Don’t fucking play with me,” they snap, and somewhere, back in some hysterical portion of Patton’s mind, he is tempted to chide them for their language. “His DNA signature is all over this fucking house, so where is he? What’ve you done with him?”

Patton can only stare.

Part of his mind has devoted itself to putting the pieces together, no matter the impossible picture they form. Part of his mind is taking in the pale skin that isn’t white at all, but rather a light purple, the way their facial features are just a bit too sharp, a bit too angular to be those of a typical young adult, the way that the spots under and around their eyes aren’t makeup, but instead move, twitching to and fro in unison with their gaze, and that alone is almost enough to send him spiraling, to draw him toward a conclusion that can’t possibly be true, that he can’t possibly comprehend.

The rest of his mind devotes itself to being astonished.

“Are you talking about Janus?” he asks, and he can’t keep the incredulity from his voice.

He doesn’t know which seems more unlikely to him, that this strange, violent, maybe-probably not human person has broken into his house and is threatening him with a sharp knife, or that this strange, violent, maybe-probably not human person is looking for his husband. His husband, who makes him breakfast in bed in the mornings and tea in the afternoons, when he has too many essays to look over and a headache pounding behind his eyes. His husband, who bristles and snarks at everyone around him, who works a corporate job he dislikes and comes home exhausted and irritated at the end of the day and still smiles, that soft, sweet smile that is meant only for him, that nobody else is privileged enough to see. His husband, who he has been married to for four years now, the best four years of his life, who he fell in love with in coffee shops and movie theaters and in the rain, that one day when they were caught out in the park without their umbrellas and had to run all the way home, soaking wet but giggling, grinning and knocking into each other.

His husband, who refuses to talk about his past beyond a sentence or two, here and there, brief anecdotes that never reveal much at all. But Patton has never needed to know his past to know him, and even now, when it seems that his secrets have burst into their shared life in the most violent way possible, disrupting all sense of equilibrium and turning the world on its head, he refuses to believe that there is any secret so great as to force a divide between them.

The teenager— if that is what they are, if the appearance of youth is an accurate indication at all— bares their teeth, teeth that are too sharp, too pointed, teeth that scream predator. “Who else?” they demand. “I won’t fucking ask again. Where is he?”

“He’s not— He’s not here,” he manages. “He’s at work, I don’t know when he’ll be back.”

Please, let that satisfy them. Please, let them leave. Please, let Janus come home. Please, let Janus not come home, let him stay at the office, far away and safe. Please, let him come home and tell me what’s going on, why this is happening, who this is and how they know each other. Please, please, please.

He doesn’t know what he wants. Doesn’t know that he wants to know what he wants.

“Yeah, right,” they say, and he would be insulted by their skepticism if he had room for any emotion other than fear. “That’s likely. You could have him cut up in the basement for all I know.”

He gapes, stunned by the accusation. And for a moment, his indignation is enough to override all common sense, ignore all the impossibilities of the person holding him to the floor, ignore the knife pressing up against his skin. Because, well, first of all, he has no idea where that idea came from, but the very thought that he would do something like that at all, much less to—

“Cut—” he starts, and has to try again, because he can’t wrap his head around the notion, around the idea that that could potentially be something he would want to do, that that is the first thing this person thinks to accuse him of. “Cut up? Janus is my husband.”

Their eyes widen. “Your what?”

“My husband,” he repeats, the reaction emboldening him. “We’ve been married for four years.”

They blink at him, and it’s a motion that takes up their entire face rather than just their eyes, because those moving dots… those are eyes, too. Patton can’t deny it, can’t deny that this person, whatever they are, has eight eyes. Eight eyes, just like a spider, and his outrage fizzles out in the face of that realization, fades back into terror, into a racing pulse and breaths that come too short and quick, and he is confused now too, confused at what this person wants, because their words almost seem to suggest that they don’t want to see Janus harmed at all, that they think he is the threat. That they think he is a threat to Janus.

But Patton isn’t the one with the knife.

“Please,” he says. “Please, just, you can look around the house, there’s pictures of us. We’re together, we’re happy, and I don’t know what you want, but just please, please don’t hurt him.”

“Don’t hurt him?” they repeat, and somehow, whatever strange translation system is at work in his head manages to convey their disbelieving tone. “What the hell are you talking about?”

They seem surprised that Patton is making the insinuation at all, and Patton can’t help the incredulous noise that escapes him.

“You’re holding a knife to my throat!” he all but shrieks, the words ripping out of him at a much higher volume than he intends. “What am I supposed to think you want?”

They make a strangled sound, one that his mind doesn’t resolve into words.

“You—”

And then, they stop, tilting their head. A moment later, Patton hears it too, and dread forms a heavy weight in the pit of his stomach. There is a clattering sound, a key turning in the lock, and the unmistakable creak as the front door opens. The teenager stands, suddenly, a fluid motion, but Patton is frozen in place, barely noticing the removal of the knife and the pressure holding him down, too busy trying to think of a way out of this, or to protect Janus, if worst comes to worst. He’s trembling so hard that he’s not sure how quickly he’ll be able to get up, but once he does, he’s in the kitchen. There are weapons here. All he has to do is grab one, no matter how ill it makes him feel to use his cooking instruments in such a way.

He won’t let this person hurt Janus. Not if he has any say.

“I’m home, love!” Janus’ voice drifts through the house, smooth and unconcerned. There is a familiar thump; that will be his briefcase hitting the floor, and then a rustle of clothing as he sheds his suit jacket. His footsteps draw nearer, and even as the person’s face shifts into an expression Patton has no hope of interpreting, he readies himself to leap to his feet, to fight if need be.

“I just love when idiots call me in for an issue that it would take someone with half a brain twenty minutes to solve,” Janus says, sounding terribly exasperated, and normally, this is when Patton would go to him and give him a hug, would lean his chin on his shoulder and hold him close, or at the very least call out to respond to him. But he stays still and quiet, and the footsteps pause.

“Patton?” He sounds uncertain now, but he’s coming closer again, and Patton finds himself staring fixedly at the entryway to the kitchen, raising his head from the floor to see. Oddly enough, the teenager stands stock still, making no motion to turn to where Janus will appear in mere seconds.

And then, there he is, and Patton cannot help the instantaneous flood of relief at seeing him, at seeing Janus, his husband, poised and confident and unharmed and here. He stands on the threshold, adjusting the gloves on his hands, and Patton watches as his face transitions from calm to confusion to something between anger and fear as he takes in the scene, the toppled chair and rumpled papers, the figure standing in the midst of it all, knife clutched in one hand. And then, he locks gazes with Patton himself, and his eyes blow wide with worry even as the rest of his face schools itself.

“And just who the fuck are you?” he demands of the person. To anyone else, he would sound completely collected, but Patton knows him too well to miss the tremor in his voice.

The person doesn’t move.

“I’d appreciate an answer,” Janus continues. “I’d also appreciate it if you’d step away from my husband.” Janus gives him a tight smile, one that is probably meant to be reassuring, and he returns it as best he can.

And then, slowly, the person pivots on their heel, putting their back to Patton. He can no longer see their facial expression, blank and unhelpful though it was, but he can see Janus’ perfectly well, and as such, he can see the way he holds onto his cool anger for all of five seconds, before it shifts into undiluted shock. His face pales, his lips parting slightly, and he actually takes one stumbling, hesitant step forward, and Patton’s heart begins beating triple time because he has no idea what could make him react like this.

And then, the person speaks.

“Janus,” they say, and the noises that spill from their mouth remain strange and unfamiliar, but somehow, Patton hears the wetness in the name, the fragility, the desperate hope. The knife goes clattering to the floor.

Janus makes a sound, wounded, astonished, and Patton has never heard anything like that come from his husband’s throat, and it scares him.

“Virgil?” he rasps, and evidently, that is all this person needs, because they launch themself forward, and Patton’s instincts scream at him to try to stop them, to leap at them or grab at their hoodie or do something. But Janus’ arms open wide to receive them, and then the two of them are hugging, holding each other tightly, and from here, Patton can see the way Janus’ hands fist in the odd material of the teenager’s clothing, the way he buries his face in their shoulder, and Patton has never been more lost.

Virgil. He recognizes the name, he thinks, and it only takes a moment to summon the memory from the depths of his mind, blurred with age and the faint buzz of alcohol and the heat of the summer night. But Virgil rings out in his mind as clear as a bell, somehow bringing more questions and few answers, because none of this makes any sense at all, because one night, two and a half years ago, Janus told him that he had a son, and that he loved him, and that he lost him, and that his name was Virgil, and then he refused to say any more, and Patton let it go in favor of holding him because the look of devastation on Janus’ face was like none he had ever seen before.

So, this cannot be Virgil. But surely, Janus would know the face of his own son, would never embrace a stranger, and would never embrace… whatever this person is, because Janus is sharp and Janus is observant, and he has most certainly picked up on all their unusual features, on all the ways that they cannot possibly be human. So that means that this must be Virgil after all, and Patton can only watch as they cling to each other, like they’re both afraid the other will disappear if they let go.

And Patton doesn’t know what this means.

-----------

He remembers the first time he kissed Janus. He remembers the way they were curled up against each other, the lights dimmed and the television on low volume, neither of them paying attention to the images on the screen. They stared at each other for a long time before he leaned in, before he dared to take the initiative, and he has never felt happier than in the moment when Janus met him halfway, pressing his lips firmly against his, their noses knocking into each other, their teeth almost clacking together as they sought more, more contact, more closeness. It was messy and terrible, as far as kisses go, and Patton loved every moment of it, and when they pulled away from each other, they were both breathless, smiling, and he knew then that what he felt, Janus felt too.

He remembers, too, the moment he heard about Virgil. He remembers, because he knows only fragments of Janus’ past, a past that he is certain is dark and full of sorrow, and that is why he has never pushed for more than what Janus is willing to give, content to gather up the bits and pieces he is offered and guard them close.

Most of the surrounding conversation is hazy, blurred by one too many glasses of fine wine and a summer heat wave that permeated every inch of the apartment they rented at the time, no matter the efforts of the air conditioner to banish it. But he remembers the way Janus quieted, all of a sudden, face still and contemplative and sad in a way that made his heart clench.

“Have I ever told you,” he said, “that I have a son?”

And he could only stare and shake his head; the answer, of course, was no, the revelation so unexpected that he had no idea how to react.

Janus smiled, small and bitter, like a gash in his face, bleeding him dry. “I do,” he said. “He’s beyond my reach, now. I won’t be able to see him again.”

He remembers he made a noise, tiny and shocked, and that he stretched a hand out, placed it on his, and Janus accepted the touch readily enough.

“His name is Virgil,” Janus continued. “I think he would like you. At least, I hope he would.” He tilted his head, eyes distant. “He’s prickly, slow to trust, abrasive in general. But he’s a good kid. Was a good kid. I suppose he’s not… well. It’s been five years, now.” He closed his eyes, bowing his head. “He would like you,” he repeated, sounding more than a little broken. “He would like you.”

And he didn’t know what to say to that. Didn’t know what to say at all, his words failing him. So he tugged him closer with both arms, leaning him against his chest and rocking him gently, holding him close, and Janus pressed into the contact and didn’t say anything else.

He drew the conclusion that Virgil was dead, died tragically young, somehow. Looking back, he’s not sure how he arrived there, when Janus used the present tense the entire time, quite clearly speaking as though Virgil was alive and well, just somewhere he couldn’t go.

He thinks he might understand that part a bit better now, at least, though most of it refuses to sink in. But the facts are these: Virgil, if this is Virgil, cannot possibly be human. No human looks like he does. And this fact, too, leaves Patton with far more questions than answers.

-----------

“You did what?”

Janus’ voice is loud, sharp, and it brings Patton back to the present in an instant. He doesn’t know how much time has passed while he ruminated, tried to fit all the puzzle pieces together while well aware that he only has about half of them, but Janus and Virgil have drawn back from each other, Janus’ face twisted in alarm.

“We did research before I came down here!” Virgil says. “I’ve seen what humans want to do to us! For all I knew, he’d locked you up in a room and dissected you.”

Ah. So Janus isn’t pleased that his son—his son, his son, this is Janus’ son, his husband’s son— threatened Patton with a knife. Patton would feel more gratified if he weren’t stuck on us, trying desperately to ignore the voice that whispers in the back of his mind, the one that says, well, doesn’t that make sense? Virgil’s not human, that much is obvious, so doesn’t that mean that Janus is—

“You—”

And for the first time since he recognized Virgil, named him aloud, Janus looks at Patton, and Patton looks back, unsure of exactly what emotion is showing on his face. Confusion, probably; lord knows he’s feeling enough of it right now. But for whatever reason, Janus’ expression crumples, and he gently places his hand on Virgil’s shoulder, moving him to the side.

“Virgil,” he says quietly, and for the first time, Patton realizes that he isn’t speaking English at all, but rather, that same unfamiliar language that Virgil has been utilizing, the one that morphs in his head into something that makes sense. “I… need a moment.”

“But we only just—” Virgil begins, turning so that he can see both of them at once. And then, he stops, something odd passing across his face, something that Patton can’t interpret at all. “So you really are… with him.”

“Yes.”

“But he doesn’t know,” Virgil states.

Janus closes his eyes. “No,” he says.

Virgil is silent for a long moment. “Alright,” he says. “I’ll just… go in this other room, I guess. Over here.” And with that, he backs out of the kitchen and into the living room, disappearing from Patton’s line of sight.

Patton glances back to Janus, who is just standing there, still as stone, staring at him, and he opens his mouth, fully intending to chide him for talking about him, or about something tangentially related to him, at least, like he’s not sitting right here. But no sound comes out of his mouth, and suddenly, he finds himself wheezing, gasping for breath as the events of the past few minutes crash over him, and oh god, how is he supposed to process this, reconcile himself to this, because he knew his husband had secrets and he still doesn’t think he understands fully but he does understand just enough to know that everything he thought he knew is not as it seems and he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do with this and—

“Breathe, Patton,” Janus says, and a gloved hand appears in his vision. He grasps it thankfully, squeezing it tight, and the contact serves to ground him, allows him to calm his panic, little by little, until his mind clears enough to realize that Janus is kneeling in front of him, expression twisted into some awful combination of worry and apprehension and a hesitance that Patton has not seen in a long, long time, not since the earliest days of their relationship, when Janus seemed so uncertain that his affections were welcomed or wanted at all, and Patton had to work so hard to convince him otherwise.

But before he can do something to comfort him, Janus draws into himself, pulling his hand back and looking at the ground. “I suppose you have questions,” he says, and Patton almost laughs at the understatement, restraining himself at the last second.

“Yeah,” he agrees, and he wants to reach out, wants to take Janus’ hand again, but Janus’ body language is so closed off that he’s not sure any touch at all would be welcome. “So, uh, that’s Virgil.”

Janus nods.

“Your son, Virgil.”

Janus nods again, his eyes flickering up for a moment and then back to the floor again.

“I’m sorry he acted the way he did,” he murmurs. “He was scared for me, so he jumped to the worst possible conclusion.”

“There was no harm done,” Patton replies, matching his soft tone. “I mean, that was really scary. I was scared. I think I still am. But I’m not hurt, and everything’s turned out okay.” Even as the words leave his mouth, he has no idea whether he’s telling the truth or not. Have things turned out okay? Have they really? He feels like they’re dancing around the most important subject, the elephant in the room, and what’s more than that, they both know they’re doing it, neither of them quite willing to broach the topic.

But they need to. So Patton does.

“He’s not…” He pauses, taking a breath, marshaling all the courage he has left in him. “He’s not human.”

The statement hangs in the air between them, like a comma in a sentence, waiting for the inevitable continuation.

Janus shakes his head, just slightly, the motion so small that Patton might have missed it had he not been looking. “No,” he says, “he’s not.” And he falls silent, unwilling to elaborate, still unwilling to so much as meet Patton’s eyes, and that leaves the impetus of the conversation on him, doesn’t it? It leaves him to voice the rest, to dare to seek confirmation of a fact that half an hour ago, would have been too unbelievable to consider. Still is, to be frank.

“He’s… an alien. He’s not from earth,” he says, putting off the inevitable for as long as possible. He stares at his husband, who he loves, who he cherishes, who he treasures, who he thought he knew. And he still does, surely, because he knows what Janus is like, knows who he is if not what he is, and that has to be enough. He’s determined to make it enough. “So… are you? An alien, I mean?”

The question is out there, now. There is no taking it back. And Janus looks up at him, finally, expression pained.

“Yes,” he says simply, and Patton has to take a moment to breathe, to wrest his spiraling thoughts back under control, because what exactly is he supposed to make of this? This feels too big for him, too vast and too shocking and too incomprehensible, and nothing, nothing has ever prepared him for this possibility.

“Okay,” he says, even though he feels like it’s really not. “Okay. That’s… okay. I need a second to, um. I just need a second.”

“Of course,” Janus says, inclining his head, and then he moves as if to stand, and no, that is absolutely not what Patton wants, so he grabs at his sleeve with one hand. Janus freezes, staring at the spot where his fingers connect with his shirt.

“That doesn’t mean I want you to leave,” he says, his voice coming out somewhere between cross and petulant. “I can have a second perfectly well with you here.”

“Oh,” Janus says, settling back on the floor. He looks more than a little bit lost, as if he can’t fathom why Patton would want him to stay, and that does hurt a bit, the implication that he thinks Patton might not want him anymore, because of this. Which, he supposes it’s a rational fear; it is, after all, a rather large secret to drop on someone four years into a marriage. But Patton just needs time to process, and once he has, he thinks he’ll be alright.

So, he closes his eyes, focusing on the texture of Janus’ sleeve against his fingers, soft and silky.

What does this change, really? A lot, obviously, but how much of that actually matters? Does Janus being an alien change the fact that he always eats the last of the ice cream, or that he insists on doing the dishes by hand, or that he cried when Bambi’s mom died even though he pretended not to so that he could comfort Patton? Does it change the fact that he’s a terrible blanket hog, or that he denies loving to cuddle but instantly latches onto Patton the moment they’re both in bed together, or that he always seems to know just what to do or say when Patton is tired and sad and all the world feels gray?

Does it change that he loves him?

No. No, it can’t possibly affect any of that at all. And he’s known that all along, really, the realization lurking just under the surface, waiting for him to have it on his own time. He feels relief flood him, because alright. His husband is an alien. It’s going to take a long time for him to be used to that. But he’ll be damned before he lets that come between them.

He opens his eyes.

“I love you,” he says, and he puts all of his sincerity, all of the reassurance he can muster into those three words. And he is prepared to say more, to go on at length about all the reasons why, but Janus winces, turns his head away.

“You can’t say that,” he says. “Patton, you don’t even know what I look like.”

He frowns. Janus’ tone edges on defeat, on something uncomfortably close to despair, and he doesn’t like that at all.

“I’m looking at you right now,” he tries, but Janus just shakes his head.

“I’m a shapeshifter,” he says, cold and biting and yet, still reluctant, as if the admission is being ripped from him. “I literally hide my true appearance from you on a daily basis. I’m not human, and I don’t look like one, not when I’m not trying to.” He turns back to him then, meets his eyes, and it’s almost like a challenge, as if he’s certain in his words, certain that Patton will turn his back on him over something like appearance. And it’s true, this new admission throws him for a bit of a loop, but he thinks if he can accept the fact that he is married to an actual alien, he can accept this, too.

Janus is a very attractive man. But Patton didn’t marry him for his looks. And no matter what sort of alien he is, no matter what he’s hiding, whether it’s tentacles or feathers or extra eyes or what-have-you, Patton will love him just the same. What concerns him most is that Janus doesn’t seem to know that, seems to think that this will be the deal-breaker, will be what sends Patton running. And he is expecting Patton to run; that is becoming increasingly clear with every passing minute.

He spent a lot of time, early on in their relationship, showing Janus that he cared about him, showing Janus that he was allowed to be cared for. He didn’t expect to have to do it again, didn’t expect to have to prove his affections once more, four years into a happy marriage, but he will do whatever it takes.

“Then show me,” he says softly, and pitches his words carefully, trying to make it seem like a request and not a demand, trying to make sure Janus knows that he doesn’t have to do anything at all, not if he doesn’t want to. “Show me what you look like.”

Janus laughs, short and sharp, like a razor’s edge. He passes a hand across his face, and Patton’s fingers finally slip from his sleeve. He removes his hat, and then, to Patton’s surprise, he begins to unbutton his shirt, shrugging it from his shoulders, and then follows that with his gloves. Patton watches as the garments hit the floor, suddenly anxious, though he tries not to show it. Whatever Janus is about to show him, it is crucial that he doesn’t allow himself to have a negative knee-jerk reaction, doesn’t allow himself to recoil before his head and heart catch up to his instincts.

Even if Janus turns into… a giant spider person, or something equally scary, he’ll still love him. He knows that, knows that there is nothing that Janus could do or be to make him stop, but what is most important right now is making sure that Janus knows that.

Janus doesn’t say anything else, just settles back firmly on his haunches, bracing his hands against his thighs, shutting his eyes. And his face slides into something blank, into something impassive, but for just a moment, Patton thinks he sees a flicker of apprehension, even of fear, and he wants nothing more to reach out, to insist that everything is going to be alright. But he knows that Janus won’t believe him right now, will shrug off any touch, so he restrains himself, and watches as Janus begins to change.

It’s slow, at first, subtle. His skin almost seems to ripple in place, and then it— flips, for lack of a better word. It reminds him of Mystique from the X-Men movies, or one of those sequined pillows or shirts that has another color on the other side, revealed when you rub the sequins the other way. His skin flips, and in its place is scales, smooth and gleaming, in dappled patterns all across the left side of his face and down his chest. And as Patton stares, utterly fascinated, they move and shift across his body, curling into different designs and reflecting different colors, green and brown and yellow. And where his skin is still bare, it seems to even out, any blemishes disappearing, and it takes on a slightly yellow tint.

And Patton is so occupied by this that he almost doesn’t see the extra arms, folding out of seemingly nowhere, two extra pairs, one resting limp at his side and the other curling around his abdomen protectively. Three pairs of arms, six hands, each one now tipped with sharp claws, and Patton gapes at them, allowing himself one moment of pure surprise before turning his attention back to Janus’ face.

It looks sharper, more angular, a bit thinner, just different enough to throw him off balance a bit. But looking at Janus, his eyes screwed shut and lips pressed into a thin line, as if awaiting judgment, he can only see his husband there, not the stranger he half feared would take his place.

And the scales, well. The scales are lovely. They shimmer and shine in the light, and Patton can’t quite tell what color they’re trying to be, nor if there is any meaning to their movements across Janus’ skin, but he is captivated by them, by their twisting, shifting beauty. They almost look as if they are dancing.

So, he does the only thing he can think to do, and reaches out to caress his face.

Janus starts, eyes flying open, jerking back, but Patton pursues him, tracing his thumb across his cheekbone. The scales there are smooth and cool to the touch, just slightly bumpy, and Patton runs his fingertips across them, learning their shape and feel. Then, Janus makes a whimpering sound, and he freezes, watching him for any additional reaction.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “Should I not do that? Does it hurt?”

“No,” Janus says, almost a stutter, “no. It— feels good. It’s just, I’m not used to—” He breaks off, shuddering, and he presses his face into Patton’s hand. His eyes are open wide, flitting across Patton’s face, and he realizes that his eyes have changed, too. One is the familiar, warm brown that Patton is used to, but the other is golden-yellow and slit, like a cat, or like a snake, and it’s quite possibly one of the most gorgeous things that Patton has ever seen.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he says. “You’ve been so scared, haven’t you?”

At any other time, he thinks that Janus would deny it. Janus has never been one to admit to his own vulnerabilities, has always preferred to cover everything up in a layer of sarcasm and insults and misdirection, and on the worst days, even he has trouble getting him to admit that something is wrong. But now, Janus just shakes against his hand, his whole body trembling, and says nothing at all.

“I’m so sorry you felt like you needed to hide this,” he tells him. “I think you’re beautiful.”

“I have six arms,” Janus says hoarsely, as if he thinks Patton can’t see them. “Patton, I— I have scales, I have six arms, I have—”

He cuts off with a strangled gasp as Patton grasps one of his hands, one of the new ones, one of the ones hanging at his sides, and brings it up to his lips, planting a gentle kiss on his knuckles.

“They’re very nice arms,” he tells him. “And I think it’s ridiculous that I could have been having six-armed hugs this entire time. Don’t think I’m not going to have you make up for that, mister.”

Janus laughs wetly, and this time, it’s more genuine, and laced with surprise. There are tears in his eyes, Patton realizes, tears in his eyes and beginning to streak down his cheeks, and he reaches out to wipe them away on autopilot. Janus shivers every time he makes contact with a scale, but his eyes never leave his face.

“I love you,” Patton says. “I love you, all of you, no matter what you look like or what planet you’re from. I’d love you if you were a slimy tentacle alien like in the movies. I’d love you if you had an extra head, or, or a really long neck, or if you were secretly two feet tall and bright blue. And I told you on our wedding day that I would follow you to the ends of the earth, do you remember that? But I only said that because I didn’t know that going further was an option.”

He scoots a bit closer, removing his hand from Janus’ face so that he can grab two hands at once, not paying attention to which ones. Janus’ breath hitches.

“If you honestly think,” he says seriously, “that you could ever do anything to get rid of me, you’ve got another thing coming.”

And at that, Janus lets out a sob, loud and messy, and throws himself forward, colliding with Patton’s chest. It’s an awkward angle for a hug, but Patton is too preoccupied to care, is too busy bringing his arms up to hold him, rubbing circles into his back and tracing the scales he finds there. And he’s basking in the sensation, too, drinking in the fact that there are six arms hugging him right now, clutching at him tightly, holding onto the fabric of his shirt for dear life, and he has never felt so safe, never felt so warm. So he relaxes into his husband’s embrace, embraces him in turn, lets him weep and shudder against his chest.

“I’m sorry,” Janus gasps out, “I’m so sorry I doubted you, I—”

“It’s okay,” Patton murmurs. “It’s okay, I’ve got you, I’ve--” He stops, his attention suddenly distracted. “Is that a tail? Do you have a tail?”

It certainly looks like one, snaking its way out of Janus’ pants, long and thin and scaled, and how he missed that, he has no idea. Janus pulls back a bit to look him in the face. His eyes are red-rimmed, his skin flushed orange rather than pink.

“Yes,” he says. “Is that… alright?”

Curious, Patton extends a hand. The tail wraps around his wrist snugly, tugging at his arm, and he giggles a bit.

“Oh goodness,” he says, in lieu of a real response, not bothering to stop the delighted grin that spreads across his face. Janus relaxes, untensing, and slumps forward again to rest his head on his chest, releasing a long, heavy sigh.

“I’m still sorry that I kept this from you,” he murmurs, and Patton glances down at him, carding his free hand through his hair.

“You don’t have to be,” he says.

“Maybe not, but I am,” Janus replies. He shifts in place, angling himself to be able to meet his eyes. And Patton once again finds himself fascinated by his heterochromia, at the contrast between the eye he knows well and the eye that is new. It’s almost a comforting sight, once that reminds him that no matter his appearance, Janus remains the man he knows and loves.

“Did you mean it?” Janus asks. “When you said that you would go further than the earth, if given the option?”

A thrill runs through him. “Are you giving me the option?”

Janus hums. “Virgil is hardly going to be content with leaving me here,” he says, and then twists around further to stare Patton full in the face. “But I won’t leave you,” he insists, voice growing vehement. “And I won’t ask you for more than you’re willing to give. If you want to stay here, then we’ll stay here. The choice is yours.”

And Patton leans forward and kisses him on the lips, soft and short and sweet. “I’ve told you,” he says. “Where you go, I’ll follow.”

And he means it. He means it more than anything else he’s said in his life. He means it with the weight of all the years they’ve spent together, all the love he has to offer. Where Janus goes, he will follow, to the ends of the earth and beyond it, and there is a whole universe out there, waiting to be explored. He will have to make arrangements, of course, will have to contact his school and figure out something to tell his parents, and perhaps he should be dreading that, but all he can feel is exhilaration. Because his husband is an alien, has surely seen so many things that are so much bigger than their little lives here on earth, and yet, he is willing to stay here, with Patton, for Patton, and all Patton would have to do is ask.

But just as Janus has chosen him, he has chosen Janus. And for Janus, he would go anywhere.

“Because you know,” he continues, “I think you’re pretty out of this world. In fact, I’d even say that you’re a real star.”

Janus snorts, messy and undignified, and Patton smiles, pleased by the reaction.

“So, how about you introduce me to your kiddo,” he says. “Without the knives, this time. And you can tell me what I should pack.”

And Janus smiles at him, sweet and joyful, one of those expressions that no one else gets to see. Despite everything, that smile is still the same.

“Okay,” he says, and stands, pulling Patton up with him. “Let’s do that.”

And Patton clasps one of his hands, and lets Janus lead him onward.

----------

End Note: There are plenty of things that I would like to explore in this ‘verse, including putting proper focus on the anxceit, having Virgil deal with suddenly having another dad, Patton continuing to adjust himself to the new circumstances, and whatever the other sides are up to. So, I’m tentatively going to label this as a series. Future installments will be under the tag ‘it’s a space opera (and oh how the arias soar)’

General Taglist: @just-perhaps @the-real-comically-insane @jerrysicle-tree @glitchybina @psodtqueer @mrbubbajones @snek-boii@severelylackinginquality @aceawkwardunicorn @gayerplease

[strawberryvanillablast]

I’ll Never Be Like You (Giorno-centric)

TW: Blood, Anxiety, Death, Nightmares, Body Horror, Possession

It was June 17th at approximately 1:34 a.m. At this time, the denizens of Naples were sleeping soundly in their beds. This also rang true for those that worked in the inner circle of Passione except for one person. That would be the new boss known as Giorno Giovanna. Indeed, this boy at the tender age of 15 defeated a man who was, unbeknownst to mostly everyone, the previous boss of Passione and took charge of the syndicate. 

Currently, he was working on finishing some paperwork so that there wouldn’t be any backlog by sunlight. He rubbed his tired eyes as he tried to focus fully on the words atop the thin sheet. The clock’s monotonous chime was slowly lulling him. He felt his eyelids droop gently as his muscles slowly relaxed. Giorno shot up as stiff as a rod, willing himself to not sleep at all. This work had to be done as soon as possible. And yet, and yet, sleep was definitely inviting. He closed his eyelids for a brief moment before waking up suddenly again. What was he doing...?

The atmosphere was strange and foreboding. The office did not seem grand and inviting. Instead, it was cold, dark, and musty. Giorno frowned as this whole thing felt completely wrong. It was like taking apart a toy and jamming its parts back in the wrong places. He stood up and opened the opulent door, noticing that the air was even more oppressive. He headed for the stairs, hoping for some answers. 

Except. 

Except. 

Except he was already at the bottom of the stairs. Giorno looked up, confused. It was impossible. How did he get down quickly? It was as if. No. No, it couldn’t be. Could it? Giorno looked around the living room area, feeling that there was some wrong to be had here. Abbacchio’s form was sleeping on the couch (was it him?) and Giorno automatically moved towards him. As he reached out, a slow nausea coursed through him, as if he was dreading what was going to appear. When his hand removed the cover, Giorno wanted to throw up. 

Abbacchio had a horrible gaping wound right on his abdomen. 

No. 

No. 

This couldn’t have happened, could it? Giorno tried to summon Gold Experience at his side, but his stand wouldn’t come at all. He tried again but no such luck. At a glance, he thought he saw Narancia leaning on the staircase. Wait. That was a familiar stance. Where had he...? Giorno moved without delay and saw a terrible array of gaping wounds that covered Narancia’s body. He gently held Narancia a little, as if he was a fragile doll that needed protecting. He carried Narancia over, over, over to where Abbacchio lay and laid the body next to him. 

A sudden thud made him jump out of his skin. He turned to see Bruno and Trish, lying on top of each other. Running to them, he saw that they consisted of grave wounds. Bruno had a similar wound to Abbacchio, blood leaking out. Trish had a wrist cut off as well as her throat being sliced. He needed to do something, there was still time to be had for recovery, right? 

No.

Just then, a horrible, horrible scream was heard upstairs. Without delay, Giorno’s body moved towards Mista’s room. Forcing open the door, he was met with Fugo trying to revive Mista. Mista was coughing up blood and shuddered before he fell in Fugo’s arms. 

“Fugo,” Giorno fought to keep his tone level. “Fugo, here. Let me heal him...” 

“D-Don’t,” Fugo replied, hugging Mista’s body. “P-Please! Spare us! Spare us!” 

“Fugo,” Giorno asked, confused. “Fugo, what are you talking about? I’m here to help you!” He knelt down by them, trying to assess the damages. He winced as he took in the number of wounds on Mista’s person. “Here. Let me help-...” 

“N-No,” Fugo shivered like a madman, still hugging Mista. “No, please! Spare us, spare us! Please spare us!” 

“Fugo, what’s gotten into you,” Giorno’s frown deepened. “It’s me, Giorno.” 

“N-No,” Fugo shook his head. “Y-You can’t be! You killed him! You killed Giorno!” 

“Fugo.” 

Giorno froze and he held a hand to his throat. His voice had gotten deeper, way deeper. In fact, he almost sounded like someone else, someone that he fought. He looked at Fugo, who was backing away. He reached out, only to see that he had long hair. Long hair with a pinkish tint and dotted flecks of black and white. 

“...No...”

Without warning, he grabbed Fugo. Fugo shrieked and squirmed away, but there was no time to waste. He seized Fugo’s chin, looking into his purple eyes. It was a bit muddy, but soon enough, he saw something of a reflection. He saw his own self with his curls and suit, but his hair was dotted in those flecks and his eyes. 

His eyes. 

They turned into a sickening green with those horrible triangular flecks. 

Giorno backed away from Fugo, wondering if this was a Stand Ability that made him transform into...into him. Fugo, for the most part, was shivering and holding himself in fear, mumbling. He needed to convince Fugo that he was still Giorno. Except when he held his hand out in comfort...

Fugo was lying on the ground, a gaping hole in his abdomen and blood leaking. Giorno gaped and looked down at his hands. For they were covered in blood. At a glance, he swore that he saw another Stand take the place of his usual stand. No, this couldn’t be happening. This. Could Not. Be Happening. 

“But what if it is.”

He gritted his teeth at that voice. It was impossible. Diavolo was supposed to be dead or at least, never going to come back. So why could Giorno still hear him? 

“Giorno Giovanna. The new member. So naïve to King Crimson’s power. It could be considered cute. Did you think for a measly second that you and your worthless teammates could get rid of me so easily? Foolish boy. You have no idea as to what I’m capable of.”

Giorno looked around for the source of Diavolo’s voice but he couldn’t find it at all. So, how was this man still talking to him? How was this man controlling him at all? Then, he froze as he felt something painful in the back of his head. It felt as if something was carving out of his hair, his skin, and his skull. He closed his eyes in pain and held his head. He experimentally traced the back of his head. 

His heart skipped a beat in fear. 

The back of his head felt like another person’s face. Complete with lips, nose, a pair of eyes, and eyebrows. And there could have been only one person present at the back of his head. At the back of his mind. Giorno clutched at his hair as he tried to yank out every trace of Diavolo. But there was no such luck. 

“It won’t do you any good, Giorno Giovanna. You are now the new Boss of Passione. Which means that in due time, you will become another me.” He laughed a cruel, callous laugh. “Are you afraid of looking in the mirror? Look at your reflection, Giorno Giovanna. Or are you not enough of a man to do so.”

Giorno would not be subjected to this man’s taunts, but his head looked up and into the mirror. His eyes widened in fear. What had he become?! He looked like a fusion of his own self and Diavolo’s face etched into the back of his skull as if he was a plaque or a stone. Diavolo grinned wickedly and laughed horribly. 

It was too much.

It was too much. 

It was too much. 

Giorno Giovanna screamed-

.

-and woke up in his bed. Disoriented, his hands flew to the back of his head as if to feel for Diavolo. There was an immense relief flooding when all he felt was his hair and skin. Running a shaky palm through his sweat-coated curls, he noticed, through his fading confusion, that there was a palm on his shoulder, gentle and firm, holding him steady. 

“W...Who...” 

“Easy does it, Gio. You’ve had a bit of a fever dream. Take it easy and just rest, okay?” 

“Ugh...I...don’t feel so...” 

“I know, I know,” The voice gently shushed him. “Get some more rest. I’ll be here when you wake up, okay?” 

As he slipped down into slumber again, he felt a hand run through his hair. 

“I promise.”

.

That’s supposed to be one of his friends in the ending, not Diavolo. It’s up to you on who is with him at the ending. 

[weakzen]

Left on the detective’s desk, a single red rose and a note written in precise handwriting:

Alex,

What happened to you - you didn’t deserve it. You can be loved, if you let yourself.

Happy Valentine’s Day

(yolo experimental style; alex/mason, early established relationship, angst and fluff; no direct mention of abuse, just oblique circling and fatalistic thoughts; rated m for mason; also on AO3~)

Even though I didn't finish reading it, even though I hid it from sight, imprisoned it in darkness, cast it to the depths of the bottom drawer until the end of shift, when it would be possible to smuggle the thing into the break room recycle bin without risking Tina's eyes or interrogation, that stupid fucking note has somehow still managed to reach up through all those heavy files and twist my stomach into knots.

For hours.

Plucking my nerves hard enough to make my hands fucking shake too. Typos in every report, backspace key pulling overtime without pay. Not helped by eyes that won't stop stinging. Armpits that haven't fully dried either, along with a weird chill, shivers that persist despite the sweater and the cranked-up thermostat.

At least the rose is gone. Snuck it into the arrangement on Tina's desk, the one I get her every year.

It looks better surrounded by friends.

It was nice to see it on the desk this morning

(Can still smell it perfuming the air.)

And if I could get rid of my thoughts as easily, I would. Because after half a day of chasing them in circles, I still can't figure out who the fuck sent that goddamn note, who the fuck would write something like that—say shit like that, to me—who could possibly fucking think or know or say anything about that, or that I-I, that I—

Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckingfuck.

That sickly feeling wrenches again, hard enough to jerk me forward over the desk, face buried in my hands while my breathing shudders into something unsteady and vaguely gasping.

Fuck.

It can't be Tina.

It can't.

It should be, but it can't.

The writing's not loopy enough to be hers, and it's not slanted enough to be Verda's, and the damn thing isn't covered in nearly enough heart stickers to be from Felix. We all should know. Nate's been sighing nonstop for the past week, scraping them off every available surface in the Warehouse—except for the lacy pink one Felix managed to sneak right between Adam's shoulders.

And the glittery red one I pressed covertly to Mason's ass.

(Maybe not so covertly. Found a few hearts stuck to my underwear later when I slipped outta my jeans, and the secrets of how the fuck he pulled that off are still locked behind his smirk.)

A smile tries to pull at my lips, but the tightness in my gut warps it crooked.

Another shuddery breath.

It can't be from Adam either. If he had something to say to me, he'd just say it, preferably after he finished laying me out on the mats, all sweaty and sucking down air from another session of his gentle ass-kicking. Nate, however, would write a note to me. Has written a note to me. Has written many notes to me and still not made a dent in that stack of expensive stationary, and although the card stock was silk cream, the pigment obsidian night, and the calligraphy swooping in almost a dead ringer, I know it can't be from Nate because he would never leave a rose with his words, not the ones meant for me.

But there isn't anyone else.

There's Mason

And it can't be from him.

It's not his handwriting, to start. I think. I'm pretty sure. I've never actually seen his writing, but I can't imagine it would be anything resembling neat or careful. It's gotta be complete chicken scratch. All cramped and illegible. He's left handed too, barely patient enough to sit through a stoplight, much less give ink the time to dry, so there'd be definitely be smears, and there weren't any smears. At all. Can't be him.

Not to mention he'd never do anything like this.

Don't know why he keeps coming to mind anyway. Just because we're…

Together

—for now.

Doesn't mean he'd ever say anything like that—

He already has

(He did. He said I deserved better and I believe him, but I don't, I can't.)

—only because he'd say differently if he knew.

If he really knew.

He'd say different and I'm not gonna fucking tell him and it doesn't fucking matter anyway, it doesn't. Shine's gonna wear off soon enough. Novelty, satisfied. Boredom, returning. And at least the conversation won't be awkward, just… blunt. To the point. A first for us both, in topic, if not style.

I've never been dumped before, at least not in a romantic sense.

Another breath. Another shuddery breath.

Wonder how it's gonna feel.

(It's gonna suck.)

No fucking shit.

If it can't last, why agree to it at all?

I rub hard at my eyes, grinding palms into sockets.

If it can't last, why not tell him anyway?

Because I already fucking know! Don't need to hear it from him, don't wanna hear it from—

If it can't last, why does it matter what he thinks?

“…Stupid fucking note.”

It was nice to see it on the desk this morning

(Someone took the time, wrote it, left it in here. Someone cares.)

Someone's playing a sick fucking joke, more like.

What if it's genuine?

I scoff ragged, squeezing fingers around the back of my neck.

(Tina cares. So does Verda. The whole team, so many others, I know, and I believe them all but I don't. I can't.)

What if you didn't deserve it?

I did. I stayed and I did. My fault. Fucking stupid, like he always said.

(All Mason ever speaks is care. In a thousand different ways of touch, in silence, in lingering looks, he cares.)

What if you can be loved?

What if you can?

A brittle laugh wheezes past my lips and shoots toward something hysterical, boosted by acid burn and cloying petals and that churning, churning tightness. My shoulders hunch high around my ears while the sound pitches even higher, lungs immolated and screaming along, nails digging, cutting crescents as I shake and curl tighter, smaller, compacting into stiffness hard enough to rival diamonds, every muscle verging on a cramp and my throat is stinging and my eyes are on fire, hot, wet, and the door is closed, the blinds shut, and maybe I could just— this time— if I stayed quiet, I could—

I could—

But I don't.

I swallow once, twice, suck down, blink it away, then snap upright and get back to work. There's too much shit, not enough time.

Never enough time, not for that.

For you

(Remember to eat lunch.)

I don't.

I don't really remember talking to anyone either. Or finishing paperwork. Answering email. Clearing the inbox backlog, digital and otherwise, but the stack depletes, the numbers go down, Tina gives me shit from the doorway, and soon the peripheral lights tick off overhead in the foyer, a mop bucket rattles its rounds, darkness crept into my office at some point for a visit and now it's here to stay, just its quiet company along with the monitor blasting eye strain, clacking keys, tight shoulders, a headache, and then—

A familiar ass plops down on my desk and scares the shit out of me.

I jerk back in the chair, wheels rolling, hand over heart to keep it from pounding free and Mason looms above it all, bathed in harsh blues, deep shadows, a deeper frown, and eyes that refuse to obey the rules of any ambient illumination.

Right now? They're crinkled soft, even as they scrutinize.

He looks… worried.

When did he even open my door?

“You okay, sweetheart?”

“…Yeah,” I mutter. A lie, an obvious one, but I fight the urge to glance away and dare him to call me out anyway. “You need something, sunshine?”

A muscle in his jaw twitches. “You're late.”

“For what?”

We didn't make plans.

“Getting home.”

Fuck.

I sigh, slumping in the seat, and now I'm looking away, now I'm backing down, running a hand through my hair, mussing and tangling, just like he always does when he's uncertain.

And when the hell did I start doing that?

“Yeah, I'm still behind on shit from my vacation. I was gonna stay late tonight, try and catch up…” I explain, because Tina and I also didn't make plans this year.

(Because she's been marinating in smugness ever since I sighed and told her about the relationship. Because she dropped that shit-eating smirk earlier—that I remember, at least—dripping suggestion all over my office as she waggled her brows and winked and made obnoxious kissy faces until I shoved her out the door, but not before she told me to 'have lots of fun tonight, Alexandra.')

Sure.

“Sorry I didn't text. I… forgot.”

That tightness in my stomach does another loop, and I huff a quiet breath.

Stupid fucking note.

Mason folds his arms. “…The fuck is going on with you?”

Concern blunts the teeth of his words, not that there's any real bite. There never is, not with him, but I tense up anyway, expecting it, expecting to be ripped open.

Blood and pain.

I'd tense up no matter how he asked.

It's okay

(He's not Bobby.)

“Nothing,” I reply, folding my arms, eyes down, “just…”

It's okay

(He's not looking to hurt.)

Probably will anyway, but fuck it. I already know his answer.

Let's just get it over with.

“You didn't leave me a valentine earlier, did you?” My gaze snaps to his. “On my desk?”

Mason scoffs. “Why the hell would I do that?”

This time, it stabs instead of twists, higher up, somewhere in my chest. Something sharp instead of dull.

Disappointment? …Relief? I'm not sure.

Just that it stings.

And it's nighttime, so maybe he feels it too, and maybe that's why he unfolds his arms and shifts toward me, boot heel dangling by the bottom drawer while his voice drops to a softness that matches his accent. “What it say?”

“Nothing,” I repeat, even quieter than him. “Just someone fucking with me. It doesn't matter.”

It does

(Shouldn't lie, not to him. Don't need to. Don't want to, don't like it.)

Mason doesn't like it either, but he doesn't push it. Neither do I.

We look away from each other.

The office swelters around us, too stuffy, too small. Too silent and uncomfortable now to stay. I roll forward to save my work, then turn the computer off and Mason's already waiting for me by the door, a dark silhouette framed by distant fluorescent, my coat and bag hanging off his arms. He pulls me in while I put it all on, yanking me by lapels before abandoning them for the sweater on my lower back, the loose hair at my nape. His lips brush against mine in slow movements, soft nibbling, and he's whispering something to me with it all, with the strokes of his fingers and the circle of our chins, but I can't quite hear.

So ask

(He'll answer—and he won't lie.)

I swallow, then I do.

“…What kind of kiss was that?”

“Dunno.” He shrugs beneath my hands, breath tickling my face. “I want you to feel better.”

“Oh.”

A shadow flits behind his eyes.

“…And if he's still bothering you, I'm gonna break his fucking jaw again.”

I chuckle softly. “Pretty sure it wasn't him this time.”

“Good.” Mason nibbles another kiss, then smirks. “Might still do it anyway.”

That gets a laugh from both of us, one that sprawls into a pause, grey eyes locked to mine while our grins fade out and our breath catches on everything unspoken and nameless rushing in to take the space.

Honesty. It's what I try to speak. Trailing up from the emotional ooze, raw and sticky.

I hope he can fucking see it, hear it cry, but I wipe it off and whisper the words into shape anyway, cheeks flaming, just to be sure—

“I'm sorry, I just… I don't wanna talk about it now.”

—and he answers me with a brush of his mouth, with his tongue parting my lips, with the way he teases into me before licking deeper, the way he jerks our hips together then shoves, a knee between my thighs, my back into a wall, a door frame, a sharp corner, a low groan rumbling up his chest directly into mine and I hear it all this time, in his breathy panting at the edge of our kiss, the firmness in his fingers angling my face to his, the solid heat of his cock pressed hard against me, grinding slow while I cling tight and moan, I hear it all, but he sucks my lip in with a sharp inhale, rolls me around his mouth before releasing with a drag of teeth, and he murmurs it aloud anyway, just to be sure—

“I know, sweetheart. It's fine.”

—then he nips down hard, and it's hard not to smile, hard not to laugh, harder still not to nip that asshole right back, so I don't.

Hold back, that is.

Our lips are swollen and sore by the time the station door swings shut behind us.

[deepseavibez]

Wave of Want_1 || KSJ

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Part 1

... maybe the past liked to visit too much and shadows were not as harmless as we thought. - A/N

Word Count - 2k

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It was a humid night. No breeze, no noise, no people, but then Town Road Plaza was not supposed to be busy at ten in the night - only you were. The hustle and bustle of the crowd around here usually died down by eight. Then the shops closed, cleaned and prepared for the next day. You’d waved off almost every acquaintance that worked in the kiosk across from your shop, and your neighboring clothing and accessory shops.

You would have joined them, but your supplier delivered your new selection of hats and caps late and they were set to be displayed and sold to customers for the new week. You had just recently got promoted too. Beside it being another achievement on your ladder of success, it has also added to your set of responsibilities.

There would be a huge backlog should it not be ready.

Plus, you weren’t one of those people where work was something to run away from. You loved your job and your life, no matter how much it actually did suck sometimes.

But it was all about dealing. And for the people around you? No way were you going to sport a sad face or a negative attitude when your loved ones needed you. You played your roles; good daughter to your dad, a motherly big sister to your baby sis and a best friend to the ones that you chose to make family.

You lived on a line of careful balance, where emotion was important, but logic helped you stay alive. You could cry, as long as you smiled after. You could scream and shout, as long as the voice of reason made an appearance at the end, and you could love and love and love so hard, but walk away when it just was not worth it.

Placing the last cap on the mannequin head, you sighed – a combination of relief and acceptance because it was too late to visit dad and Bee, but on the bright side, work was done for the night.

Turning away from the rich toned racks of matching jackets, coats and blazers you headed in the direction of your office. You didn't usually spend a lot of time in here; always hands on, a people person to the core, love for your job and your store always had you on your feet. It was a bit of a killer when heels were a norm, but beauty was painful.

Your desk had your laptop, a few bills and orders and a photo frame of your family. Smiling with a heavy heart, as the fleeting memory of your mom brushed past, you looked down at the light blinking on your phone.

Picking it up off the desk you typed in the passcode and noticed the notifications all coming from Twitter. The pop up detail showed it was from your girls.

It was not always about just being a fan on Twitter. There were a number of people you had met online and trusted with parts of you so deep you did not know they existed. That's what made it close to every person's heart.

They spoke about problems, family, life, languages and travel, talent and interests and hobbies. And everyone could be themselves. Anything could be said, whether it was about sex, about softness or even just about food, it was all meshed together by an emotion you wouldn't think to find on a social media group chat with everyone halfway across the world from each other, and that was love.

Total unconditional, uncompromising respect, love and support. And it was real. It felt real.

Right now the chaos was about a concept photo drop from a kpop group. Tapping on the Twitter icon, your notifications were wild with funny reactions and online screaming at how good the pictures and ideas looked.

Searching for their usernames you giggled at the responses. Your friends replies were exactly like their personalities.

Josie was the smallest of the group. She was the one that held the most power in tugging on the protective reigns of every one of them.

School being her worst enemy she still worked hard, still took up hobbies and interests and she had so many of them. She was so kind, really and there was a need in you to always stick around Josie.

Watching her grow up, adapt, be better than her original self and take care of her. Because every one of your friends here, were younger then you, but Josie was closest to your baby sisters age. And your heart could never say no to a feeling so old and embedded in your heart, to shrug it off would be tearing yourself open.

Stevie was the crazy one, but crazy in the most admirable way possible. Nothing stopped her; nothing and no one. She was eccentric really, her selfies at angles and moments no one would think to put out there, her messages and replies so on another perspective it was a need to have her around.

And she had a spine of steel - a literal spine of steel. Everyone had days honestly, but Vee was so strong, you wouldn't even notice something had happened. And that was scary, the people with the steely exteriors, needed the most love. And damn did they love showing it in their own way.

Believe it or not there were campaigners for Stevie being president. You knew there would be war if that actually ever happened, but hell; you'd just pull up a chair and a glass of wine and watch the show unfold.

You really would protect them, because what else did you need in the world except for the few good-hearted friends that could be a comfort in your world.

Eyes catching the clock in the corner of your screen it now said 10.30pm.

Getting lost in Twitter was a whole struggle.

Putting your phone back down and shutting down your laptop, you packed up to get ready to go. Making to grab your charger you found it not in its socket. Eyebrows scrunched up in confusion you looked around.

Where -

A fleeting memory, your eyes blew wide in realization, as you did a backtrack to help you remember. It was in the kitchen last. Macy had used it, because she forgot hers at home.

You scrunched your face up in disdain. She was always using your stuff. Whining about how your make-up was flawless and she couldn't apply it like you. She wanted your face creams and commented on your choice in clothing - it was the bomb apparently. You knew this already and Macy was on thin ice, you only had so much tolerance.

‘Stupid, bitch.’ You muttered and suddenly thought of Josie, because she would have definitely called her that.

Shaking your head with a smile, you figured you’d grab the charger when switching the lights off and locking up the back.

A loud scraping signified a chair being moved. The noise startled you. You held your breath, the laptop bag flap held in midair as you questioned if you actually imagined it or not.

There it was again.

Eyes blown wide, confusion plaguing your senses you tried to think over the dangerous thud of your heart. The only chairs were in the kitchen, but you were the only one left at the store.

'Hello?' You shouted. 'Is anyone there?'

You internally cringed at the question.

Like anyone would actually answer, the fuck

Partially recovered, you woke up slowly, the need to investigate overpowering fear.

Sending a silent prayer up for sanity, you looked around you. Eyes catching the light flashing on phone in your hand, you turned it over and saw the missed calls and messages coming through on the screen, one after the other. Opening the chat, you read the messages and got even more confused.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬You couldn't answer him right now, what if someone was actually here. You hoped that wasn’t the case, but if it was, he did say he was on his way.

Locking the phone, you clutched it tightly, trying to ignore the tandem of your heart. This was your store, your baby. You couldn't just run out. You were caught. You didn't want to make him worry, and you were scared, but this was your responsibility.

Trying to feel convinced from your thoughts you noticed the slight click in your black stiletto pumps. Kicking time off slowly, you adjusted to the cold of the tile seeping to your bare feet.

Atleast your toes looked pretty, freshly manicured in a pale pink.

Shaking your head to focus on the task at hand, you chided your stubbornness and ran a hand through your hair. You needed to think about how you would defend yourself and - you did a double take as you turned your head; attention caught on the the broom in the corner. You grabbed it and held it in front of you, as if preparing for war, you took a deep breath, steeling yourself to stop being a chickenshit and move.

Cautiously leaving your office and walking as close to the edge of the wall as possible, you tiptoed your way to the kitchen.

Walking to the last room in the hallway wasn't supposed to be this creepy; you had done it so often and at later times than this. But today your hair stood on end. You had to walk there, because you had to lock up. And the knives were in the goddamn kitchen.

Blood thundering in your ears, you leaned into the wall, hands clutching the handle of the cheap broomstick to your chest, you neared the open door of the kitchen.

Closing your eyes in a silent prayer, you huffed a breath and turned.

'Hyaaaahhhh!' Swinging wildly with the broom, you hit the air, the only sounds being the battle cry coming from your throat and the background hum of the running refrigerator.

You stopped and took in the empty room before lifting yourself from your almost crouch, and acted as composed as possible.

Eyes darting from left to right twice before being satisfied enough, your mood elevated. Pssht, no one's here. The broom shook in your hand however, a telltale sign of the blood rush in the minutes of heightened emotion.

The kitchen was compact. Cream coloured walls, a refrigerator and grey table with four wooden chairs; granite, grey counter on the wall in front of you next to the fridge and white cupboards below the counter.

Shaking your head at the empty room, you aren't going to die today, you told yourself, your lips curving down in the lame attempt to humor the situation.

You turned. 'Oh God! Fuck!'

Catching your reflection in the mirror on the far side wall, at the worst time possible you clutched at your heart. Shaking your head, you rolled your eyes at the overreaction.

'Breathe y/n, for fucks sake.' Grabbing your charger from the table, with a little more force than necessary you turned on your heels, and switched the light off before padding, barefoot to the doorway. Closing the kitchen door behind you, you grabbed the key on the door and twisted it.

No more randomly moving chairs for the rest of the night.

Breathing now evened out and the dead silence of night your only companion, you were ready to go home to your warm bed and open loving arms.

You sighed, a small smile gracing your lips at the reminder of the love of your life.

An ear blistering shriek left your mouth as you felt a heavy weight on your shoulder, a second later. The hand that caused it, twisted off as you spun around so fast it would have given anyone watching you whiplash.

Shaken and terrified you had the end of the broom pointed at your would be assailant.

'What the fuck are you doing here?!'

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[anatrik]

folklore and evermore sister songs list

1. the 1- champagne problems.

Common themes:

Failed relationship with unresolved feelings on both sides.

No satisfactory closure.

Recurring devices:

Champagne ( Rosè, Dom Perignon)

Toasts with friends (rosè flowing with your chosen family// no crowd of friends applauded)

Overall reminiscent tone

2. cardigan- willow.

Common themes:

A strong undercurrent of Possessiveness that seems to imply that no one could ever know or love him like she does. (I knew you dancing in your Levis, drunk under the street light, heart beat on the highline...// That's my man)

A certain sense of inevitability born of the long shared history of the two protagonists.

All is fair in this love. (I knew you'd miss me once the thrill expired...I knew you'd come back to me// there's one prize I'd cheat to win)

Recurring devices:

Infidelity and forgiveness (I knew you'd miss me once the thrill expired...I knew you'd come back to me// wherever you stray I'll follow)

Scars (you drew stars around my scars// show me the places where the others gave you scars)

Trains (heartbeat on the highline, stepping off the last train//you know that my train could take you home)

Linked music videos

Similar instrumentals

3. exile- coney island.

Common theme:

Contemplating the death of a relationship and the role each side played in hastening it

Recurring devices:

Male- Female duet,

Call and response ( you never gave a warning sign, I gave so many signs// did I leave you hanging every single day? did I paint your bluest skies the darkest grey?)

References to fragility ( did I close my fist around something delicate// balancing on breaking branches, we always walked a very thin line)

4. my tears ricochet- closure.

Common theme:

Scathing indictment of a much loathed ex

Recurring devices:

The ex who wants to be the good guy/hero and everything to be neatly tied up with no loose ends ( don't treat me like some situation that needs to be handled//you're the hero flying around saving face)

Reaching out after its too late ( if I'm dead to you why are you at the wake cursing my name//reaching out across the sea that you put between you and me)

5. mirrorball- tolerate it.

Common themes:

Power imbalance

Going above and beyond for someone who doesn't appreciate it (or atleast doesn't let the singer know that they do)

Recurring devices:

Constantly giving one's best (still on that tightrope still trying everything//use my best colors for your portrait)

Insecurity and a pathological need to be palatable ( I can change everything about me to fit in, shining just for you// I take your indiscretions all in good fun, I sit and listen)

Self deprecating self awareness in the outro (I want you to know I'm a mirrorball// I sit and watch you)

6. seven- dorothea.

Common themes:

Friendship

Innocence

Blurring the line between a best friend and a first love

Strong Homoerotic undertones

Recurring devices:

Quintessential American Towns™ (Reading, Pennsylvania// Tupelo, Mississippi)

The trustworthy friend™ (cross my heart won't tell no other// if you're ever tired for being known for you know, you know you'll always know me, I still got love for you// and I've got nothing but well wishes for ya)

Shared Memories (sweet tea in the summer, your braids like a pattern// skipping the prom, the soul I met under the bleachers)

7. august- gold rush.

Common themes:

Summer romance

Forbidden fruit

Other woman perspective

Recurring devices:

The beach (salt air, your back beneath the sun// costal town we wandered around, ships on water)

Sex (twisted in bedsheets// my eagles tshirt hanging from your door)

Yearning and jealousy (your back beneath the sun, wishing I could write my name on it// I don't like that anyone would die to feel your touch everybody wants you)

Knowing he belongs to another (you weren't mine to lose// I cant dare to dream about you)

8. illicit affairs- tis the damn season.

Common theme:

"Driving a new Maserati down a dead end street"

Longing for things to be different

Recurring devices:

Time limit ( a drug that only works the first few hundred times//you could call me babe for the weekend)

Roads (take the road less travelled by// road not taken looks real good now)

Perfume (leave the perfume on the shelf...don't even exist//the holidays linger like a bad perfume)

Sneaking around (clandestine meetings//I parked between the Methodist and the school that used to be ours)

A once in a lifetime connection (you showed me colors you know I can't see with anyone else// the only soul who knows which smiles I'm faking)

9. invisible string- ivy.

Common theme:

The unbreakable bond between soul mates

Recurring devices:

Color (green grass// ivy, single thread of gold //tarnished glow, teal shirt//opal eyes)

Physical allegory of their connection (invisible string tying you to me// your ivy grows and now I'm covered)

10. mad woman- no body no crime.

Common theme:

Murderous Female Rage™

Recurring devices:

Boats (my canons all firing at your yatch// good thing my daddy made me get a boating licence),

Infidelity (the master of spin has a couple side flings// her husband's acting different and it smells like infidelity)

Mad women.

11. epiphany- marjorie.

Common theme:

Taylor's grandparents

Death

Recurring devices:

The number 13

Dreams (dream of some epiphany// your closets of backlogged dreams)

12. peace- happiness.

Common theme:

Title subversion (would it be enough if I could never give you peace// therell be happiness after you)

13. hoax- evermore.

Common theme:

Extremely sad songs with ultimately hopeful messages

Recurring devices:

Melancholia (stood on a cliffside screaming give me a reason// I was catching my breath barefoot in the wildest winter catching my death)

Distrust (your faithless love// I couldn't be sure I had a feeling so peculiar that this pain would be for evermore)

Self loathing (barren land, I am ash from your fire// motion capture put me in a bad light)

Turmoil (sleepless nights, winless fight// I've been feeling unmoored I'm on waves out being tossed)

Hope (your faithless love's the only hoax// this pain wouldn't be for evermore)

- Anatrik ©

FINALLLY did it

Best 5 hrs of my life that I've "wasted"

[letterboxd]

How I Letterboxd #12: Joe Lynch.

Self-described cinedork and Mayhem filmmaker Joe Lynch tells Horrorville’s Brett Petersel about cinematic sausage, getting to direct Creepshow episodes and being a three-star starter on Letterboxd.

“Even when I watch what I would think is a real stinker, I also consider that there were many people involved in that film who didn’t walk on set going ‘okay people, let’s screw this up today!’” —Joe Lynch

It is always a pleasure to find film directors lurking on Letterboxd. Joe Lynch is a bona fide, OG member, having racked up more than 1,500 diary entries, giving half-star reviews to his own work, and creating lists of the movies that have influenced the making of his films.

There are the films that were in Lynch’s subconscious when he made Mayhem, a workplace splatter led by Steven Yeun and Samara Weaving. There are the movies he watched while researching the Salma Hayek-starring Everly. And this just in: films that influenced The Right Snuff, one of Lynch’s two episodes for the new Creepshow series—based on the 1982 horror-comedy classic and its sequels—which premieres on Shudder April 15.

Like so many of us, Lynch took time during the pandemic to catch up on films he had neglected to watch in spite of a previous career as a video-store clerk (a Criterion Channel subscription helped him get on top of the backlog). In this edition of ‘How I Letterboxd’, Lynch discusses how those classics have informed his craft, who his Letterboxd faves are, and why the horror genre is the future of the industry.

Steven Yeun and Samara Weaving in Joe Lynch’s ‘Mayhem’ (2017).

How long have you been on Letterboxd? Joe Lynch: I remember when Letterboxd was in its beta phase way back in good ol’ 2012 and I couldn’t wait to sign up, breathlessly waiting for an invite to the party. At the time, I had a digital database where I would log movies I’ve seen, but it was always subject to whatever laptop or device I had handy and would just be a mess of titles with no rhyme or reason.

When a member follows you, what should they expect? I put it right up top in my description: “I am not a critic”, just a lover of cinema. At first I didn’t want to write “reviews” in the description, especially since I first started using the service whilst in the throes of a horrible experience making a film that I thought would bury me and I’d never work again. I was like, and I still feel this way, “who am I to rip on a movie when someone can throw it right back at me? Like ‘dude, you directed Knights of Badassdom, sit down’.”

I’ve always had the highest regard for filmmakers who can get anything made. So even when I watch what I would think is a real stinker, I also consider that there were many people involved in that film who didn’t walk on set going “okay people, let’s screw this up today!” but instead were trying their best and circumstances just got in the way, which always happens. Having made a few films and TV now, I’m fully aware of the trials and tribulations that go into making a movie and have all the respect in the world for anyone who can steer that ship to completion. It’s hard making movies and even harder making one that is your original vision [and] that is widely embraced by an audience.

I have very weird tastes so don’t be shocked if you glance at my recent activity and you see Casablanca, The Silence of the Lambs or Bigger Than Life right next to The Legend of Billie Jean, Con Air or Candyman 3. I’m usually bouncing all over the place in terms of what kinds of movies I’m screening. From films recommended to me, to films that I may be watching for research, or even just how I’m feeling that day and maybe need a good laugh or a good cry or to be scared stiff. I like that kind of variety. There’s something out there for everyone and every emotion. If anything, I’d say expect the unexpected when it comes to my viewing habits.

What’s your favorite feature to use and why? One of the residual effects of working at video stores as a kid was my desire to siphon people’s tastes in movies and possibly recommend films to others as well, so my favorite feature is the ease of use in logging films and being able to quickly recall those films as well in the event someone asks me “what’s something I should watch?”. Getting older, the “employee’s picks” in my head is getting a little harder to cross-reference than usual so to have the ability to whip out my phone and say “oh man, I just watched Possession and it was awesome!” is exponentially helpful to a cinedork like myself.

‘Big Trouble in Little China’ (1986)—a five-star film says Joe Lynch.

How do you rate the films you watch? For example, what type of film is worthy of a five-star review? Funny, I always start out on three-stars mainly because I’m so proud of the filmmakers actually getting it completed! I’ve been there! I’m somewhat biased in my reflections because I’m always rooting for the artists and from there, it’s usually gauged on both an emotional level and a technical level. I always get made fun of while watching movies because I can point out hidden cuts or when a shot is reversed but [I’m] not trying to point out flaws, it's just how my brain is wired at this point. When you pull the curtain back enough to see how the cinematic sausage is made, it's harder and harder to objectively watch a movie without trying to dissect how it was done. I try so hard to shut that part of my brain off to just passively enjoy a movie but it’s tough. I usually skew towards the positive.

The films I’ve given five-stars are movies that have continually affected me over the years and have inspired me as a person and a filmmaker, which is everything from The Empire Strikes Back, Dawn of the Dead and When Harry Met Sally... to Big Trouble in Little China, The Blob, The Last of the Mohicans. I looked back at my five-stars and it’s mostly movies that made a significant impression on me from an early age and continue to do so, maybe even more so as I get older and I view these movies in a different light.

The anthology show Creepshow returns to Shudder this month. Tell us about the two episodes you directed for the series, ‘Pipe Screams’ and ‘The Right Snuff’. Both Creepshow and Creepshow 2 were important films in my youth and even today, they were some of the first movies I remember where I wasn’t quite sure if I was supposed to be scared or laugh. These films proclaimed we could do both! As a disciple of George A. Romero, Stephen King and Tom Savini, Creepshow really shaped how I watched movies and how I made them—consider the anthology I did a few years back, Chillerama, as a prime example. So when Shudder announced the show, I had to do everything on my part to convince them I could take the baton from these masters of the macabre and do them and the many fans proud.

To come to the table and say “I want ‘The Right Snuff’ to feel like 2001: A Space Odyssey crashed into The Andromeda Strain, and ‘Pipe Screams’ is my homage to The Blob and Delicatessen”—and then everyone just immediately getting it—was a dream. Between the casts I was lucky enough to work with and the amazing crew, especially the FX geniuses at KNB, it really was one of those dream jobs I’ll never forget. I hope audiences dig the madness we conjured up on those!

Season 2 of the Shudder series ‘Creepshow’ returns to the horror streamer this month. A third season has been ordered.

If you were to expand the Mayhem universe, what would it look like? We tried! I pitched the producers the idea of the ID-7 virus in other locations and situations because in essence the idea of being uninhibited by mental and emotional constraints is so ripe. My favorite was the idea that it would get loose in a Wal-Mart or a mall on Black Friday when consumers swarm to these department stores for the best deals. You’ve seen the videos, it’s just mass hysteria. The footage already out there would have been perfect to use already and those people aren’t even infected!

Sadly it didn’t come to pass, mainly because they asked “how do we get Steven and Samara back?” and I didn’t want to force those characters into that scenario, Die Hard 2 style. Plus they’re both huge stars now and likely unavailable for the next twelve years. But the ideas people have thrown out to me show that it was impactful enough to warrant variant scenarios in a “what if?” way that’s really exciting. Who knows, maybe the ID-7 virus could find its way onto the set of a movie production…

What excites you about the future of filmmaking, especially in horror films? The world is embracing new faces and voices more than ever and it means we’re getting stories that may not have ever had the chance to flourish and be seen and heard before. For the longest time the system was much more rigid because executives and producers thought that the audience was much less accepting of a wider world view in cinema and I think the last ten years has proven them wrong. There shouldn’t be any more “token” character or “strong [insert non-white-male] character” descriptions in development meetings. I hear it less and less, which is great because that’s not our world and since cinema—especially horror—is and always should be a reflection of our culture and times, it should reflect these evolutions as well.

When I made Wrong Turn 2: Dead End, the discussions over how one of the characters—a Black character played by Texas Battle—survived at the end was not in the original script but I pushed for it mainly because it was rare for the Black character to do so in a horror film. That shouldn’t be an anomaly! Why can’t there be a ‘final guy’ or have the survivors be LGBT+ or a POC and not the usual stereotypes?

I think now it’s more commonplace to see this and it excites me for the future of the genre that artists are being more welcome to express themselves without it feeling like it’s a gimmick or a twist on the norm.

I think generations of kids growing up with horror now are gonna see these strides in the storytelling—and who’s telling the stories—and push it even further. Places like Netflix and Shudder are willing to take chances with new voices more than the studio system, now more than ever, and that’s only going to produce some great stories now and in the future.

Erica Leehrsen and Texas Battle in a scene from ‘Wrong Turn 2: Dead End’ (2007).

How has the pandemic affected your creativity and influenced your work moving forward? Aside from losing a bunch of gigs due to the shutdown and being delayed on shooting Creepshow—which was a blessing in disguise considering the time we took to further develop the scripts and design of each episode—one of the main effects of the pandemic was how it gave many of us the time to catch up on a lot of films, mainly older ones. As you’d see from my diary entries on this very site, my viewing habits changed from a lot of modern films in that rat-race of catching up with the latest release, to mainly watching films I loved in the past and a lot of ’40s to ’70s films that I never got around to.

We have the tendency as film lovers to keep a mental list of films we’ll eventually get around to as if we have all the time in the world, but with the threat of the apocalypse and no real new content coming our way at the usual rapid clip, it was so gratifying to buy an annual subscription to Criterion Channel and start watching films like The Old Dark House, The Crimson Kimono, Contempt and many others.

All of these films impacted how I view film now and have bled into future projects I’m working on—especially on the technical side, when the world wasn’t influenced vicariously through MTV coverage and letting scenes play out in masters or longer takes, relishing in the performance or the mise-en-scéne. So, silver linings!

Before we go, who are some of your favorite follows on Letterboxd? I’m a big fan of Sean Baker, who I’ve known for almost 20 years now! We worked together in NYC and I was already a big Greg the Bunny fan but our mutual appreciation for fringe and exploitation films, especially international horror and genre films, seems to have bonded us for life. I love when he posts what he’s watching. Even if he’s just saying he screened something on Blu or streaming, his thoughts on cinema are always enjoyable and engaging.

In the same breath, filmmaker Jim Cummings has the best perspective on modern filmmaking and he’s clearly a big fan of using Letterboxd, so whenever I see peers like them using the app it makes me feel less like an obsessive movie dork myself, who should be getting back to work.

Some of the other follows I really enjoy are cineastes like Elric Kane and Brian Saur, who are the hosts of the New Beverly podcast Pure Cinema. Writers Anya Stanley, David Chen, Walter Chaw and Lindsay Blair Goeldner, musician and filmmaker Brendon Small, writer and critic Brian Tallerico, author Glenn Kenny, filmmaker Rodman Flender—just to name a few people who clearly love film and love sharing their thoughts on films in a very thoughtful way.

More times than not, I’m getting some great advice for what to watch next in my “new from friends” section! Because, like being at the video store, it’s casual conversations like the ones on Letterboxd that I love and always steering me to new films or revisiting old ones with a new perspective.

Related content

Joe’s film influences for ‘The Right Snuff’ Creepshow episode

The Video Store: Hollie Horror’s list of horror films with memorable scenes in video stores

Office Workplace Horror: J Cara’s list of office horror and workplace thrillers

Follow Brett on Letterboxd

Follow Horrorville—the home for horror on Letterboxd

[iwriterobots]

Claw-Shaped Scars

Alice has a claw-shaped scar on her right thigh. I’ve seen it, even traced my hand along its rough edges. The skin is pulled tight around the three, raised marks on her leg where something once raked across her flesh. The muscle underneath is taught and twisted, hardened like her soul. I knew it was there, of course—we all did. Even if she didn’t show it.

“It’s from the beast.” She says, sliding to the edge of the bed beside me and yanking on her worn-out jeans. 

“I’m sorry, that must have been very painful.” 

Alice just looks at me, expression steadfast and knowing. I’ve seen this face before, of course—her brow unwavering but kind, eyes soft but intense. It is a face she wears often. With it comes begrudging patience, for weathering a storm of recovery, for repeating the same fake answers again and again. But I know how her scars still ache, how she must stretch them against the pain shooting through her leg and the guilt shooting through her mind. I know how Alice pushes herself, how she treats that pain like an old friend, how she greets it with gritted teeth each step of the way.

She heaves herself to her feet with a grunt, fetches her cane from where it rests against the night stand, and extends a hand to me. Together, we leave the small cabin at the top of the hill and head down the path towards the beach below. 

Alice works mostly freelance these days. That’s what she tells people, anyway, though I still don’t know what kind of work that entails. I picture her cutting down trees in some ratty, old overalls, hauling the logs over her shoulder to a rustic timber mill in the middle of the woods. Something strong like that. It’s just how Alice has always been. Even before the beast, before the scars, she was determined to be known as the strongest friend. Maybe one day she’ll realize that she always has been.

We don’t tell the story that often nowadays, but when we do, we make sure to tell it right. You see, when the beast came hunting for Alice in our neck of the woods, I prayed for him. Poor bastard didn’t know the kind of hell he was in for, picking a fight like Alice. Sure, he could bite, but Alice could thrash just as hard. Sure, he could roar, but Alice’s snarl was twice as piercing. Sure, he had those gnarled, raking claws of his, but for each slash into her leg, Alice had three of us in her corner, ready to patch her up and hand her a baseball bat or metal chair. The beast was never going to win. 

Alice tells it differently, of course. 

“I hit him too, you know.” She tells us each year. “And as I wailed on him, he just kept howling at me, begging me to stop. He was spitting blood up at me, right into my eyes. Now I just see red.” 

We hold her. And to each anxious gasp, we respond with reassurance—truth. A kiss that says, “It’s over now.” A squeeze of the hand that says, “We’re still here for you.” A gentle arm draped about the shoulders that says, “You are stronger than these scars.”

Alice winces as we make our way towards the others who are waiting for us on the beach. She stops after each big step, turning back to me with a gentle smile and offering a hand to help me down. I smile back at her. No, the beast could never truly stop you, I think to myself. 

 I can hear Owen laughing as we get closer, his voice warmer than the fire pit and ten times more inviting than the sweet, wafting scent of smores. As we take our first steps into the cool, gritty sand, he calls out to us with a grin. 

“What took you two so long?”

“Alice didn’t want to put her pants back on,” I tease, and he guffaws, throwing his head back with laughter.

Owen’s neck is an intricate lattice of the cracks and fractures left behind by dancing flames. They promised to choke him, once. Now the white-hot whispers of their empty threats weave their way along his beautiful, pock-marked skin. But those scars will never outshine that smile. 

I’ve known Owen since I was a kid. He ran around in my backyard so many nights and spent so many family dinners with us, my mom likes to say that she raised him too. But I know that he raised himself, really. We all do. I can see it in the faces he makes as he listens to someone talk, hear it in the way he laughs at our jokes, encouraging us to be ourselves. 

Owen was a loud, talkative kid before high school. He learned loud, he played louder, and he hurt loudest of all. But I never minded. I remember our teachers in middle school would berate him for blurting out answers. They never cared that he was right, that he was brilliant. None of the other kids in our classes wanted to listen to him either. They knew a black sheep when they saw one. But I’ve always liked it when he dyes his hair darker. 

Through the years, they built a pyre in his soul, stacked logs against his heart, struck a match on his spark of creativity, and then had the gall to ask him for a light, for his warmth. And when the smoke clawed as his throat, when his words smoldered in his mouth and the oxygen burnt up in his lungs, Owen got quiet. 

We’ve spent the last few years putting out the fire. I still try to turn on the sprinkler system when we have some alone time, just to make sure it works. It had been rusted shut for so many years, backlogged with the tears that had evaporated in the heat of a blaze that screamed, “shut up.” 

As we approach the campfire, Owen drapes a blanket across my shoulders and takes my hand, ushering Alice and I in to sit with the others before continuing with the story he had just been telling. He still coughs against the few lingering wisps of smoke that haunt his lungs, but they can’t choke him anymore. He shouts the funny parts of his tale and laughs along with us. It’s a loud, hearty laugh, the kind that makes you shake with your whole body until you’re wiping your eyes and holding your gut. And that’s just what we do. It’s the kind of laugh that makes you love him. And that’s just what we do. 

When only embers remain, and the stars hum along to the gentle melody of the waves caressing the shore, I drape blankets and give good-night kisses on the forehead. The others sleep peacefully on the beach behind me, hearts full and tired as I walk through the sand to the old, wooden platform that protrudes out into the waves. Rippling blackness extends out before me, moon reflected in its stillness. I lie there at the edge of the dock, feet kissed by the lapping water below, as I trace a familiar face in the stars overhead.

I have a nail-shaped scar in the palm of my right hand where I once fought to hold onto you. Fought harder than I ever have. Harder than I will ever be able to again. Tears begin to blur the twinkling lights above me. 

It didn’t matter in the end, of course. 

I still lost my grip. 

I trace the hardened indents with the fingers of my other hand as I lie there. I’ve grown used to feeling the aches of these scars softened by the love of another, cradled in the tender grip of a hand in mine. I wonder if the others can feel the desperation with which I grasp their love, too afraid of losing my grip again. I wonder if they can see themselves in every shared memory of you. 

I still haven’t let go of you, have I?

[theredbeggar]

This is a bit strange for me to do, as I try not to be too out there with what’s going on privately, but it’s reached a point where I need to reach out via social media.

Last year came with a lot of struggles for me and my little family (my husband and my son, who’s a toddler), but somehow we managed to survive. However it wasn’t with its downfalls as we had to move households twice, and now things are looking like we may lose our rented place.

Our landlords never properly clarified the expenses when we moved from one flat to the other (both under their administration, we tried discussing it in advance to move into a more affordable place and they agreed). We were under the impression that everything was settled, but it looks like the person who green lighted our move never did the proper documentation and sent it in and also never told us about MORE rent backlog we have overdue.

This means that they’ve raised our rent to make up for what’s due. Which means we cannot afford our rent anymore even though we were supposed to have it better here, the costs have risen over the old flat we lived in. I had to sell my moms old jewelry, the only thing I have left of her, to make due and then they surprised us with MORE expenses.

We owe them a full amount of €1,800 by the end of the month.

If we can’t pay up, they’re kicking us out and our only option then is moving in with my husbands parents. I’m trying to avoid this in its entirety because his mother is extremely abusive to the point of trying to attack me even while my son was in my arms, interrupting everyone’s sleep, berating people for eating outside of when she feels it’s correct, and constant shouting and screaming.

With that said, I’m going to open up paid services. If you want to and are able to donate, I’d REALLY appreciate any amount! Everything helps us keep our home and stay safe.

If you have any questions or whatever, please DM me directly as I don’t feel comfortable posting my PayPal out in the open.