#nights of the Misery Day are typically... the worst of them...

[orcelito]

GREAT news. My fever has uh. Not quite broken bc it's still at 100 degrees, but it's much better than the 101.1 it Refused to go down from earlier!

Cold wet cloth is a godsend

Gonna eat food and then try to get. Some sleep. Maybe. Who knows lol

[wheels-of-despair]

The First and Last Breakup of Eddie Munson and Evil Woman Pairing: Eddie Munson x You Summary: Once upon a time, two stupid teenagers fell in love. And then they broke up for a stupid reason and spent a whole week doing stupid things because they're stupid teenagers. Contains: A little Evil Woman backstory, a brotherly reveal, misery, idiots in love but being little bitches about it, a happy ending. Words: 5k

SATURDAY

You'd been at some fancy ski resort in Colorado with your father, his shiny new wife, and their two replacement children for seven days.

It felt like seven years.

You only had two precious weeks of winter break before classes switched over for the spring semester, and you'd wasted half of it with people you hated. (And your brother, who hated them just as much as you did.)

But after seven long days of listening to your father's fake laugh, your step-mother's snippy comments, wishing you could drop-kick her brats through a window, and picking tiny trees off your overpriced and underwhelming food, you were almost back home. You didn't typically care for plane rides, but this one wasn't bad at all. When you landed, you'd have someone waiting for you. (Other than your mother. Who you also loved. And were very excited to see.)

You were a little disappointed when you came through the terminal and didn't see him there. You'd kind of hoped he'd hitch a ride with your mom to maximize your remaining Eddie Time over break. But you recovered quickly, gave your mom a big smile and a hug, and called shotgun. (Suck it, bro. The united front only applies in hostile territory.)

You took turns filling her in on how much it sucked, how dumb your step-monster was, and how annoying her brats were.

He wasn't waiting for you at home, either.

"Have you heard from Eddie at all?" you asked as you dumped a pile of dirty clothes in the laundry room.

"Nope," your mom answers, sorting the lights from the darks. "Then again, I'm not really in contact with any teenagers who don't belong to me."

You glance at your watch. "His uncle's probably sleeping now, maybe I should ride over and see…"

"Go on, be back by dinner," she rolls her eyes. "You can bring Eddie with you if you want. I'm making your favorite."

"I should abandon you more often," you joke, dodging a dirty sock she'd tossed at you on your way out.

Eddie's van wasn't at the trailer. Or the arcade. Or the diner. Or any of his favorite places. You drove around town for what felt like half the day before finally giving up and going home.

"Find him?" your mom asks from her place at the stove. You shake your head. "Maybe he got the day wrong?"

"Maybe," you shrug, leaning against the door helplessly.

"Who knows what that little weirdo gets up to when you're not around to keep him in line. You'll find him. For now, why don't you go wake your brother up for dinner?"

You dropped the keys in the bowl by the door and went to do as you were asked. He'd passed out almost immediately after he walked in, happy to be back in his own bed. You envied him.

Dinner was nice. It would've been a lot nicer if your thigh had been pressed against Eddie's, and the scent of his body wash had mixed with the smell of your first decent meal in a week, but it was still nice to be home.

You called him after you knew Wayne would be at work. Three times. No answer. Where the hell is he?

You tossed and turned all night, imagining the worst.

SUNDAY

The next morning, you returned to the trailer. His van was there this time. You knocked on the door next to his bedroom. And then escalated it to a bang, since Wayne wasn't home yet, and Eddie sleeps like a rock.

"Eddie! Wake up!"

Finally, you hear him shuffling around. The door opens a crack.

"Honey, I'm home!" you grin, waiting for him to open the door and pull you in, maybe even kiss you all the way to his bed before pulling you under the covers to warm you up. There was nowhere you'd rather spend the rest of your vacation.

"Hey," he mumbles. "Hang on."

He closes the door in your surprised face and emerges a minute later, wearing an open coat over his bare chest. He'd shoved his feet into a pair of untied boots. His flannel pajama pants are bunched at the top of them. Isn't he cold? He drops onto the sofa on the porch and lights a cigarette.

The coldness of his actions hurts worse than the frigid winter air. What the hell? You've only been gone a week. Had seven days been long enough for him to decide he was happier without you?

"What are you doing here?" he asks, blowing smoke out of his nose and not meeting your eye. Did you do something wrong?

"I wanted to see you," you squeaked, suddenly feeling like an idiot. Are you being too clingy? Did you break up and forget about it?

"Aren't you sick of slummin' it with me?"

"What?" You're not sure you actually made a sound, but the cloud of condensation coming from your mouth indicates that you did.

"You know what I mean."

You shake your head. You don't know where this is headed, but you know you don't like it.

Eddie takes a deep drag. "How long are we gonna keep playing this game?"

"What game?"

"This. You and me."

You have no words.

"We should just get this over with and call it off now."

Your jaw drops.

"Ed…"

"Just go home," he barks, dropping his cigarette into the bucket he uses as an ash tray and going back inside, slamming the door behind him.

You don't know how long you stood there, staring at the door. But eventually, a chill shakes you, and you feel your body drifting back toward the car. You somehow find your way back home. You don't think you blinked during the entire drive.

You drop the keys in the bowl, kick off your shoes, and walk to your room like a zombie. You fall on your bed face-first, not even bothering to take your coat off. And then the crying starts.

MONDAY

That was harder than he thought it would be.

Eddie had thought things were going well. He'd found a girl who was funny, pretty, had good taste in music and movies, and most of all, was willing to put up with him.

It all began to unravel the night you left. He thought it was a little weird, announcing that you were jetting off to some fancy resort with the parent you hardly ever spoke of, like it was no big deal. You'd hardly mentioned it at all: "Oh, by the way, I'm gonna be gone for a week. You gonna miss me?"

Eddie realized he was running low on goods the day before your departure, but decided to prioritize; his supply run could wait another day. After a long goodbye that earned both of you several groans and eyerolls in your driveway as you held up the trip to the airport, he dropped by Rick's to resupply. Those college kids home for the holidays needed a lot of help putting up with their families. When he arrived, Rick and his friend Jimmy were bagging up a new shipment.

Rick asked where Eddie's other half was. Eddie may have bragged on occasion about finding someone perfect, because Rick was a cool guy who would appreciate a cool girl.

Jimmy, on the other hand, was a dick. Eddie didn't particularly want him to know anything more than he absolutely needed to about his personal life, but Rick had asked, and they both sat there waiting for an answer.

"She's with her dad for a week," he'd said tensely, hoping that would be the end of it.

"He live nearby?" Rick asked.

"New York, but they're in Colorado for now."

"Damn, man, that's a hell of a trip," Rick said, taking a swig of his beer.

"Yeah, she'll be back in a few days. Is that something new?" Eddie gestured to an off-colored bag of buds to Rick's right, trying to change the subject. The phone rang, and Rick got up to answer it with a groan, leaving Eddie alone with Jimmy.

"Munson's gone and got himself one of those little rich girls. Didn't think you had it in you, buddy."

"She's not a little rich girl."

"She's on vacation in Colorado. Lemme guess: Some fancy ski resort with a name you can't pronounce?"

Eddie blushed. Jimmy smirked.

"She treat you like a pet poodle? Feed you? Buy you treats when you're a good boy? Make you pose for a nice picture together so she could take you with her? That's to show daddy, bud. Maybe she'll get a new BMW for dumping your scraggly ass."

"Ease up, brother," Rick drawled, coming back into the room.

"Hey, man, I'm jealous!" Jimmy held his hands up in a gesture of surrender and laughed that grating laugh of his. "She got an older sister? Hell, what's her mom look like?"

"Shut up." Eddie growled.

"Here," Rick shoved a few plastic bags into a duffel bag and tossed it at Eddie. "Don't listen to his drunk ass."

But he did.

He let it eat at him for days as he sampled some new product and fixated on your four months together. Every time you'd argued about who was going to pay for dinner, or for a movie, or for the next arcade game. The way you stroked his hair and rubbed his back. Every time you'd packed something extra in your lunch for him. The patches and buttons you'd bring him back every time you visited the city with your mom. The way you claimed to love his grungy clothes and out-of-control hair and said his tiny, cramped bedroom felt like home. Maybe it really was too good to be true.

Didn't make it hurt any less, though.

TUESDAY

Eddie was woken by a frantic banging on the door. It was so intense, it rattled the walls. He grumbled, pulled himself out of the bed he'd hardly left in days, and flung the door open angrily.

"What the hell, Gareth?"

"What the hell did you do to my sister, Munson?" Eddie could practically feel the heat radiating off of the red-faced drummer standing at his door. Jeff was leaning against his mom's car by the road, arms crossed, looking like he wished he was elsewhere.

Eddie sighs. "It's for the best."

"Did you cheat on her?"

"No."

"Were you abducted and probed by aliens, and now need a little alone time to reflect on life?"

"No."

"Then what the fuck?!"

"We're from different worlds," Eddie shrugs, feeling the cold morning air seep in.

"The fuck does that mean?"

Eddie sighs. "Just let it go, man. It's done."

"The fuck does that mean, Eddie?"

"It means you spent your winter break skiing at some resort in Colorado, and I spent mine selling weed in the woods."

Gareth rolls his eyes so hard, Eddie can only see white.

"Is that seriously what this is about?"

Eddie shrugs and wishes he were wearing more clothes.

"You broke up with my sister because she went on vacation?"

The breeze picks up and blows a gust inside. Eddie shudders.

"Are you the dumbest motherfucker on the planet?"

Eddie didn't know how to respond to this. Not that Gareth would have given him a chance anyway.

"Do you think we wanted to go? Our dad is a Grade-A Douchebag. I'm legally required to spend two weeks with him a year. Yeah, legally - he took Mom to court when we decided we didn't want to see him anymore. Awesome parent, right? My sister doesn't even have to go, because she's 18, but she does because she doesn't want me to suffer alone. We hate his fucking guts. We hate his bitchy wife and their snot-nosed kids, we hate every second we have to spend with them. We weren't off skiing and sipping cocoa with Chad and Buffy! Do you know what she did the entire fucking time we weren't being forced into Family Fun Time and photo ops? DO YOU?"

Eddie shakes his head.

"She laid in bed and read The Lord of the Fucking Rings. I've been trying to get her to read them for years, and she always puts it off. But she knows how much you love them, and she wanted to be able to talk to you about it. She laid there and read all three. Took notes like she was gonna be fucking tested on it! FOR YOU, JACKASS."

Eddie's heart sinks into the floor.

"She doesn't give a shit about money or fancy vacations or any of that crap. All she wanted was to come home and be with you, and you fucked that up."

"Shit," Eddie breathes.

"She's been holed up in her room for two days because she thinks you left her for someone else, you idiot. I had to practically waterboard her to get her to talk."

"I'm sorry."

"I'm not the one you need to be saying that to."

"I know," he whispers with the last of his air, feeling like a deflated balloon.

"Then go fucking do it already. She's at home. In bed. Listening to the same fucking song over and over again. If I have to hear it one more time, I swear to God, I'm going to take the tape, stomp it, and feed you the shards. FIX IT."

Gareth turns and stomps off the porch. Jeff shoots Eddie an apologetic look and gets back in the car. He stands there and watches them drive away.

Maybe Eddie Munson really is the dumbest motherfucker on the planet.

* * * * * * *

A knock on your door pulls you out of your trance. You'd woken up early today, on your last day of winter break, and decided to quit moping and do something productive. So you alphabetized everything that could be alphabetized. Your tapes and records were finally in order - you'd even rediscovered some albums you'd forgotten you owned, which was nice, because you were sick of hearing Eddie in everything. You now sat in your bedroom floor, surrounded by all the books you'd pulled off your shelf.

"What."

"Eddie's here," came the muffled voice of your brother. He'd stayed at Jeff's the night before; you hadn't even realized he was home yet.

"I don't care," you lied.

You can hear him sigh through the door.

"He brought flowers."

"I hate flowers."

You hear a thump on the door, as if Gareth has banged his head against it.

"I'm letting him in. Just listen to him. You're both making me fuckin' miserable."

You bristle, but lean over and press stop on your tape player. Might as well get this over with.

"Hey, uh… you gonna let me in?"

You glare at the closed door, hoping he can sense it.

"Okay. I'll stay out here. I, uh… Look, I don't know what I'm doing here. You know that. You're the only one I ever… I thought you were… whatever. Doesn't matter. I'm sorry."

A few days ago, you might've taken pity on him. Opened the door, fallen into his arms, shed a few tears.

But you're out of tears. You'd let that unfortunate interaction fester like an open wound. You'd spent the last few days going over every possible scenario for the sudden change in the boy you thought you loved. It hadn't occurred to you until day two that maybe he'd come outside for his little speech because there was someone else inside. Why else would he come out into that cold December morning in his pajamas to smoke half a cigarette and dump the old ball and chain?

And this is the apology you get? You wasted the last of your winter break crying over this asshole. He dumped you. And he can't even tell you why? You reach over to your tape player, press play, and turn up the volume. Immature? Maybe. Better than opening the door and ripping him to shreds, or worse, taking one look at those big brown eyes and collapsing in his arms like some weak Victorian damsel? Probably.

Eddie eventually walks out without a word, leaving the supermarket flowers on the kitchen table.

WEDNESDAY

The first day back was always an easy one; figure out where you're going, receive a pile of papers warning you of the work to come, try to plan the best route to each class. Although for you, that route would now be the most efficient; not the one that would allow you to steal a few seconds here and there with Eddie Fucking Munson.

Of course you had first period together.

You sat as far away from him as you possibly could; he was sitting in the back left corner. You took the front right. Close to the teacher's desk. You were here to learn, after all.

A pretty-boy wearing a Cubs jacket asked if the seat next to you was taken. You smiled and gestured for him to sit. Cubs Guy made small-talk about the workload, and you smiled at him like his stupid comments were amusing to you… all the while, hoping Eddie was watching. You refused to turn around and check.

You finally caught a glimpse of him after the bell rang. Some little blonde had taken the seat next to him. He was talking and gesturing to her with a big dumb smile on his face. You wanted to smack it off.

You said "excuse me" to Cubs Guy as sweetly as you could before sliding past him and practically running into the hallway to get away from them.

Your next class was uneventful… but you saw him in the hall after third period. Standing at a locker that wasn't his. With the tiny blonde who'd sat next to him that morning. Was that her? Was that the one he left alone in his bed while he took a few minutes to come ditch the old bag?

And then he looked up and caught your eye. You stood there, frozen, screaming inside… and watched that smirking motherfucker reach forward and flick one of that tiny cunt's dangly earrings. You could practically hear her giggle from the other end of the hallway. You wanted to rip her earrings out and pierce his balls with them.

Instead, you ducked into the nearest bathroom to let some angry tears fall.

* * * * * * *

He knew it was an asshole thing to do. But in his defense, you started it.

He knew the new girl would never speak to him again as soon as the first popular kid noticed her and pulled her into their own clique. They'd warn her away from trash like him - just like they tried to with you - but he suspected that this one would fall for it.

But for now, cute little Kimmy didn't know any better. Didn't know what her classmates thought of him and his Satanic hobbies, where he lived, what was in his lunchbox, how much he loved the girl who spent first period chatting animatedly with some douchebag in the front row and refusing to look at him.

So he offered his services. Told her how to get to each class. Met her at her locker with the promise of escorting her to lunch, where he was sure he'd lose her to the first jock who decided to rescue her from the clutches of the freak.

That's when he made eye contact with the one who mattered.

You were standing in the middle of the hall, completely still. The crowd parted and flowed around you like water. You were finally looking at him. It was the first time he'd looked into your eyes since the day you left for Colorado.

Before he knew what he was doing, he reached down to the bubbly little blonde in front of him and gave her dangly plastic earring a playful flick, never breaking eye contact with you. He wasn't sure exactly why. Payback for first period, maybe? Would it make you jealous? Mad enough to stomp over and yell at him? Hit him? Cram him into Kimmy's open locker? He'd take anything at this point.

But you turned on your heel and disappeared into the crowd.

Shit.

THURSDAY

"Hi!" Cubs Guy greets as he plops down on the low brick wall next to you. You can't stand eating in the cafeteria anymore. Where he is. You'd rather brave the cold and eat outside.

"Hi?"

"I'm Paul. From first and third?"

"Hi, Paul from first and third." He smiles. Why are his teeth so white?

"I thought you looked lonely, so I decided to drop in and say hi. How are you today?"

"I'm fine," you lied, faking a smile. "Thanks for checking on me." You can leave now.

"You used to hang out with Munson, right?"

"Yeah," you murmured.

"Finally realized how annoying he is, huh?"

You faked another smile and contemplated sticking your plastic fork in his eye.

"Have you started The Great Gatsby yet?" he asked.

"Just a few pages. The 20s aren't really my thing."

"Mine, either. Outlawing alcohol during the rise of jazz? That's just cruel!" He grins, and you're surprised to find a genuine laugh bubble from your throat. How long has it been since you actually laughed?

You spent the rest of your lunch period chatting about the reading list, your other classes, and what you did over winter break. It was surprisingly not terrible.

"Listen, are you seeing anyone right now?" he asked.

As if on cue, Eddie and Grant walk through the doors closest to you. You turn your head toward Paul and focus on him before you accidentally make eye contact with Eddie.

"Nope, why do you ask?"

Paul dazzles you with that brilliant smile again. "Would you like to go out with me tomorrow night? You look like you could use a night on the town."

You can see Eddie out of the corner of your eye. He's still by the door, watching. Grant shifts awkwardly. "I'd love to!" you chirp. You doubt Eddie knows what you're agreeing to, but you hope he catches the enthusiasm on your face. Even if it's fake.

"Awesome! How about dinner and a movie!"

"That sounds great!"

You glance toward Eddie, but he's gone. You see Grant retreat into the door they just came out of before it

You hate yourself.

* * * * * * *

Well, Eddie was right about one thing: Kimmy was history. The cheerleaders had swallowed her up the second she stepped into the cafeteria yesterday. Now she sat on the edge of her seat in first period, as if the guy who told her how to get to the gym and the trick to getting her locker open would snatch her up and throw her on an altar the second the teacher turned her back.

But he was used to that.

It was you ignoring him that hurt.

He thought maybe his little earring stunt would make you mad enough to threaten him. Attention is attention. But you hadn't even looked at him since. You sat next to that dickhead whose name he didn't even know - did you know it? - and quietly took notes. Were you just copying the board, or were you writing to whatshisface like you used to with Eddie? The thought nearly broke him.

But what he saw at lunch really did.

He didn't know where you were; only that you weren't sitting next to him. He ate quietly for a change, letting Jeff steer today's discussion toward some horror novel he was reading. He didn't have the energy for a rant or a lecture or even a pointed taunt. He let the conversation carry on like he wasn't even there. At least it was probably easier on Gareth this way, who reluctantly remained at the Hellfire table.

Eddie got up and headed to the van for a midday smoke. Grant followed. He wasn't sure why. Does he look so bad that they're afraid to leave him alone? They walked through the hall silently.

When he came through the doors, he saw you sitting on the brick wall with that asshole from first period. Alone. Smiling. Together. "I'd love to!" you chirped at the meathead. Eddie doesn't hear his response, but your words echo in his head. Did you just agree to a date? With someone else?

He storms back the way he came, not seeing anything but the blur of fluorescent lighting through the tears trying not to fall.

FRIDAY

Part of you felt bad about agreeing to a date just to spite Eddie.

The other part decided to put on makeup and wear some of the clothes your father and step-monster had bought for you, since Eddie would be there for band practice when Paul picked you up. ("No children of mine are going to run around here looking like ragamuffins!") Poor Gareth, being the new guy, couldn't exactly call off practice on account of relationship drama.

Your brother takes one look at you and rolls his eyes. "Really?" You shrug, and he goes out to the garage to wait for the rest of the guys.

Now the feel-bad part is in the lead.

But there's no time to change now. You look at your watch, grab your purse, and go to wait by the front door. Most people approach your house from the front for the first time, before they learn that you typically use the back door by the garage to come in and out. But while you're watching the front, Gareth yells your name through the back. "Your date just pulled up."

Fuck.

You clack through the house in your stupid heels, feeling like a kid playing dress-up. This is stupid. This is so fucking stupid.

When you get to the back door, you take a deep breath before opening it. You need to appear cool, collected, and uncaring that you're going to have to walk right past Eddie.

"Hi!" Paul greets again, just a few feet away from the door.

"Hi," you smile. Paul's a nice guy. You're going out with him because you want to. Not to hurt the person you actually care about. Like he hurt you.

"Ready?" he asks, offering his hand to help you down the lone step. You force a smile and take it, but let it go as you walk past the garage together.

"Have her back by ten, or she'll turn into a pumpkin!" Gareth yells.

"That's your little brother?" he asks quietly. You nod. "Gotcha, chief!"

You wish you were dead.

On the street, Paul opens the door of his shiny new car and waits for you to settle in before he closes it.

He jogs to the other side, slides in, and starts the engine. A pop song is playing on the radio. The car's interior is spotless. Not a single candy wrapper or empty drink cup is in the floorboard. No overflowing ashtray. No personality whatsoever. You smile at Paul and reach for the seatbelt, but your eyes linger on the open garage in the sideview mirror.

The boys are watching Eddie. Eddie is watching you.

You're vaguely aware that your date is yammering on about something as he puts his car in gear. Your eyes were locked on Eddie. Paul pulls away from the curb and eases his car down the street at a sensible pace. Eddie begins to shrink in the mirror, and you feel your heart shrinking with him.

Is this really how it ends?

No more listening to him curse as he tries to learn new songs, or playing with his hair while you watch movies, or sharing milkshakes at the diner, or writing notes in class, or browsing the discount bins for new music, or making plans to do nothing together whenever your schedules allowed. You knew you should be paying attention to the guy you were on a date with, but your only thought was Eddie. The boy who didn't want you anymore. Give it up, girl. He's moved on.

And then, you saw it.

He reached up with the hand that wasn't gripping the neck of his guitar to swipe at his eyes.

"Stop."

"What?"

"Stop the car."

"Did you forget something?" Paul asks, still moving.

"Just stop!"

He slams on the breaks and looks at you like you're crazy.

"I'm sorry. I can't do this." You grip your purse in your left hand as you fumble for the door handle with your right, unable to take your eyes off the metalhead in the mirror.

"Are you seriously ditching me for that fr--" The door slams before he can finish his sentence.

You walk back down the street and toward your open garage as quickly as your stupid heels will allow. He stands and stares until you reach the end of your driveway. Your eyes are locked on his; he's all you see.

He tries to pull off the guitar that's been hanging idly during your staring match, but the strap gets caught in his hair. Jeff helps him out of it, and holds it while Eddie walks toward you. First in a daze, and then with purpose.

When he picks up his pace, your tears begin to fall. You're sobbing by the time you're in his arms again. And so is he.

There's a flurry of choked 'I'm sorry's and 'I love you's. Your lips meet in a wet, frenzied kiss. Your hands tangle in his hair. His arms squeeze you tight. You've got your Eddie back. Nothing else matters.

When you finally pull away, you wipe your eyes on the back of your hands and look at the black smudge they left behind. You look up at Eddie bashfully.

"Bet I look gorgeous right now," you joke.

"You do," he says, tucking your hair behind your ear with a smile. "You know how much I love raccoons."

"Shut up," you laugh, giving him a gentle shove. He wraps his arms around you and pulls you to him again. After a moment of holding each other tightly, you reach up to cup his face. You bring him down for another kiss, then rest your foreheads against each other.

"Don't ever leave me again," you whisper.

"I won't."

[schrijverr]

I Found Myself a Cheerleader 7

Chapter 7 out of 28

Bumped to the lowest step on the social ladder after his fight with Billy, Steve gets roped in with the cheer team. What starts as a favor to help them out when one member breaks her leg in turn for protection from the brunt of the bullying, sets the universe on a different path.

In this chapter, Steve gets a job at the mall, while he attempts to get his life back under control. There he meets his new coworker, Robin, who seems to have an issue with him for no reason. Tentatively and rockily, they try to become cordial with each other, maybe even friends. However, trying to front a sense of normality isn’t easy and can hurt those around you.

On AO3.

Ships: eventual steddie & buckingham

Warnings: internalized homophobia, f-slur, period typical homophobia, child abuse mention

~~~~~~~~

Chapter 7: The Summer Job

Finding a job proves to be easier than Steve had expected. The mall has opened and is desperate for workers who’ll accept shit wages for the amount of work they have to do. Steve fits right in with the rest.

He’s hired the day after graduation when he is given a uniform and told to show up the next day. All his stuff is still in his car and Steve contemplates not going back to the Byers house, but it feels wrong to leave without a word after all the kindness Joyce showed him. And he’s sure that he can’t hide in a town as small as Hawkins.

Still, he doesn’t want to face any of the party right now. So, he drives out the quarry again. A part of him hopes Eddie will be there like he was yesterday, an angel in the midst of turmoil, but the hours he is there are spend alone.

When it gets late, he knows he has to get back. He can’t keep ignoring the world forever, so he’s going to have to face Jonathan and Will at some point. Plus, if he’s going to act like everything is fine, he should just do that, not hide away.

Steve can recognize that a part of him knows he is reluctant to go back, because he knows he’ll have to break Will’s heart. But he can’t be there for him right now. He can’t pretend like he’s okay with being gay, can’t pretend he’s fine after getting kicked out.

He just hopes the kid can forgive him.

With great reluctance he climbs back into the car and drives the same route to the Byers that he drove last night. He ignores how Joyce seems to be waiting by the kitchen window when he gets there. Tries not to think of how he nearly stayed away.

He walks up to the door and is let in by Will, who has clearly also been waiting for Steve. He tries not to think about that too much either, nor about the bruise on his face. It’s not the worst one he could have gotten, but it is one he had to explain in his interview earlier. He told the man hiring him it’s a basketball injury. One hit him in the face.

It’s obvious that Will is dying to ask something about it, however instructions from his mom and general politeness are stopping him. Steve decides he isn’t going to put him out of his misery and just says: “Hey, Will, good day?”

Will shrugs, looking a bit sad, though Steve doesn’t know why, and answers: “It was okay. Dustin is leaving for camp soon. He’s sad he didn’t catch you at home today.”

A stab of guilt goes through Steve. He’s been so wrapped up in his own bullshit that he forgot his favorite little guy. He loves all the kids of course, but Dustin is the one that keeps coming back, keeps smiling, keeps being happy to see him. He even convinced Steve to watch those nerd movies with him once and make a silly handshake that Steve loves more than he is willing to admit.

“I’ll radio him to say goodbye,” he tells Will with a smile.

“Alright,” Will shrugs again. Steve wants to ask what’s bothering him, but he doesn’t want to start a conversation he isn’t willing to have. So they stand at the door awkwardly until Joyce calls them for dinner.

Dinner is also quite awkward. Jonathan is there for once, he doesn’t say much, but eyes Steve with those knowing gray eyes. Even without the camera, he can make Steve feel watched.

Joyce meanwhile is trying to ignore the elephant in the room as she puts food on everyone’s plate and asks after Jonathan’s first day. Jonathan isn’t the most talkative, so that conversation dies out quite fast. She asks Will, who also isn’t in a mood to talk.

Now Joyce finds herself in the position where not asking Steve would be weird, even though she is trying not to ask and give him space. So, she gives a tight lipped smile and asks: “And you, Steve? Have a good day?”

“Got a job at the mall,” Steve answers to help her out. “Ice cream parlor. I start tomorrow, so I’ll be out of your hair for most of the day.”

“That’s nice,” Joyce says, relieved that he had an answer that wouldn't make it awkward.

“How was your day, mom?” Jonathan asks, when a silence falls again afterwards.

Joyce fills the rest of dinner with useless chatter about customers, while the rest of them eat in silence.

Steve feels bad about taking advantage of their hospitality. Upon reflection, it’s clear that Joyce feels like she owes him something for what he did. This is her trying to pay that back, but that isn’t necessary.

So, once dinner is done, he insists on doing the dishes, already trying to figure out how he can convince Joyce to take some of his paycheck.

He still needs the money if he ever wants to get his own place, but he can miss some of it to help the people who let him stay in their house while he gets back on his feet. Besides, if it all goes to plan, he can go back to his old house at some point and he won’t even need the money.

That evening Steve ensures them that he’s fine taking the couch. Joyce protests: “You can’t keep sleeping on the couch forever.”

“It won’t be forever,” Steve promises, hoping that he is right. “It’ll blow over. I’ll probably be out of here in a little bit.”

Joyce doesn’t look like she believes him, something he tries not to take to heart, since she relents and lets him sleep on the couch.

The next morning, Steve gets up early and makes breakfast, leaving it as he drives to work, so he can change at the mall, not yet wanting to face the Byers in the stupid work uniform. He picks up some foundation and applies it in the bathroom. His face looks practically acceptable now. Barely noticeable.

If he could tell himself at the start of junior year what his post-senior summer break looked like, he’s sure he would have fainted.

He feels like a fucking idiot as he makes his way to the ice cream parlor, but he also doesn’t care anymore. He’s been humiliated so much, that this barely matters anymore.

Still, he notices how he shrinks under the curious gaze of the girl behind the counter in the same uniform as him. Her eyebrows scrunch up and incredulously she exclaims: “You’re the new hire?” in a tone that gives away that she knows exactly who he is.

“Yeah,” he replies, deciding to be a bit cautious, since has no clue who she is.

“But you’re, like, loaded,” she says.

Oh- Oh, she doesn’t know he got kicked out. No one really does. This is his moment to start a new narrative. “I couldn’t get into college, my douchebag dad is making me work to teach me a lesson about hard work,” he shrugs.

“That sounds stupid,” the girl says.

“It is,” Steve agrees, because if that was the truth, he would feel like it was stupid. He walks up to the counter, glad the girl, Robin, is wearing a name tag so he can ask: “So, Robin, show me the ropes?”

Robin laughs: “Nothing difficult about slinging ice cream, Harrington. But I’ll show you how the work the till real quick.”

She goes to show him how it works, but it is not quick, nor easy. Steve doesn’t know whether he is dumb for not following her or if Robin is terrible at explaining. She continuously gets sidetracked and there is no clear order to what she says. However, as her hands fly over the machine it does exactly what she said it would.

In the end Steve tells her he’ll just scoop and she can man the till, until he figures it out. She sends him a look that tells him she thinks he’s a bit thick for not getting it, but she easily lets him take over the scooping.

The first day of working together is awful and awkward. Neither of them know what to say to each other and Steve can sense that Robin doesn’t like him much. He can’t blame her for that part, but he also doesn’t know what to do about it. She is either homophobic and thinks he’s a filthy fag or she’s a nerd, who thinks he’s asshole King Steve. Until he figures out which one, it’s not like he can say something. But he’ll have to grit his teeth, because they’re always assigned together.

However, the work itself isn’t so bad. It’s a bit of a strain on the arms, but after months of lifting girls up into the air, he is more than fine.

He also finds that his job is the perfect place to get the new Steve into the world. He’s never going back to his asshole ways, but if he can just get his reputation as womanizer back, then that will save him a bunch of trouble. And at work there are enough girls that come by.

With Robin behind the till, he has a harder time starting a conversation, but he tries as much as he can when they give him the flavor he wants.

His efforts mostly earn him confused looks by those who have heard the rumors, but he doesn’t pay them any mind. He is going to carry on and erase them. Some girls even giggle at his efforts, which feels like a massive win after the terrible week he’s had.

The next day passes much the same. Robin keeps sending him glances every time he flirts with a girl and radiates with a confused energy that has Steve on edge and not very keen to interact with her beyond what’s necessary.

On the third day, Robin breaks. She has her break, but instead of spending it in the break room, she is sitting on the little bar where the dividing window also is. She’s kicking her feet and commenting on Steve’s tilling skills. It’s a calmer moment and no one is demanding their services.

“So, why did you do cheerleading?” she asks.

Steve tenses up at the question, unsure of why she wants to know. She doesn’t sound judgmental, more curious and confused, but Steve just can’t be sure. He reminds himself of the story he’s here to tell and turns around with a shrug. “I wanted to get into their pants.”

If he wants to fool himself, he could think that Robin’s face falls a bit at his answer. But he can’t think of why that would be, so he disregards it.

“Did it work?” she asks, after a beat that lasts a second too long.

“Not really,” Steve tells her honestly, not wanting to spread any rumors about his friends. The question, however, reminds him that he still has to call Chrissy. He keeps forgetting, because he doesn’t want to rack up the Byers’ phone bill.

“Oh,” Robin says, nodding, another awkward silence filling the air.

It is broken by Erica Sinclair and her posse coming in. At this point Steve sees it as a welcome distraction, instead of watching her arrival with horror. Robin, who has been working there longer, knows to take her break to the fullest and hides when they get there, leaving Steve to fend for himself.

Still, it seems that with the question she’s been burning to ask answered, some of the tension hanging in the air dissipated. Steve doesn’t know how to describe it. It feels like Robin has stopped expecting something from him and just turned up the snark towards him. Steve can’t phantom what she might want from him, but he can appreciate her cutting words in some weird way.

When her words are directed at him, it’s more at the old idea of him, who Steve also doesn’t care for much. So, he can ignore that. Besides, her comments are funny. Her words aren’t always directed at him either.

“God, who does that,” she breathes when a customer walks away with a horrid combination of flavors on his cone.

“I know, it’s a crime, like those socks in his sandals,” Steve adds, looking over the counter with some judgment as the man leaves the store.

Robin sends him a look that is part delight, part surprise. It morphs into a grin and she says: “I should have known you had it in you.”

Steve doesn’t really know what she means by that, but smiles anyway. It feels a bit like acceptance and that is all he has been yearning for.

The interaction is basically an invitation to comment on all customers, who they don’t agree with on some level. If Steve is honest, it is most of their customers. Especially the ones that complain about everything or are just rude straight to their faces. Even doing this only three days has Steve hardened to the way people treat him and Robin.

By the end of the day, there is a tentative solidarity and working rhythm between them. Finally something positive in Steve’s life.

As they close up, they pass a pay phone and Steve stops. Robin also stops, raising a confused brow at him. He asks: “Can I ask you a favor?”

Her eyes narrow suspiciously and Steve fears he just undid the day of progress between them. “That depends. What do you want?”

“Can you call Chrissy’s house and get her mom to hand Chrissy the phone so I can talk to her?” Steve asks.

“You want me to call your girlfriend?” Robin asks, affronted. “I’m not getting involved in your nonsense, Harrington.”

“No, no, it’s not that,” Steve immediately says, a bit frantic. “She’s a sophomore, are you for real? I am not that gross, Robin.” He wishes he knew her last name, so he could do that back. “She’s my friend. And her mom is really strict. She doesn’t even know we’re friends. I promised to tell her when I got a job. I had a fight with my father, she knew about it. I just want to make her not worry.”

Robin still doesn’t look convinced, but she at least looks like she is considering it. Steve holds his breath and gives her space.

“Okay,” Robin agrees. “But I am a nervous rambler, so you have to be right there to tell me what to say and you can’t get mad at me when it blows up in our faces.”

“Thank you,” Steve smiles, glad that she at least doesn’t hate him too much to deny him this. “Just tell her that you’re Stevie and you want to speak to Chrissy, because you are planning to hang out soon.”

“Stevie?” Robin repeats with a laugh.

Steve blushes and looks away. “Yeah. It’s the only way we could even hang out together. I know her from cheer squad.”

“Sure, I’ve always wanted to be a spy,” Robin grins and goes to pick up the phone. “You pay,” she demands.

The phone rings and Steve stands next to her anxiously to listen in. After a few rings, Mrs. Cunningham picks up: “This is the Cunningham household, to whom am I speaking?”

Robin is quiet and Steve prods her, which sends her into motion. “Hi,” she squeaks. “I’m Stevie, Chrissy’s friend from cheer squad?”

“Oh, Stevie,” Mrs. Cunningham says, sounding more positive than Steve has ever heard her. “My Chrissy has told me so much about you.”

“Only good things I hope,” Robin replies. “Wouldn't want her to lie about me, because there are only good things to be heard about me. Not that Chrissy would ever lie, of course-” Again Steve prods her and Robin shuts up.

“Sorry,” she says sheepishly and Steve isn’t sure, who she’s talking to. “I was calling to speak to Chrissy. We were planning to hang out.”

“Of course, I’ll get her,” Mrs. Cunningham tells her, sounding less enthusiastic than when Robin first introduced herself as Stevie.

As Mrs. Cunningham leaves, Steve takes the phone. While he does, he hisses: “What the hell, that was terrible.”

“I already told you,” Robin exclaims. “I don’t do well under social pressure. You promised not to be mad.”

Steve isn’t sure if he is mad, it was good enough for Mrs. Cunningham to let him speak to Chrissy and that’s all he cares about. He’s just a bit surprised at the word vomit that just happened. “It’s okay,” he says.

Robin smiles at that, then leans in, wanting to listen in. Part of Steve wants to push her away, another part guesses he owes her that much.

“Stevie?” Chrissy greets.

“Hey, Chris,” Steve smiles.

“Hi,” Chrissy says, sounding brighter. “How did you get my mom to patch you through?”

“I had Robin call for me,” Steve explains.

“Robin?” Chrissy asks

“My coworker,” Steve says.

“Hi, Chrissy,” Robin yells a bit too loudly into the speaker, making Steve wince.

“Uhm, hi,” Chrissy replies.

“We work at Scoops Ahoy together,” Steve cuts in before it can get weird. “It’s the ice cream parlor at Starcourt. I work full time right now, so you can come by whenever. I’ll hook you up with free ice cream.”

“Oehh, I’m not saying no to that,” Chrissy says. “I’ll be by tomorrow, that okay? I missed your face.”

“Sounds great, me too,” Steve tells her, feeling freer than he has in a few days.

It’s quiet for a beat, then Chrissy asks: “You still staying with that friend?”

Next to him Robin makes a curious noise as he just tries not to physically recoil. He probably can’t keep up the lie for the rest of the summer, but he doesn’t want to admit it with Robin listening in and the fight at graduation fresh in Chrissy’s mind.

So, he plasters on a grin and shakes his head. “Nah, they left town on business, so I’m back home again. Don’t worry about me, Chris.”

Chrissy sighs. “I don’t think I can, Stevie. It was really scary.”

“Not that scary, promise,” Steve tries to distract as he lies. “And I was in the thick of it. It looked worse than it was.”

“You can always come here if it’s bad again,” Chrissy says.

“We both know your mom would kill me,” Steve jokes and Chrissy laughs: “Yeah.”

“I’m fine, no need for that,” Steve assures her. “Goodnight, Chris. I’ll see you tomorrow again. You can see for yourself that I’m okay.”

“Okay, yeah, ‘till tomorrow, Stevie,” Chrissy says. “Goodnight.”

They hang up and Steve faces Robin again, who is staring at him with thoughtful eyes that make Steve’s hair stand on edge. A bit harshly he asks: “What?”

Robin blinks slowly, then softly says: “That sounded serious.”

“And it’s none of your business,” Steve grouches and starts to walk away.

“I kind of feel like you made it my business, Stevie,” Robin calls after him.

He turns around and snaps: “Don’t call me that.”

Robin runs a bit to catch up and says: “Alright, alright, touchy. Just curious what happened that got her like that.”

“Got into a fight with my father,” Steve shrugs, not facing her. “It happened at graduation. She saw it. It looked more dramatic than it was, okay. That’s all.”

“…Okay,” Robin says after a silence. She doesn’t really sound like she believes him, but Steve doesn’t care if she believes him or not, he just wants her to shut up about it.

They don’t say goodbye that day and Steve goes home in a bad mood. The mood isn’t helped by Will, who has been trying to talk to him for the past three days. Steve has been managing to distract, but that is bound to run out at some point.

Will is waiting on the couch – Steve’s space in the Byers house – when he gets back. Steve isn’t in the mood, so he goes to the bathroom and takes a shower, changing into day clothes, before going into the kitchen, skipping the couch.

He’s the first one back, so he starts up dinner. It’s his way to pay back Joyce and her kindness for taking him in.

The action isn’t deterring Will, who comes and sit with him in the kitchen, watching as he cooks dinner. Those wide eyes following his every action. It’s clear there is something on his mind, but Steve isn’t in the mood to ask. Far from it, in fact. So, he says nothing.

After a few minutes, however, Will breaks the silence. In that timid, sweet voice of him, he asks: “Is it the reason your dad threw you out?”

Steve halts – it is only for a second then he goes on, but he knows Will noticed it – and grits his teeth. He wants to snap, take out his emotions on Will, be mad at him like he wanted to rage at Robin and her curiosity, or at Chrissy for being worried, both of them reminding him of what he is trying to ignore. But he know he can’t. Will doesn’t deserve that.

Will can’t help that Steve hates himself, hates his father, yet also wants his approval, how he hates that he can’t be normal. And Will definitely doesn’t deserve that self hatred when that is also hatred against him.

But Steve also can’t confirm it. He can’t bring himself to make it real, to speak it into the world like he had with Eddie. Eddie, who made it easy to admit, to feel it, to talk about it. He misses how he feels with Eddie around. Because right now, he doesn’t feel like that. Right now he feels cornered and afraid.

“I don’t know what you mean,” is what he settles on. It’s not a denial, not the hurtful truth, but a dismissal.

They’ve never confirmed and always talked indirectly, both of them understanding what they’re talking about. Today, however, Steve is playing dumb. He is good at playing dumb. And right now, he hopes that Will is as conflicted as he is, too conflicted to actually say it. To ask it again this time with explicit words.

It’s the coward’s way out and Steve knows it. He can’t bring himself to look Will in the eye.

“Oh, okay. Nevermind,” Will says and Steve can hear the hurt that hides under the surface, as well as the confusion, but, most importantly, the defeat. Like he believes Steve truly doesn’t know what he means and he’s all alone again, but he knows he shouldn’t have expected anything else.

That tone breaks Steve’s heart and he wants to reach out. Wants to spin some tale about how it will all work out and he just got to hold on and it will all get better.

But Steve can’t.

He wants to, truly he does. But he can’t lie to Will, because Steve doesn’t like himself, he doesn’t like that he can’t bring himself to change. And he doesn’t believe that it will get better. He might have two weeks ago, but not now.

So, he keeps cooking and doesn’t look as he hears Will walk off, before a chair scrapes at the kitchen table and he sounds of crayons starts up.

They do their own thing like that until Joyce comes home. She asks Will about his day and gets him to talk about how Lucas and Max broke up again and how Mike couldn't come, because he was off with El, as Joyce tries to bud in with dinner, but Steve doesn’t let her. He’s content to stay in the background as Joyce fusses over Will, he’s sure the kid can use it after their conversation.

Dinner is as stilted as always. Steve can’t bring himself to lean into the care Joyce is offering him out of guilt or sense of owing, but Joyce keeps trying. This night Jonathan is off to eat at Nancy’s house and Will is quieter than normal.

Steve gladly turns in early, pretending to sleep for a long time in the hope he’ll be left alone by the two Byers in the house. At this point it’s a miracle he hasn’t woken up screaming yet. Though the Byers would at least know why and likely leave him be if he asked. He has graciously ignored Will and Joyce drinking hot chocolate in the middle of the night by pretending to sleep.

The next day, he takes care in covering the bruise. It is already starting to turn yellow, which helps in hiding it. He isn’t looking forwards to seeing Robin again, but he’s excited about Chrissy coming by, even if he’s wearing the stupid uniform.

When he gets there Robin isn’t there yet and he sets up in peace. A peace that is interrupted about five minutes in when it is broken by the arrival of Robin. She greets him like nothing happened yesterday and maybe in her mind it didn’t.

“Hi,” Steve decides to greet back. It’s civil enough and if he gives himself a second, he’s sure he can pretend as well. It wasn’t that bad anyway, Robin doesn’t know why he’s on edge about being questioned like that.

They settle back into their work rhythm and when Robin doesn’t bring it up again, he manages to relax and bitch with her again.

Around noon is when Chrissy walks into the parlor. She’s in a light green summer dress and looks absolutely stunning. It’s Robin, who spots her first. She trips over air and loudly bangs into the counter, causing Steve to look around. He light up and calls out: “Chris!”

“Stevie,” Chrissy grins, skipping up to the counter. Robin is there, staring at her as Steve hustles her to the side, frowning at her a little.

“Ahoy,” he says, dorkily tipping his stupid hat.

As expected it makes her giggle and she exclaims: “I can’t believe that’s the uniform. Sorry, but you look ridiculous.”

“I know,” Steve rolls his eyes fondly. “How are you doing, Chris? What flavor can I get you? On me, promise.”

“Again, not saying not to that,” Chrissy smiles, reading the signs, before picking strawberry. “Is your job fun?” she asks as Steve scoops. The question feels a bit like one you’d ask an acquaintance, the past few days hanging like an invisible barrier between them.

“Could be worse,” Steve shrugs, handing her the cone. “Some people are shit.”

“Tell me about it,” Chrissy says. “My mom can get so mad. It’s embarrassing to be seen with her when she does that.”

Steve barks out a laugh, the tension seeping away from them. He leans over the counter and says: “I somehow can imagine that very well. No offense to your mom.”

“Oh, full offense to her,” Chrissy laughs as well.

It isn’t busy and Steve clings to that calm as he takes as much time as he can get away with just chatting with Chrissy. Talking with her makes him feel normal again. They discuss what the cheer squad will look like next year, how Chrissy will have to get used to two bases again, and the rumor that coach Miller has a boyfriend now.

Steve notices Robin hovering in the background. She is oddly quiet, letting Chrissy and Steve catch up without blabbering on. Steve is grateful to her for that.

However, the calm doesn’t last forever and when more people come in than Robin can handle alone he gives her an apologetic smile. “You’re more than welcome to hang around, but I get off late, so it’s not really worth it.”

“I’ll go look around the mall,” Chrissy says brightly. “I probably won’t stay until the end of your shift, but I’ll come by before I leave.”

“Have fun,” Steve calls after her as they wave each other goodbye.

After she has left, they’re up to their neck in people wanting ice cream to flee from the growing early June heat. However, once the hustle has died down again, Robin turns to Steve and asks: “That’s Chrissy?”

“Yeah, who did you think Chrissy was?” Steve replies, a bit confused. He doesn’t think Chrissy looks that intimidating or weird, she looks like every girl out there. Is there something he’s missing that Robin sees? Is it a girl thing?

“Well, I mean- I guess- I don’t know,” Robin splutters. “I’m not involved with the cheer team. I do band. Guess, my image of cheerleaders is different than Chrissy.”

“No need to be so defensive,” Steve frowns. “She’s nice.”

“I believe you,” Robin squeaks.

Steve studies her closely, looking more confused. He doesn’t know what is up with her and why she’s weird about Chrissy. He already noticed she was a little bit quieter today and she seemed surprised by Chrissy. Maybe it’s because she does band and has a weird idea about more popular kids? Yeah, that must be it.

“Just because she’s a cheerleader, doesn’t mean she’s a bitch,” he tells her. “I’ll introduce you when she comes by again. You’ll see.”

At that Robin makes a weird noise, but nods, which is enough for Steve. He doesn’t care that much about Robin’s opinion of most popular kids, but he does care about Chrissy and he wants her to be liked.

It’s soon after that Chrissy come by again. She’s smiling brightly and holding a few bags. She sheepishly says: “I might have explored the mall too thoroughly.”

“Did you at least buy stuff you actually want?” Steve laughs at her.

“Yeah,” she lights up and shows him a few skirts and shirts that she bought as well as a new outfit for cheer practice. “I know it’s not going to be the same without you there, so this is to cheer me up,” she informs him. “And I can wear it if we practice together. If- if you still want to do that, of course.”

Steve wants to shut that down. He is building a new image here and cheerleading isn’t part of that, however he isn’t ready to let go of that. Cheerleading has been his happy place throughout some of the worst months of his life and he doesn’t want to give that up. Doesn’t want to let go of this friendship he has with Chrissy. So, he smiles: “Of course I want to, Chris. Don’t be stupid.”

“Yay,” she says with a bit smile. Actually saying the word yay out loud.

Behind Steve Robin makes a noise that might be laughter or her choking to death. Steve isn’t sure and turns around to see her looking a bit red. Probably choking, he guesses. But it also reminds him of going to introduce Robin.

“Oh, Chris, this is Robin, the one that called your mom for me,” he says, pointing at Robin, who gives Chrissy to most awkward smile and wave combo Steve has ever seen in his life. He has already noticed how clumsy she is, but she truly elevates it to a new level.

“Hi, nice to meet you,” Chrissy greets, turning her smile onto Robin, who just nods again.

Steve frowns at her, then says to Chrissy: “She’s usually harder to shut up, but I think her lunch fell funny.”

That’s enough to earn him a squawk and a push from Robin, who tells Chrissy. “Don’t listen to him, me and my lunch are perfectly happy together.” A statement that gets a giggle out of Chrissy as Robin stares at her with wide eyes.

She’s an odd girl, Steve decides, before inserting himself into the conversation again.

With the ice broken between them conversation comes easier. Steve knows Robin isn’t being as bitchy as she usually is and even Chrissy is toning down her rough edges, but he can see the two getting along.

He, himself, is starting to warm up to Robin too, as long as she stops her prodding, which she might. He hopes so at least. Anyway, the point is, it would be nice to have more friends and actually get along with the girl, whom he’s going to be stuck with for the rest of the summer. And if that girl and his admittedly best friend could get along too, that would be extra lovely. As he’d seen on the cheer squad, girls fighting could get mean.

But he doesn’t have to worry about that, they’re getting along, even teaming up against Steve at some point. Which is rude, honestly.

Chrissy does have to go home after a while. Robin is distracted by Erica Sinclair and her gang, when Chrissy decides to go, giving the other girl a quick goodbye. Then she turns to Steve and asks: “Can we have a sleep over together soon? We can order pizza and watch stupid movies and I can annoy you with my crushes.”

Steve aches to agree. He knows how she has been stuck with her mother while Steve sorted himself out and he wants to help out. The sleepovers have been a haven for both of them. However, Steve can’t even get into his own house and he’s lying to Chrissy that he can.

“I don’t know if I can manage soon, but I’ll tell you the moment I can,” he settles her, trying not to let the way her face falls slightly get to him. “But you can hang out here every day. I’ll even buy you lunch on my breaks, promise.”

That cheers her up a bit and she says: “I’m holding you to that, Stevie. See you tomorrow.”

“See you,” Steve says as he watches her leave.

Soon, he and Robin are closing up Scoops Ahoy, both of the seem to be lost in thought and Steve is grateful for it. He doesn’t need another interrogation from Robin.

Instead of driving straight to the Byers house, he makes his way to Loch Nora, hands tight on the wheel as his old house comes into focus.

He hasn’t been here since he got kicked out and a part of him thought his parents might still be around. Might want to stay with Steve out of their way. But it seems not, because the house looms over him as empty and dark as it has always had.

His body isn’t doing as told, so he climbs out of the car with jerky movements, having to fumble with the keys. He still hasn’t gotten around to trading his car, but so far it’s still unharmed. It must be hard to find among the masses at the mall, he muses.

Thinking about his car isn’t as big a distraction as he hoped it would be. He’s still standing in front of a familiar door, the keys jangling with how much his hand is shaking. Steve isn’t sure what will be worse, the door opening or it staying closed. The fact that his parents didn’t care enough to even bother fulfilling their threats or if the only time they cared was to fulfill them.

Slowly, he brings the key to the door. It goes in for a bit and Steve’s breath catches. Then the key stops moving and no pressure Steve dares to put on it can get it further.

They changed the locks.

His parents, who have never been home for more than a few days in years, cared to changed the locks, just to keep him out. Their hatred for who he is, is bigger than the indifference they have always had towards him as he tried his hardest to make them proud. All he had to do to get their attention was disappointing them too much to ignore.

Tears make his vision blurry and not for the first time does he wish that he can change, that he can stare at a girl and feel what all his friends always seemed to feel. That he could like Nancy the way he fooled himself into thinking he did. That he could be what his father wanted.

The last thought sends a wave of anger through him. He has tried so fucking hard, he’s still fucking trying and it’s not going to be enough. It never is.

So, he pushes away the tears, not willing to cry. He’s still going to try and find a girlfriend just to get rid of the target on his back, but he is refusing to cry over his parents changing the locks. He isn’t going to give them that.

Steve turns around pointedly and stalks back to his car, before driving to the Byers house where Joyce is already cooking. He greets her and Will, who is drawing at the table, only Joyce greets him back and he tries not to let that get to him either.

He takes a quick shower and changes into his normal clothes. His insides are still all messed up, but he is determined not to make dinner awkward again. He is still a Harrington (at least, he thinks so) and Harringtons play their part. He can use that bit of upbringing to make the Byers happy in their own home while he stays there.

When he gets back to the kitchen, Will has retreated into his room. It hurts more than Steve is willing to admit.

That evening passes as so many others have done. Though Steve is making more of an effort to talk, which is appreciated by Joyce, who is more fun to talk to than Steve had realized before today. He still doesn’t believe she cares that much about him, but he likes talking to her anyway.

The next morning, he rolls off the couch and into his uniform, covering his bruise once more, before driving to the mall. He’s going to see that mall more often than he would like this summer, he thinks as he sighs.

~~

A/N:

I love Steve as a queer mentor for Will, trust me I do and I’m gonna try and make it happen later, but you gotta be in the Right Place to be that for someone and Steve definitely isn’t right now. And yeah that hurts Will, but it hurts Steve too and it isn’t his fault that he isn’t ready. Queer reality is messy and I wanted to show that <3

Also, I am dying about Robin and Steve before they became besties, it’s so weird to writeeee ahhhhh

[ddarker-dreams]

Hell Within Reach: Bloodlines (i).

"Though you have the strength of a queen, you reduce yourself to the movement of a pawn.” 

Chrollo x F!Reader. 

Warnings: Canon-typical violence, mentions of alcohol, body horror, Shalnark talking about stocks.  Word count: 5.6k.

This is a sequel to the story Hell Within Reach, that you can check out here. 

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index / ao3 / survosia / your nen

The Phantom Troupe.

A notorious crime syndicate whose members have all earned Class A bounties from their exploits. They’re known synonymously as the Troupe, or the Spider in some circles. The worst of the worst, while simultaneously being the very best at what they do, which is robbing people blind. The structure is straightforward. There's a boss who calls the shots — the head of the Spider. He decides he wants something, then you and the other members, the legs of the Spider, scutter to go and get it. Sometimes not a drop of blood is shed. On other occasions, those being stolen from are not so fortunate. The ocean of blood left behind is enough to drown whoever may have survived the initial onslaught.

While the Troupe has amassed quite the gruesome reputation throughout the years, a well-deserved one at that, the way you're seeing them now is how they typically bumble through life in between heists. And how is that, many late night reporters and internet sleuths staring at their screens until their eyes burn might ask? The answer to that is simple, if not a tad unexpected:

Loud, chatty, and drunk as hell.

“So, whatcha think about our hometown, [First]?”

Throughout your life, many difficult questions have been posed to you.

There was the question of what to make your weapon of choice upon discovering you were a Conjurer, if you should abandon everything you’ve ever known due to your staunch patriarch's schemes, where your Spider tattoo was to be placed upon joining the Troupe… these splits in the road often required meditation and careful consideration. You’d think about them for days, weighing the pros and cons on an internal scale.

That won’t do here. Basic courtesy bars you from leaving this table, sleeping on the question, then returning to give a satisfactory answer after lengthy rumination. Neither would it bode well to continue staring unblinkingly at your smiling companion, Shalnark, who is awaiting a response.

“It’s…” you trail off to signify you’ve acknowledged the question and have no intent to ignore him, “Hm…”

Next is scrutinizing every inch of your surroundings. There’s no shortage to look at, that’s for sure. The corner your little group occupies allows for an unobscured vantage point. Sitting to your right is your boss, Chrollo, who is similarly awaiting your assessment. Across from you at the booth is Shalnark, and beside him, Phinks, chugging down another glass of fermented yeast that you’re hesitant to call beer. Over at the crowded bar rests Nobunaga, passed out and snoring on the peeling wooden countertop boasting more suspicious stains than you can count.

By far the most conspicuous element is a drunk Uvogin. It’s a miracle he managed to squeeze into the low-ceiling building, but he found a way to make it work. By the door barely hanging onto its squeaking hinges is a karaoke machine with the tendency to stutter and give out at random intervals, as it’s starting to do presently.

The grating music slows down to a halt, much to Uvogin’s chagrin, who was apparently enjoying the opportunity to serenade everyone present. He releases his hold on a trembling man half his size that he caroused into joining him. That man takes a crucifix necklace from beneath his shirt and crosses in the Catholic tradition, thinking himself saved from the misery he’s endured thus far.

Unfortunately for him, Uvogin knows just the right spot to hit the old machine, and within a matter of seconds, Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer makes its triumphant return. The man blanches as Uvogin shoves the microphone back into his face. A kernel of pity too weak to act on makes itself known inside you. For whatever reason, that man had seen fit to approach you and start up a conversation. Chrollo whispered something to Uvogin, who based on the latter’s beaming, took kindly to whatever suggestion was made. The guy has been held hostage since.

His vibrato isn’t bad, you think. Or is that just his voice shaking…?

“Charming,” is the word you arrive at. You then nod, hoping to further emphasize your lack of judgment. “Yes… it has a distinct character.”

Shalnark laughs in response, making you wonder if he asked from genuine curiosity or to find entertainment in your struggle to remain polite. Had you known you were going to run into him, you would’ve mentally prepared yourself for the experience. You weren’t due to see the other Spiders until the Troupe’s next big job — hitting the Bellagio in Last Vegas. That wasn’t due for another month or so.

“Well, that’s a way of putting it. Can’t say I’ve ever heard someone call Meteor City ‘charming’ before.”

You clear your throat to stave off embarrassment. “I apologize. It isn’t my intention to sound pretentious.”

“Nah, you don’t, it’s fine,” Phinks speaks up. He wipes his lips with his wrist and continues, “This place is shit and we all know it. Still, home’s home. Hard not to have a soft spot for it.”

You can’t say you relate but keep that opinion to yourself.

“I never expected to run into you here of all places, though. Much less with the boss. Is something up? We’re all free now, since our last job was a bust,” Shalnark sighs and shakes his head, his cheery tone not matching his disappointed words. “Thanks to a certain someone.”

In unison, both Phinks and Shal avert their attention to Nobunaga, who remains blissfully ignorant in the depths of slumber. So much so that he doesn’t notice some kids sneaking out from the back and rummaging through his wallet. They end up bickering amongst themselves, unsure of what to go for, then decide to just take it all; wallet included.

“Should we…?” You trail off, uncertain if stopping them would go against some kind of cultural norm you’re oblivious to.

“Leave ‘em be, it takes guts to steal from a well-known person around these parts like Nobunaga. Besides, he’d have more in that wallet to take if he didn’t get the time the boats were coming to the docks wrong,” Phinks asserts with a huff.

You’d only caught bits and pieces of what went down on their failed venture. In retrospect, you should’ve known there’d be a good chance to run into your fellow Troupe members here. Meteor City is their stomping ground. Shalnark made it a point to invite both you and Chrollo to tag along, after waving you down on the street. Had he been curious about why you were traveling with your notoriously solitary boss, he didn’t mention it.

That doesn’t mean he isn’t interested in finding out using a more organic method, hence his next inquiry.

“So? Need an extra pair of hands? None of us have anything better to do until our gig in Last Vegas.”

Chrollo, who has remained thoughtfully quiet unless directly spoken to this evening, relays his thoughts. “That won’t be necessary. We’re trying to maintain a low profile.”

“Huh. That can’t be real easy,” Shalnark replies.

You’re about to ask what he means by that when an apathetic teenager approaches, a tray of drinks in hand. There’s no nametag to denote the status of waiter but by how he’s been bussing tables all night, you assume that’s what he is. He sets the tray down and unloads a litany of bubbling drinks in front of your person, five in total. You stare at the homebrewed amalgamation, eyebrows furrowing.

Without an explanation, he starts to take off, rightfully guessing that lingering near such dangerous individuals isn’t the best idea. Smart. However, you interrupt him by speaking up, putting a pause to his getaway.

“Excuse me, I don’t believe I ordered this.”

“The first two are from the guy by the window and the remaining three from that group over there,” he explains, jutting his thumb in the direction of said group, who give you a drunken wave. You’re about to wave back for propriety’s sake when Chrollo gently grabs your wrist and shakes his head.

“What fuckin’ roaches,” Phinks’ eye twitches and he places his hand on his shoulder, likely ready to wind it up. “Boss, let me take care of ‘em. I’ll do it outside and everything.”

“Low profile, Phinks,” Chrollo reminds. You notice he’s yet to let go of your wrist, though from this angle, no one but you would be able to tell. “Let them be. It’s not common knowledge that [First] is a Spider around here, or they’d surely know better.”

Phinks clicks his tongue, mutters something under his breath, and takes another swig of his drink.

Shalnark cups his hands around his mouth and yells in Uvogin’s general direction, “Hey, Uvo, we got more free drinks for you to down!”

More? So there were some that you weren’t privy to? Perhaps you really are as oblivious as Chrollo claims. Uvogin ambles over, hitting his head on a ceiling fan that just barely manages to hold on from a fraying wire while he does so. It’s common knowledge that you abstain from alcohol whenever possible, though some members still pester you about it to get their kicks. Shalnark must sense he has no chance of succeeding when this is the quality of the beer and hands it over to a jovial Uvogin.

In the meantime, Uvogin’s begrudging singing partner sees his shot at freedom and makes a break for it. It appears Uvogin will have to go through Frosty the Snowman on his lonesome.

“I guess you won’t be here much longer anyway,” Shalnark stretches his arms over his head and yawns. “What with that whole vote about what to do with Winthros, now that the Colevine’s are rotting away somewhere. Fei should send in an anonymous tip and claim the reward money.”

“I hadn’t realized you kept up with my country’s geopolitics,” your surprise is genuine. Out of all the places to be reminded about that impending affair, you didn’t expect it in a dilapidated Meteor City bar. Much less by Shalnark.

“Colevine, Colevine… that name sounds familiar,” Phinks narrows his eyes, deep in thought. “Definitely brings back some irritation for whatever reason.”

“Harden Colevine was the man who hosted an event we stole from last year, though we didn’t find that out until we were in the actual job,” Chrollo explains.

Phinks nods. “Ah, now I remember. His screaming gave me a headache right when I ran outta painkillers. So his wife kicked the bucket too, huh? Guess that makes things easier on us. Less loose ends and all that.”

If only the same could be said for me, you sense a headache of your own coming on from the memories this topic dredges forth.

“I’ve been looking forward to the vote for months. I bought up stock in companies owned by the Linaries, and have been encouraging others to do the same online,” Shalnark reveals. He checks something on his phone and smiles. “Yep, it's still steadily rising! It should be up 120% by the time the negotiations are concluded. They’re projected to surpass the net value of your family at this rate, [First].”

“So it’s you who’s behind that? Why are you telling people to hold their stock on the day of the negotiations? That’s when it should peak, after the Linaries acquire Winthros,” you point out, not thinking much of the lighthearted jab. None of that meant anything to you. Estella had recently been complaining that a rival family was seeing a prolific surge in investment due to some anonymous organizers taking the internet by storm. Staring at the supposed leader of the movement in the face now, you can’t help but feel somewhat underwhelmed.

“Oh, I intend to sell, I just thought it’d be funny if I whipped everyone into a frenzy about holding so they miss out on the chance to make money.”

You decide that it’s a very Shalnark-like thing to do.

“Why are you holding a vote if it’s already decided who’ll get the land anyway? Seems like a waste of time,” Phinks chimes in.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but it’s more for show than anything,” Chrollo responds on your behalf, much to your internal relief. “The six… excuse me, five now I suppose, families are showing their ‘goodwill’ by allowing the Linaries to have land that they were historically at odds with.”

“I swear, rich people have rocks for brains. Uh, no offense though,” Phinks corrects after giving you a nervous glance.

“None taken. Truth be told, I’m not looking forward to it myself.”

A particularly loud snore from Nobunaga redirects everyone’s attention. He manages to rouse himself from his alcohol-induced slumber, clambering over to your booth with an awkward gait. You’ve never seen the poor man so disheveled. He doesn’t pay you or Chrollo any mind, instead focusing entirely on Shalnark, resting his weight against the blonde who loses his smile for the first time that night.

“Oi, get off of me, you’re heavy,” Shalnark whines to no avail. Nobunaga gives an incomprehensible murmur in response. Phinks bursts out into an uncontrollable fit of laughter and helps himself to snapping pictures of the scene. Uvogin’s aria of Frosty the Snowman comes to a timely conclusion, allowing him the chance to join in on the rowdy fun originating from Shal’s seat. He scoops up both Nobunaga and a vehemently protesting Shalnark. The bear hug that ensues has you the slightest bit concerned over the state of Shal’s ribs should he ever be released.

Phinks whistles. “Wow, I’ve never seen Shal’s skin turn a color like that.”

“Boss,” you whisper in Chrollo’s ear, who hums. “I believe Shalnark might be experiencing the first steps of asphyxiation.”

He merely smiles. “I’m sure he’ll live.”

Chrollo’s prediction turns out to be true, though it takes a great deal of coaxing from Shalnark’s behalf for him to touch solid ground once again. Uvogin gave him a ruffle of his hair for good measure. Somehow or another, Nobunaga remains in his reverie-like state, occasionally reaching for the sword on his hip when anyone gets too close. There’s nothing out of the ordinary about what you’re witnessing. When Chrollo first introduced you to his Phantom Troupe, you thought it was an elaborate setup for a joke. Turns out there was no punchline aside from your expectations.

The chasm you felt between the other members at first was tangible. They thought you were an uppity princess who wanted to try their profession like you would any other snob hobby, while you found their behavior to be unprofessional, if not borderline questionable.

As for now, well…

“Hey, so if I like, hic, stick my arm in here,” Nobunaga motions to the dark opening of your Nen, the slice in reality that separates your armory from this physical plane, “Then you… closed it… would I lose my arm?”

You knew you shouldn’t have opened it at his behest. He keeps sticking his arm into the opening, watching it disappear, then pulling it back out again.

“I’d advise against us trying that.”

“Can we use it as a basketball hoop?” Shalnark wonders, crunching up a napkin into a spherical form. “That’d really be a way to burn through the time when we’re waiting around in those dusty hideouts the boss picks.”

“That’s actually not a bad idea,” Phinks agrees. “I’ll give you 10,000 Jenny if you make it in.”

“Oh, you’re on.”

Nobunaga stumbles back into some chairs to make room for Shalnark’s basketball tryout. Shal sticks his tongue out, squints, calculates his projection, then throws it in the air. By all accounts, it looks like it’ll sink into the otherworldly opening. That is, until you move it a few inches to the right at the very last second.

Phinks hands you a wad of cash beneath the table, that you innocently accept while sipping on your water.

“Hey, no fair! Let me try again!”

… Well, as for now, it wouldn’t be a stretch to say you’re on good terms with the ragtag bunch.

Not long after Shalnark’s unfortunate series of events, Chrollo excuses you both. Phinks gives one last try and tries to worm his way into having something productive to do, but Chrollo redirects him with enough grace to rival a politician being asked an uncomfortable question at a debate. You don’t think the poor guy even realized he was just rejected until you started walking for the exit.

Nightfall’s tendrils envelop Meteor City.

In the days you’ve spent here, the noisome nature of the air stills comes as an assault to your senses. Trash burning beneath the relentless sun, rotting corpses from humans and animals alike, bodily fluids left behind from every orifice… it coalesced into a distinct odor. The miasma greets you the second you go outside. You settle the black mask back over your nose that Chrollo suggested you bring — it doesn’t do much but it’s better than nothing. Having grown up here, Chrollo seems to have developed an immunity to the hazardous air quality, not so much as flinching when you first approached the city. He laughed at how you visibly recoiled and said you’d get used to it.

“Do you want to keep trying, or should we call it a day?” Chrollo queries.

You lift up your sleeve to glance at your watch. The time reads ten minutes past two in the morning, not that you both can’t handle staying awake for extensive periods.

“I intend to continue searching,” you decide. “I understand if you have other business to attend to. Please don’t force yourself on account of me.”

Chrollo shakes his head. “I don’t mind in the slightest, dear.”

He takes a right at the next fork in the street and you follow suit. Upon hearing your intention to conduct an investigation in Meteor City, he offered to serve as your guide, an offer you gratefully accepted. You’d need any help you could get with how little you had to go off of. He expertly led you through the labyrinth-like city, avoiding areas that he knew to be more trouble than they were worth.

On the side of the street is a group of men and women crowding around a waning fire. They don’t pay you any mind while you approach, and Chrollo stands off to the side with his hands in his pockets.

“Excuse me,” you speak up, earning a few turned heads in your direction, “Does this woman look familiar to you?”

You procure a picture from your double-breasted coat. Some of the group decide to look at it, while others don’t bother, too transfixed on the fire. The most you get for your trouble is a few grumbles expressing they’ve never seen her before. You neatly tuck the photo back into its proper place and bow your head.  

“I see. Thank you for your time.”

The second you turn on your heel to rejoin Chrollo, the girl closest to you lurches forward. In the blink of an eye, you catch her by the wrist, applying pressure so she’d drop the switchblade in her grasp. The tiniest application of your strength is enough to do just that. Her face contorts with pain, while the rest of her group stumbles back, sensing this is an altercation they’d better not get involved with. Feeling how brittle her bones are from atrophy, you release her without further consequence. She cradles the bruising skin against her chest and glares up at you, the resentment burning in her eyes stronger than the fire keeping her alive.

You don’t spare her a second glance and walk back to Chrollo.

Some time passes in thick silence before he speaks up again, having obviously been ruminating on something.

“That blade was poisoned,” he muses, stepping over a pile of broken glass strewn about the road.

“I know.”

“I would’ve broken her wrist for that, at the very least.”

“... I did consider it. I decided there was no reason to go further.”

A group of children wearing tattered rags run in front of you, laughing and trying to catch the kid up front holding a model airplane. They dodge the debris on the ground without so much as looking at it. Growing up under such extreme circumstances lends itself to heightened abilities, whether they’re cognizant of it or not. That must be why their skin has a ruddy shade, unlike the frail children you encountered earlier, who lacked the strength to even lift their heads when you passed them by.

“It’s how they learn to choose their targets better,” Chrollo explains. “If they can’t figure out that much, their chances of survival are next to zero. That’s how it works around here.”

You wonder how much trial and error Chrollo had to endure to become the person he is today. Did he learn that firsthand? Watch in terror as his allies were brutalized for their mistakes? Or was his intuition always sharp enough to steer him away from the shadows where danger lurked?

The child lagging furthest behind the group comes to an abrupt stop in the middle of the street, a few paces in front of you. He is a bizarre collection of features that look like they don’t belong together. From his height, you can assume he’s no older than ten, but he doesn’t have the same glow of youth that his friends radiate. His skin doesn’t cling to his bones and yet it’s still sallow, though his gait doesn’t indicate he’s sickly. He had no trouble keeping up with the others. After further examination, you decide it’s the eyes that you find most off-putting. There’s a haze covering his eyes that isn't the usual milky shade you’d see in a person with glaucoma or cataracts. It’s almost pitch black, with a light ring around it, similar to when the moon eclipses the sun.

He raises an arm and points it at you. Irregular aura leaks from him in waves.

“[First] Avalor, secondborn of Victor and Dinara Avalor,” he speaks, his voice deep enough to rival an adult’s fully developed vocal cords, “The Sculptor extends its most humble invitation. It has heard of your plight and seeks to hold an audience with you. It knows many things about the one in the photograph… whom you call Xue Ya.”

It’s strange to hear that name spoken aloud after everyone’s been so hush-hush about it. Up until this point, digging into Xue Ya’s past has been a fruitless endeavor. She wasn’t registered as an official citizen in Survosia, or anywhere else for that matter; a complete ghost in the databases you commissioned others to search. The workers for the Avalor estate back home weren’t helpful either. From what you could corroborate, Xue Ya moved in as your mother’s personal attendant upon her marriage to your father thirty years ago. She always kept to herself and was fiercely loyal to Dinara. Nothing else could be attested to her, nothing that could be confirmed, anyway.

The woman Xue Ya exchanged letters with — Biscuit Krueger, a Hunter of decent renown — was impossible to track down. The intricate knot you found in her quarters that Phinks recognized was all you had to go off of. Chrollo surmised the specific area where that style of knot was most popular, aiding in narrowing the search somewhat.

He also explained gathering information works differently in Meteor City than it does elsewhere. Since there’s no official minted currency, information is considered a good to be bartered for, meaning that there’s no centralized network for finding things out. You have to painstakingly comb through numerous factions and prominent individuals to get a chance of learning what you want. Having the leader of the Phantom Troupe vouch for you has helped weed out groups that’d con you, but the radio silence just meant no one knew anything worth telling.

You exchange a look with Chrollo, who appears deep in thought, a hand on his chin.

“How intriguing. If it is indeed The Sculptor, this might be a lead worth following.”

You tilt your head. “What is The Sculptor?”

“Ah, apologies, it slipped my mind that only denizens of Meteor City would be familiar with the name. I suppose the title ‘urban legend’ describes it best. It’s known as a being who seeks to immortalize others by turning them into statues. Rather than clay or marble, it works with flesh and bone. If you agree to become a disciple of The Sculptor, it slowly drains your life force, but gives you and your group food as recompense. Or so the rumor goes. Kids growing up often jokingly suggest giving over the weakest in the group to The Sculptor if they don’t start carrying their weight.”

“A local bogeyman, huh?”

Chrollo nods. “In essence. Whatever it actually is, I’d assume it’s a Manipulator. A very old one at that. It’s been a local legend for decades.”

That must be why Chrollo claimed this to be a lead worth potentially following. The life expectancy in Meteor City is one of the worst in the world — many die young and those who manage to survive often leave, as the founding members of the Troupe did. Those who made it to their later years and decided to stay boast a great treasure trove of knowledge about this city’s secrets.

“Descendant of god killers, do you accept The Sculptor’s invitation? Should you choose to do so, it requires a small favor in return.”

There’s always a catch to these sorts of exchanges.

“What does this ‘small favor’ entail?”

He produces a small vial from his pocket. “A drop of your blood, if you wouldn’t mind.”

Where most would find this to be a creepy request, you think little of it; the blood that flows through your circulatory system is prized for its enhancing capabilities. You remove the leather glove from your hand and conjure your sword, Set A. After taking the vial from him, you prick your finger, allowing your blood to fall inside. Set A dematerializes and you return it.

“The Sculptor will see you now. Follow me,” the child urges. “The Spider head may join us as well, if it pleases you.”

Chrollo’s smile is immediate, if not teasing. “Would it please you, descendant of god killers?”

You get the unfortunate sense that this embarrassing nickname will stick around for a while…

“Oh, definitely. I couldn’t bear to part with you for even a second.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

The boy beckons you to follow. The aura emanating from him leaves a different impression than the toys Shalnark uses — it started off nonexistent then gradually built in concentration. If it’s true that this Sculptor character is a Manipulator, you assume he must put those under his thrall into a sleeper agent-like trance. Controlling multiple people over the entire diameter of Meteor City would be an impossible feat otherwise. There must be some rough order for them to go by, such as ‘send my message when you see this individual’ or so on and so forth. That’d explain why the boy blended in with his companions until he caught sight of you. It’s undoubtedly an impressive ability that Chrollo would love to get his hands on, should the opportunity present itself.

You’d like to thank Chrollo for going out of his way to help you. You’re certain there are more exciting things for him to do than walking around a city of towering trash, while you ask various strangers if they’ve ever seen a woman in a picture.

As if sensing your thoughts, he shoots you a wink.

The boy maneuvers expertly through his environment. It reminds you of a fish in water, migrating to some preprogrammed destination that their brain was born with. From the thinning out of roughly assembled shelters, you assume you’re nearing the edge of the city. Few populate the furthest perimeter since most of the garbage dumped there has been picked through thoroughly. Trash was dumped in an erratic period throughout. Chrollo told you that those with the best chance to survive knew the best drop areas, and that turf wars were often fought over these hotspots.

“In the earliest days of the Troupe, I’d plan these raids for days,” Chrollo had mused, his fond tone tinged with nostalgia that hardly felt fitting. “Maybe that’s why the others were under the impression I’d suit the role of ‘leader’ well. It was basic stuff, really. I was fortunate enough to stumble upon some battle strategy books in my youth. They were a great asset, even if some of the pages were missing...”

After a trek lasting half an hour, you arrive at a unique amalgamation of parts.

The roof is a collection of everything ranging from cardboard to steel sheets, slanted in such a way that they directly support each other. There are no windows to speak of, only holes in the exterior, some patched with wooden planks or plastic bags and others left to remain gaping. Hanging from the entrance is an elaborate collection of beads, mismatched in shape and color. What you think are chimes at first glance twirl in the wind, the resulting blur white as can be. The sound it releases is more of a dissonant clacking than a gentle ring. Upon further inspection, you recognize the hanging structure to be preserved radius’ and ulnas. Lots of them at that. From the smaller size, they must’ve belonged to children in life.

The interior design is far from quaint or practical.

Chrollo, gentleman that he is, enters first and lifts the beads for you to follow. You sense no one other than the three of you in the surrounding vicinity. The Sculptor itself must be playing it safe by lingering elsewhere.

The scene inside is similarly chaotic. Formaldehyde proliferates the air, somehow managing to overpower the stench outside. Since there’s no electricity, moonlight is the sole source of illumination in the crowded room. Jars filled with murky liquid seem to be the only organized element present. Dates along with other various factors have been dutifully recorded in barely legible handwriting.

Female Mandible - 2004 Carotid Artery — 2000 Male Thoracic — 2003

Flies buzz in excitement around a jar with an askew lid, the liquid too bloody for you to discern what’s inside. You think you make out the words Scarlet Eyes upon the label.

“This is its place of worship,” the boy explains, having noticed your staring. That’s enough to break you from your reverie.

“What does it worship?” Chrollo inquires.

The boy has to stand on his tiptoes to reach a curtain far in the back. He responds after steadying himself, then pulls it back. “Humanity.”

This must be The Sculptor’s life's work — its personal gallery.

Wooden shelves line the back wall, the contents ranging from perfectly lifelike to uncanny. People of all ages, ethnicities, and gender stare back at you, some from the bust upward and others going no further than the skull. A sickening sensation churns your stomach in a way you thought you were long numb to. There are dozens on display. What they all have in common is that they are staring back at you.

“These are its most favored idols,” the boy announces. “God cannot peer into this place, so The Sculptor has set up its golden calves.”

“May I ask what this has to do with Xue Ya?” You shift your weight from foot to foot. The atmosphere here is heavy and tinged with despair. Every second spent here promised nothing good.

“She is present. You need only look closer.”

You almost wish you didn’t.

On the bottom left corner is a crude imitation of your belated teacher. A scalp with tangled, matted black hair has been sewn onto a skull, the needlework visible on the forehead. From there downward patches of skin have been assembled, forming patchlike adhesives against the crumbling bone. There are no lips or ears, and the nose that has been attached hangs down from the weight of gravity. Bloodshot eyes bulge out from the sockets, the iris both different shades of blue, the one on the right lighter than the other. The optic nerves do their best to keep the eyes from falling out entirely.

“Hm,” Chrollo appraises the abomination with a neutral countenance. “It’s very avant-garde.”

“The Sculptor says its thanks to Xue Ya every night. She was a bad disciple yet lovely muse. Yes… she managed to break free from us. The Sculptor does not hold it against her. Had she not done so, then it would’ve never learned the joy in improvising its craft.”

“The Sculptor controlled Xue Ya before?” You question, narrowing your eyes. It’s possible that The Sculptor saw Xue Ya from afar and used her likeness without ever coming into direct contact. At the same time, you sense no clear deceit. The uncertainty is a thorn in your side.  

“Many years ago. She stood right where you stand… cold, hungry, no place to call home. It gave her a home. Fed her and fed off of her in return. It was foolish in those days and gave too much food. Little Xue Ya regained her strength, and with time, left behind her discipleship. The Sculptor was heartbroken at first. It is no longer. It now thinks she would’ve always found a way, for she had a new reason to fight.”

“And what reason would that be?”

The boy struggles to close the curtains that tower over his height but manages after a few tries. He never looks back at you again, staring at the covered-up horrors, tears leaking through his eyes from how little he blinks.

“You know surprisingly little, Lady [First],” the boy croaks in a coarse mockery of a laugh. “Though you have the strength of a queen, you reduce yourself to the movement of a pawn.”

Another round of laughs, this time ending in a dry fit of coughs.

“What is it that gives women that little extra push? Why, when they’re with child, of course.”

[beyondexpectshelluvafanart]

The misadventures of Stephen and Paint,

here’s some hellsona and OC stuff that’d I’d been getting into with my friend @thecrazygamingzombie

thecrazygamingzombie’s Hellsona Lore(written by thecrazygamingzombie)

Stephen was born and raised on the rough side of Chicago during the 1950s all the way up until the day of his death in the 1970s. With his parents out of the picture for unknown reasons, the last time he saw them was during infancy, he was raised by his uncle; a used cars saleman that was as sleazy as they came. However, Stephen's uncle was an excellent parental figure who took care of the boy like he was his own son and taught him how to survive on the mean streets of their hometown with a sharp wit and a sliver tongue; the boxing lessons he got Stephen at the local rec center didn't hurt matters either.

Stephen took to those lessons like a duck to water and pretty soon he was running plenty of cons of his own, becoming the very definition of a smooth operator who could talk his way out of any bad situation and always stay three steps ahead of his enemies...or so he liked to think.

The truth is that Stephen wasn't the mastermind he believed himself to be, in actuality he was a cocky idiot with some really weird luck. Most of the time his luck was pretty crummy, often getting him into all sorts of bad situations that put life and limb at risk, but every now and then (typically when things were at their worst) Stephen's luck would suddenly turn around and he'd become the luckiest guy on the east coast; allowing him to escape from the messes he made without so much as a scratch on him. Stephen confused his luck for legitimate skill and he started getting bolder and taking more risks as time went on. 

He made a decent living as a street hustler, rising up the ranks of the criminal underworld with his various schemes (although it was more akin to falling upwards in his case) and gaining a notable reputation on the streets of Chicago. Until one night, where his luck was particularly bad, Stephen wound up in the middle of a three way firefight between two rival gangs and the local police; all of whom desperately wanted him dead. After a long and cartoonish chase all over town where Stephen had several brushes with death, one of the gang leaders cornered him in a warehouse and fired a shot straight at his head. Stephen narrowly dodged out of the way only for the bullet to hit some explosive barrels inconveniently placed behind him and set off a massive fiery explosion that killed everyone inside the building...except for him.

Miraculously, Stephen emerged from the wreckage with only a few small burns to show for it and found a briefcase containing five hundred thousand dollars amongst the bodies. Now, a smart person would have immediately fled town after all that unpleasantness but Stephen was anything but smart. He decided to celebrate his survival and newfound fortune by going to a local disco club, where he was killed by a disco ball falling straight onto his head; crushing his skull and killing him near instantaneously. The con man had pushed his luck too far that night.

But upon arriving in Hell after his death, Stephen didn't let it get him down; wouldn't do him any good to sit around feeling sorry for himself. So he adjusted to his new reptilian form and picked right back up where he left off, trying to carve out a new life for himself in his new surroundings. If this was the hand life dealt him, he might as well play it!

Stephen spent the next thirty years or so having all sorts of misadventures in Hell, finding trouble or getting found by trouble, as a lone wolf. Until he met a shy little Pangolin sinner in serious need of a friendly face and struck up a partnership with them, earning the best friend he could ever hope to have.

my Hellsona Lore(written by me and thecrazygamingzombie) Paint lived a life of utter mundane misery in the early 2000s. 

Stuck in a dead end job to pay the bills, studying for a college degree he wasn't passionate about and living day to day. But Paint found pleasure in making digital art for the newest wonderful thing called the internet; there, he truly felt like himself.

Paint even had lofty hopes that after earning a degree and getting the well paying job his parents wanted for him, he could truly dedicate his time to his real passion of art. But fate had other plans.

At his mind numbing grocery story clerk job, there was a robbery with the thieves shooting several innocent bystanders in the process. Paint had the good fortune of being next to the cashier desk with the silent alarm button to call the police. Unfortunately hitting it meant he'd have to risk being seen by the shooters and potentially killed for his actions; he wanted to help, he truly did, but even with one of his coworkers being held at gunpoint and quietly asking him to do something, anything to help...he couldn't.

Paint was frozen by fear and self preservation, unable to do anything but lay amongst the corpses and wait until the robbers left with what they wanted. Then simply curled up into a ball and cried until the police and medics arrived, too late for most of the victims of the crime.

After giving his statement to the police and being sent home early, Paint was utterly beside himself. He knew he could have done something, that he should have done something but his cowardice won out in the end and cost several innocent people, many of whom were Paint's acquaintances, their lives. From Paint's perspective, their blood was on his hands. 

Paint was so lost in thought, so hung up on the idea of how his lack of confidence was holding him back from living the life he wanted, that he didn't notice the 'don't walk' sign flashing on the crosswalk; nor did he notice the incoming truck barreling straight for him. It was ironic in a way, narrowly escaping death at the hands of marauders only to end up as roadkill shortly after.

Paint didn't expect to end up in Hell for his actions, but apparently heaven decided that his inaction in a time of crisis and lack of ambition when it came to his life was the very definition of the sin of sloth and thus he was condemned for all eternity. The pangolin sinner could only reside himself to his fate, assuming that he must have deserved it for being such a pathetic little coward.

But even in the afterlife there was no peace for him, Paint wound up right back at square one with the same sort of dead end job and meaningless existence he held back on earth; the only difference now was that the customers were meaner, his coworkers bullied him at every opportunity, and his cruddy pay meant he didn't even have enough money to escape into his hobby of art. It truly was Hell for him.

However, all of that changed when he met a fast talking, hard scheming, and overly optimistic gator who helped Paint pick himself back up and show him how to truly live.

The start of Stephen and Paint's friendship wasn't exactly a great day.(written by thecrazygamingzombie)

Paint's boss had recently gotten into some serious debt with a low ranking overlord and the loan sharks could smell blood in the water. Desperate to save their own skin, the scumbag sinner decided to sell Paint to the overlord as a way of paying off his debts and the overlord agreed to the deal; his men forcefully absconding with poor Paint who, having reached the very limits of his sanity, cried like a baby all the way to the overlord's main compound. The Pangolin continued to cry as he was thrown into a dirty cell, terrified of what was going to become of him now, until an alligator sinner in the cell across from him asked him a simple question:

"What do you call a T-Rex that sells handguns?"

Momentarily distracted from his anguish, Paint asked what the answer was.

"a small arm dealer! Get it?!"

It was so absurd, so utterly out of left field, that Paint couldn't help but break out into hysterical laughter. The gator took that as encouragement and unleashed several more cringeworthy jokes onto his cell neighbor until he had reached a much calmer state, Paint was still understandably nervous but at least his tears had stopped flowing.

The gator then introduced himself as Stephen and offered Paint a proposition: He had a plan to get out of the compound but needed an extra set of hands to pull it off and Paint was the perfect candidate to be those hands. (granted he was the only candidate Stephen had at the moment but that was beside the point). So if Paint helped him out, Stephen would make sure that they both got out of here with their lives intact.

Since Paint didn't have anything left to lose, he took Stephen up on his offer and the gator laid out an utterly insane and moronic plan that seemed destined to fail; Paint was certain that he was going to die in that compound with that strange alligator.

And yet, against all logic and reason, Stephen's plan worked perfectly and the two of them road out of the compound on a stolen motorcycle moments before the whole place went up in flames. Once they were both certain they had made a clean getaway, Paint attempted to head home and leave his ally to his devices; assuming that Stephen would want nothing more to do with him now that he had gotten what he wanted from him. But much to Paint's surprise, Stephen asked if he'd be willing to stick around a bit longer. The reptile wanted to pay Paint back for his help by treating him to a round of coffee and pastries at his favorite café: Micole's place. 

Paint was hesitant but his empty stomach urged him to accept the invitation and he soon found himself chatting it up with Stephen in a cozy little coffee house. The gator had been impressed by Paint's moxie and wanted to form a partnership with the guy, promising an even 50/50 split between them for all future schemes, and since Paint had basically been fired after his former boss had sold him off he decided to take the risk and team up with Stephen for the time being.

From there a beautiful friendship was formed between them, Paint and Stephen becoming akin to brothers, and Paint's life became far more exciting than it had ever been before. For the first time in his miserable existence, Paint was living a life he could truly be content with and he had Stephen to thank for that.

Hazbin Hotel OCs lore Say hello to the heads of the Santiago family: Nicoletta 'Nicotine' Santiago (pictured middle) and her half-brothers and second in commands Slash/Steward (Left) and Hack/Herbert (Right) (written by me and thecrazygamingzombie)

One of Stephen's oldest enemies and a reoccurring foe that constantly menaces both him and Paint for the acts he committed against them on earth. Although the gator is blissfully unaware of such unpleasantness and believes that Nicoletta is simply obsessed with him in a romantic sense...which isn't ENTIRELY inaccurate. 

Nicoletta’s Lore and backstory (written by me and thecrazygamingzombie)

Nicoletta 'Nicotine' Santiago was born into mafia royalty, the youngest child of her family and the only female member alongside her nine older brothers. 

Nicoletta was never really planned for or wanted by her family and was constantly reminded of that fact in the form of verbal and/or physical abuse dealt out by her father and older brothers; her mother was of no help, often standing to the side and only stepping in to patch up Nicoletta's 'good looks' afterwards which only stoked the fires of hatred within the girl.

Those fires soon grew into an absolute inferno and Nicoletta became determined to escape from the Hell her family had created for her on earth as soon as possible. But that plan was quickly derailed when two new members of the family moved in: Herbert and Steward, her four year old half brothers. 

Compared to them, Nicoletta was treated like a damn princess. Not only did they have to deal with the routine beatings and psychological abuse that Nicoletta experienced at the hands of her father and brothers, which were even worse since they didn't feel the need to hold back with them like they did with her, but even her mother encouraged this abuse and intentionally neglected in a petty attempt to punish her husband's infidelity. Nicoletta could have joined in with the hazing, to stop being the victim for once in her life...but she couldn't.

Instead Nicoletta took it upon herself to care and love her younger half siblings, assuming a motherly role that had been left vacant. She wasn't perfect, what with her only being fourteen at the time, but any shortcomings were made up for with all the love in her heart and all the patience in the world for Herbert and Steward. They were her family, her real family and she wasn't going to let anything happen to them. Her former thoughts of fleeing now abandoned, Nicoletta found a new purpose in life: making their slice of Chicago a place where her boys could prosper.

The way she accomplished this? Taking over her family's empire. One by one she rubbed out her older siblings and former tormentors: one got shot in the back of the head while eating at their favorite pizza restaurant, another had their throat slit at a porn theatre ironically watching a movie titled 'deep throat', and one unlucky sibling was hung from a boardwalk Ferris wheel for all to see. Each of their deaths allowing Nicoletta to seize control of large swaths of the Santiago criminal empire. Until finally, after gunning down her mother and pushing her so called 'father' off the roof of a skyscraper, Nicoletta took control of the criminal organization at age 22 and proceeded to rule it with an iron fist for the next 13 years. Raising her boys properly with all her newfound resources and giving them a chance to walk away from the mafia game to live normal lives, but instead they chose to remain by her side out of a sense of loyalty and became her right hand men who guarded her with their very lives. 

Under Nicoletta's rule, the syndicate thrived and expanded it's reach like never before. At this rate they'd be ruling the entire city within ten years time and it seemed as though nothing could stop them...save for one persistent troublemaker: Stephen Hanover.

Stephen was some low level conman making moves around Chicago's criminal network, nothing particularly special about him apart from the fact that he owed quite a lot of money to the Santiago family. So Nicoletta sent out Herbert to extract payment, assuming that some idiot in a cheap suit was nothing he couldn't handle.

Oh how wrong she was. The bloody mess that turned up in the coroner's office was hardly recognizable outside of the special pendant she had given him for his tenth birthday years ago, body twisted and mangled in all the wrong ways; it was something straight out of a horror movie. Bertie, her sweet baby boy, was dead; having been crushed by a falling wrecking ball while pursuing that snake Stephen. Nicoletta felt the old fires of her hatred, the kind that had died down with her parents' deaths, reawaken within her.

Stephen was going to pay for this, Nicoletta was personally going to see that the rest of his short life was spent in agonizing pain and so was Steward. But while Nicoletta was willing to wait, to take the time and plan her approach to ensure Stephen didn't get away, Steward was not so patient and set off on his own to avenge his brother's death. Nicoletta didn't see the big guy again until weeks later, where she got another call from the local morgue.

Herbert had gotten off easy in comparison to his twin, witness reports said that Steward's jacket had gotten snagged on a passing subway car and ended up smeared along the wall of the tunnel. His death had been far more agonizing than that of his baby brother and it tore Nicoletta up inside. In the span of two months she had lost both of her boys, her entire family, all because of...because of HIM. That bastard Stephen, he deserved to be six feet under and not her boys.

Now infuriated beyond belief, Nicoletta decided that the time for action was now and rallied her crew to hunt Stephen down at all costs. Unfortunately they ended up running smack dab into a rival gang and the local constabulary in the process, forcing them into a massive firefight that provided Stephen with the perfect cover he needed to escape. But Nicoletta wasn't about to let that happen, so she abandoned the safety of her crew and chased after the smarmy jerk on foot; eventually heading into a warehouse storing oil barrels. In a fit of desperation, Nicoletta opened fire on Stephen to try and put the guy down; but luck was not on her side that night and the bullet narrowly whizzed over his head, striking one of the barrels laying about and setting off a mass inferno that consumed the entire building.

Nicoletta's last words before the flames consumed her was to cry out the name of the man who had taken everything from her: STEPHEN!

But death was not the end for Nicoletta, it was merely a new beginning. She may have been condemned to Hell for all eternity, but at least she was reunited with her boys and wouldn't have to see Stephen for a long time...or so she thought.

One week after she arrived in Hell, whilst busy planning establishing a criminal network in the underworld, Stephen came crashing through the skylight and landed right on top of the poor woman. Thus kicking off a long rivalry between the two that would last for decades...only to shift into something more, amicable; for lack of a better word.  One week after she arrived in Hell, whilst busy planning establishing a criminal network in the underworld, Stephen came crashing through the skylight and landed right on top of the poor woman. Thus kicking off a long rivalry between the two that would last for decades...only to shift into something more, amicable; for lack of a better word. 

Herbert’s Lore and backstory (written by me and thecrazygamingzombie)

Herbert Santiago, the younger twin brother to Steward Santiago, younger half-brother of Nicoletta Santiago, and second in command to one of Chicago's biggest crime syndicates. His life was a tragedy in three acts.

The first of which began with the death of his mother and relocation to his father's care, although care is a strong word to use considering his new guardians would neglect him at best and abuse him at worst. Unlike his twin who would fight tooth and nail against anyone trying to give them a hard time, Herbert was much more passive and simply allowed the brutal hazing to continue with little resistance; be it simple name calling to his other brothers dangling him upside down over the edge of a bridge, threatening to drop him into the filthy water below. The boy didn't have the confidence to stand up for himself.

Herbert might not have survived his childhood at all if it wasn't for his half-sister Nicoletta. She kept them fed as much as she could, patching them up after their older brothers were done with them, and even reading them bedtime stories. Herbert especially liked that last activity, the tales of faraway kingdoms and courageous heroes struck a chord with him, and eventually he convinced Nicoletta to teach him how to read. 

It ended up being the greatest gift she ever gave him; Herbert found an escape from his rough home life in the form of literature, often losing himself in the fantastical worlds put forth by the eloquent tales of a good book. But unfortunately, it didn't take long for his older brothers to discover his new bookworm tendencies and use it as another way to torment him. Not only mocking him for such a hobby but even outright destroying many of the books he picked up, leading to poor Herbert getting banned from the public library. Thankfully both Nicoletta and Steward managed to obtain more reading materials for their brother, beneath the watchful eyes of their tormentors.

Nicoletta really was the best, she was more of a mother to him and Steward than Mrs.Santiago ever was; not that Herbert would ever say that to Nic, she may have been kind but...sometimes she scared him.

On the one hand, Nicoletta had unwavering faith in the twins. When Herbert floated the idea of going to college, Nicoletta wholeheartedly supported him; and when Steward swore that he didn't knock up his prom date, Nicoletta believed him right away. But on the other hand, Nicoletta could be a little too protective of them; school bullies who weren't part of the Santiago family had a nasty habit of disappearing whenever one of them harmed Herbert or Steward, the former couldn't prove it but he had a feeling Nicoletta was responsible. However, her overprotective tendencies weren't what scared Herbert the most, but what she would think of certain...feelings he had toward boys.

The second act of Herbert's tragedy was one that had always been with him but didn't show it's face until his teenage years, when he truly started to bloom into a man. Herbert always felt a little different from those around him and he wasn't talking about his quite temperament or obsession with literature. Whenever he read tales of passion and romance, he often liked to imagine himself being part of those stories...where he was swept of his feet by the male leads. He knew that having such thoughts were wrong, men weren't supposed to date other men...right? Even if it wasn't, Herbert had read far too many news headlines about guys who liked guys and ended up getting beaten...or worse.

Herbert wanted to believe that Nicolette would accept him, that she'd love him no matter who his heart yearned for. But the possibility, however slight, that she'd end up casting him out terrified Herbert to no end; even more so than the thought of his older brothers ripping him limb from limb if they found out he was a f- *ahem*, perhaps it's best not to go there? 

Anyhow, to preserve what little he had in the world, Herbert put on a mask and played the role of the bumbling socially awkward nerd who was either too busy to date or too much of a wimp to get a girlfriend and that he had absolutely no interest in men whatsoever. 

It utterly tore him up inside, Herbert could feel his mask slipping whenever he saw Steward and his far more successful romantic escapades. Steward got to have his first kiss and brag about it, Steward could go to prom and dance the night away with his girl of the week, Steward could string a trail of broken hearts behind him, STEWARD got to have all the romance Herbert so desperately wanted but could never have. Herbert had to be the wallflower, the lonely heart, the one who had to pine for guys who would never return his feelings from a distance. Herbert grew to envy his twin and the life he got to live, the life Herbert should have had; but what could he do? He hated keeping secrets from Nicoletta and Steward but he couldn't give them a reason to hate him like their brothers did. So he kept his hopes of true love and romance with another man under lock and key.

Then came the third and final act of Herbert's story, the one that brought his life to an abrupt end. Herbert never felt like he belonged in the family business either; he was a lover, not a fighter and the one thing his horrible siblings had gotten right about him was that he was too soft for his own good. Herbert was always more comfortable in a classroom or a library than he did in a back alley or a field on the outskirts of town, burying a suspicious looking bag. It was enough to make him reconsider if the gangster life was truly one for him and before long he was forced to make that decision when a college scholarship letter arrived for him in the mail.

Herbert would have gotten a full ride, all expenses paid for in pursuit of whatever degree he wanted. It was a ticket straight out of the slums and into a normal, peaceful life free from murder and theft....and yet he couldn't take it. For if he did, it would mean abandoning his family and being left all alone with no one to turn to; Herbert didn't want that. So despite the temptation of salvation, Herbert chose to trade in books and thesis for brass knuckles and obituaries; trying to numb the guilt that came from inflicting the various brutalities Nicoletta ordered him too while the heart of a poet cried out from within him.

At least being her second in command afforded him a level of respect he had never enjoyed before, being the more approachable and understanding member of the syndicate's high command. Herbert garnered a reputation of a bit of a goofball who could easily snap someone in half if his sister asked him to and was deeply respected by his family and subordinates, although Nicoletta tended to pawn off less serious work to him where he'd only handle guys that proved too much for lackies and henchmen to handle. One such individual happened to be a con man named Stephen who had defaulted on loans to the family, loans that Nicoletta ordered Herbert to collect by any means necessary.

Herbert felt a little bad going after the guy, they had interacted beforehand and Stephen was a pleasant individual if a bit unintelligent but he had his orders. After putting up a good fight for the first ten minutes, even forcing Herbert onto the defensive, Stephen cut his losses and tried to flee only for Herbert to give chase. He pursued the con man straight into a construction site, following him all the way up to the top floors of the structure where Herbert cornered him. But before Stephen could meet his end at Herbert's hands, the second in command of the Santiago family heard the sound of a metal cord breaking and looked up just in time to see a massive metal ball plummeting towards him and then...nothing.

When Herbert awoke, he had gotten a complete makeover and found himself in some unusual surroundings. It didn't take long for someone of his intellect to figure out what happened and he despaired at his fate, Herbert knew in his heart that he deserved eternal damnation for the blood on his hands but being separated from his family was too much to bear. Fortunately, or unfortunately depending on how you look at it, Herbert would see Steward and Nicoletta sooner rather than later.

Steward’s Lore and backstory (written by me and thecrazygamingzombie)

(disclaimer: Much of this character bio is told from Steward's perspective, which includes a lot of sexist and misogynistic tendencies that are part of the character. The views expressed in the following piece are in no way reflective of the artist or the writer's own beliefs. Thank you and have a nice day)

Steward Slash Santiago was the 'information specialist' of the Santiago crime family (I.E. great with torture and interrogations) who helped run their part of Chicago with an iron fist. 

Ever since he was a kid, Steward knew that fighting was the only thing he was good at and that talent came in handy when he was shipped off to the hellhole ran by their father Mr.Santiago, his monster of a wife, and their sadistic sons. They all quickly made their hatred for the twins well known and Steward knew he had to assert himself against them, not only to protect himself but his younger brother Herbert too.

No matter what torture they put Steward through, from the brusies and broken bones his brothers inflicted to Mrs. Santiago starving him and forcing him to sleep on the floor, the kid refused to break...Until one night he was pushed to his absolute limits. 

Mrs.Santiago had gotten fed up with Steward constantly whining about being hungry and decided to lock him in the pantry to teach him a lesson of sorts. Steward remained in the darkness for hours, fighting back the urge to cry out for help knowing that the only person who'd be willing to was too short to reach the lock and he'd only gain the attention of his older brothers who wouldn't hesitate to make things worse for him, and silently sobbed as he felt the walls closing in. But suddenly, the doors to the pantry flew open and Steward readied himself for the fury of his half brothers or Mrs.Santiago that was undoubtedly waiting for him on the other side...only to be wrapped in a soft blanket and have a comforting hand placed on his head, just like Mama used to.

When Steward was able to get a better look at his mysterious savior, he realized it was the girl he had seen around the house; Natalie or Nina or something like that. She motioned for him to follow but Steward was hesitant to obey, this could be a cruel trick for all he knew and yet he couldn't fend off his own curiosity about the whole matter. Steward was led into a bed room where Herbert was already resting peacefully in bed, not on the floor but an honest to god bed that the strange girl gently nudged him into. Once Steward was comfortable next to his twin, the girl soon joined them and wrapped the twins in a comforting embrace before drifting off to sleep.

For the first time since he had arrived in this house, Steward felt...safe, loved, like he had someone to look after him when he wasn't strong enough to do so.

The next morning the girl introduced herself as Steward's older half-sister, Nicoletta, and she ended up being the greatest thing to happen to him. 

Nicoletta was the only person Steward could count upon outside of Herbert and she was just as willing to put up a fight to protect the boys if not more so than Steward himself, earning her fair share of bloody noses and black eyes after having a few talks with their older brothers about how the two had been treated. Seeing her so determined to keep them safe, despite having no good reason to do so, caused Steward to look up to Nicoletta as a hero and with that admiration came a fierce determination to become strong enough to protect both her and Herbert from their parents, their older brothers, and everything else the world could throw at them.

Unfortunately Nicoletta couldn't always be there for him and Steward struggled with life outside of the house. In school he was the troublemaker, the problem child, the idiot kid who'd never amount to anything and the detention room saw him as a regular attendee. But it wasn't his fault that their classmates kept calling Herbert names or that the words on his school assignments would change places whenever he looked at it. The only place he excelled in was organized sports, becoming a star athlete in everything from football to baseball but even then his violent temper got him booted from the team more often than not. If that wasn't enough, his teachers decided to rub more salt in the wound by constantly comparing him to Herbert; Herbert who always behaved in class, Herbert who got straight As and won the essay contest, Herbert who was destined for greatness, HERBERT who would always be smarter and more well mannered than Steward would ever be. Steward loved his brother more than anything but sometimes it was hard not to feel jealous of his brother's smarts.

At least Steward had more skill with the ladies than Herbert. His bad rep may have made him a bane to his teachers, but it became a magnet for the lovely ladies at school who saw him as the bad boy rebel type and were chomping at the bit to hang on his arm. Some wanted to get back at their parents while others were genuinely interested in him but it didn't matter to Steward, as long as he got some tail he was happy. Sure he broke plenty of hearts along the way but it wasn't his fault they went and got their feelings involved right? The only time he came close to being on the other end of such heartbreak was when his disloyal prom date decided to bang some scrawny little pointdexter under the bleachers, during prom night; granted she had been sleeping around with half the school and Steward had a few side pieces of his own but he was a guy and she was a girl, it was different for him, ya know? At least he won prom king that night, so he couldn't be too upset. Overall, Steward was very much a 'catch-and-release' type when it came to his romantic partners; women would come and go but family was here to stay.

Another area that Steward surpassed his brother in was managing the family business. Being handed a job by his sister Nicoletta right out of high school, Steward started small from shaking down guys running late on payments before moving up to bashing in the brains of those who tried to skip out on them. He loved every second of it, the power and thrill of being a gangster made him feel alive; it didn't hurt that he got to come back to HQ after a successful mission and be greeted by Nicoletta who looked at him with pride in her eyes, it was the first time Steward felt like he was useful, that he wasn't a good-for-nothing waste. Everyone told Steward he'd never amount to anything but look at him now! He had helped Nicoletta take the family business from their bastard half brothers and their prick of a father, all of whom never deserved any of it, and brought fear and respect to the family name; now he was the second in command of the biggest crime syndicate in Chicago and nobody could push him around...well except for Nicoletta but she had earned the right to push Steward after all she had done for the twins. Sure Herbert didn't take to the job as easily as his brother but that was okay, he'd figure it out eventually and they'd stick together until the end.

Or at least that's what Steward thought until he found that damn college acceptance letter.

It was from one of those prissy little ivy-league schools across the country, promising to give Herbert a full ride through higher education and a ticket out of the criminal life. Steward didn't take the good news well and immediately confronted Herbert about it, giving that traitor a piece of his mind. How could Herbert even consider abandoning his family? After everything they've been through? It made Steward sick to his stomach. Herbert put up a weak little defense about how Nicoletta wanted them to have a choice between the family business and a normal life but that only angered Steward further. Herbert was supposed to be the smart one, how could he not see what was right in front of his face? This was a test of loyalty to his family, one that he would have failed if Steward didn't step in and talk some sense into his brother; reminding him of his rightful place in the family. Steward was beaming with pride when he watched Herbert tear up that letter and throw it away, it almost made up for this odd feeling in his gut that felt suspiciously like guilt but he ignored it. They were gonna rule the city like kings, brothers for life!

Steward, or Slash as he was known by his gang, was a sadistic monster who's mere name was able to strike fear in the thugs of Chicago. His violence tendencies were only kept in check by his even more sadistic and cunning older sister, who Steward worshiped like a damn princess. After spending so long at the bottom of the heap they had finally reached the life they deserved, becoming the tormentors instead of the tormented and nothing and nobody could ever take that from them.

Then Herbert got sent after a nobody who had gotten in debt with the family. Just some no name hustler who thought he was hot stuff, they had met before but Steward hadn't bothered learning his name and felt that going after such a small rat was beneath them. But Nicoletta wanted the guy to settle up on his debts and who were they to refuse orders? Herbert would probably be back with a wad of cash or a few severed fingers before the night was over depending on how things played out.

But Steward would never have expected that the next time he'd see his baby brother, it'd be in the city morgue. Nicoletta was the first to see what was left of Herbert and she tried to stop Steward from going in but the big guy wouldn't listen...although he wished he did when he saw Herbert's body. 

He was hardly recognizable, carcass flattened like a damn pancake with his limbs cracked and broken, twisted in all directions and his skull mangled beyond belief; Steward was stronger than anybody in the city but he wasn't strong enough to see his brother like this. The only reason that he didn't break down then and there was because Nicoletta did so first, Steward instinctively holding onto her as she sobbed into his chest for their fallen sibling while Steward bit back his own tears. When Nicoletta regained her composure, she told him the name of the bastard who did Herbert in: Stephen Hanover. 

Steward didn't remember his name before but he sure as hell wasn't gonna forget it now, that snake was gonna pay for what he did and Nicoletta couldn't agree more. But unfortunately they butted heads over how they'd deal with him, Nicoletta said they needed to take a careful approach and play their vengeance smart but Steward wouldn't hear of it; every second that murderer was still breathing was one too many and Steward went against Nicoletta's wishes for the first time in his life, choosing to hunt down Stephen all by himself. He spent weeks tracking him down through the city, roughing up every last scumbag and lowlife who might know where he is, until finally he managed to catch the sniveling coward hiding in a subway station. 

Stephen put up a good fight and if the circumstances were different, Steward might have given the guy a smidge of respect. But as it stood? The only thing Steward was going to give him was the justice Herbert deserved. He took it slow of course, dragging out Stephen's beating as much as he could and making sure he suffered for every last moment of it. However, just as Steward was about to land the finishing blow and avenge his brother's death; a random subway car came out of nowhere and snagged the back of Steward's jacket, carrying him away from Stephen. The last thing he ever saw was the hustler's dumbfounded expression before he was slammed into the tunnel wall and everything went black.

Steward wasn't surprised that he wound up in Hell afterwards, there's no way they'd let someone like him past the pearly gates, but he was surprised to run into Herbert who was incredibly happy to see his twin brother again and the feeling was mutual. They could only hope that Nicoletta would be okay without her boys to watch over her...

[bubsdolan]

Reader gets in an accident after an arguement with Gray!!!

“get out of my house y/n. we’re over.”

those were the last words you remember of your boyfriend of almost two years before you blacked out. overcome with crippling darkness as your mind flashed back to the hours prior the the fatal night that changed yours and grayson’s life forever.

“gray baby, please calm down and let me explain-“

“explain THIS!” grayson roars, throwing his phone at you and near missing hitting your body as it displayed a photo of you with another male. another male you were secretly meeting in order to surprise grayson with the watch he had been dreaming off owning for months now. a watch he was constantly showing you and expressing his love for the designer product.

being the good girlfriend you are, you had put plans in motion to secure the watch your two year anniversary. however some fans had spotted you at a local cafe in the hustle and bustle of la once morning, laughing and joking with the unknown male where they immediately toke to social media to make assumptions. spread false rumours and allegations about your character. 

both yourself and grayson’s tagged photos, twitter feeds and even tiktok tea rooms accounts where flooded with photos of you and someone who very clearly wasn’t grayson. no one knew the truth behind the frame, yet not one, not even grayson would hear your side of the story.

“baby-“

“don’t! i knew i couldn’t fucking trust you. just another typical la slut, you’re all the same.” grayson’s words stung, they hurt him to even say aloud but he always did let his temper get the best of him. his mouth working before his mind as he mentally and physically had to stop himself from reaching out to comfort you when he saw your walls break down.

you had spent the majority of your relationship proving to grayson, ethan and millions of people who didn’t even know you, that you weren’t like the rest. you showed that you truly loved grayson for who he was and how he made you feel, but hearing grayson agree with the rest of the world, hurt you more than most.

your slience was enough for grayson to lose his cool again, his temper once more getting the best of him. he wanted you to fight for him. to prove to him and everybody else wrong and tell the truth. but you had no fight left in you. how could anybody believe you with how the the photo looked.

you were sat shoulder to shoulder, hunched over a tiny phone screen as the man you were working with was showing you the engraving details you had specifically requested. smiling and excitement on your features as you hugged the man and thanked him for making yours and grayson’s dreams a reality. 

turning his back to you for an action he would soon to regret, grayson venomously spat the words that had your whole world crashing down in seconds. his eyes dark and frightening as he has never looked at you in a way that wasn’t loving and smitten.

“we’re over.”

having no where to go, no one to turn to, no family in la to offer moral support or a shoulder to cry on, you drove. you drove for what seemed like hours as you left the house with no belongings, no phone, no money and no grayson. you were empty and quiet honestly done with la. it had ruined you. how could a simple surprise for your soulmate, turn nasty due to the negativity that surrounded your relationship from day one.

if grayson saw the conditon and emotional state you had left in, he would have never of let you walk out the door. he would have pulled you into his arms, held you so tightly and kissesd your argument away. you had never fought this bad throughout your entire relationship, but the look in grayson eyes and the venom in his tone, you sensed he his words were final.

the more your mind replayed grayson’s words, his unwillingness to listen to your truth, his demeanour and coldness towards you, the worst the tears poured. the more heart wrenching sobs leaving your lips as you lost all sense of direction. a dangerous move.

grayson was interrupted from his own crying session, rocking in the arms of his twin, who felt utterly powerless and too betrayed by the one person- you- who he thought had his brothers back more than him. ethan truly believed you were endgame, he never once doubted your intentions, never questioned your loyalty, but past ruined friendships showed he was never a good judge of character. you just felt different to ethan, he had a good feeling about you.

something didn't feel right about this situation, there was more to the story than what meets the eye. nevertheless his older brother instincts kicked in and right now grayson was his number one priority.

grayson’s phone had been ringing off the hook for serval minutes, every time the call dropped, his phone would flash with the same private number second afters. it was still laying in the same position it had landed when he throw it, guilt eating him alive at the memory of breaking the promise of never hurting his girl. he can still see the fear in your eyes. he scared you and that broke him.

growning frustrated, ethan went to retrieve the cracked phone. hoping deep down it was you calling, ready to come back and put an end to all your misery. however, his experison soon changed to one of dread when the caller on the other end sounded nothing like the cheery, high pitched voice he had grown to live around the house. in fact, the formal greeting and questioning if the receiver was that of a ‘mr dolan’ had ethan’s stomach dropping. this was not good news.

after ending the call ethan took a few minutes to gather his thought and replay the conversation he just had in his head. his own mind racing with the worst possible outcome as he had to come to terms with how to tell his brother that his girlfriend, the person he was due to propose to on your anniversary in a few weeks, was currently fighting for her life in hposital as a result from a car accident.

“was it- was it her?” 

ethan was startled by the sudden broken voice of grayson, who had just enough energy to sneak out of bed to catch the last few seconds of the end of the phone call, praying it was you on the other end. a sense of dread in his gut that he couldn't seem to shake. his eyes red and puffy as his body felt empty of tears. it felt empty without you. 

“bro-,” ethan knew he had to approach this with caution. reaching out for his bother and offering him a warm hand on his shoulder as a precaution when he delivered the blow he wished he never had to in the first place.

“its y/n. she-she’s..”

grayson cut him off irrationally. his short temper getting the best of him as he had expected you home by now, it had been almost three and half hours since he told you leave, but he thought you knew him better than that. grayson’s thoughts were running away with him, he let his rage from your earlier heated argument get the better of him and cloud his judgment. he was almost like a different person, he was no longer your grayson.

“she's with him isn't she. fuck bro! she really left me, she walked out on me, on us for some guy she’s fu-” grayson was running his fingers vigourously through his hair. unable to accept the fact he may have pushed you in the arms of another man.

“she's in a coma bro.” 

grayson dropped to his knees, screaming your name and reaching out as if you were there for him to hold. he was followed seconds after by ethan who for the second time that night, held grayson and listened to his brother cry. this time, his cries held a different meaning behind them. tears of pain. guilt. regret.

there was a possibility grayson had pushed you so far, he may have lost you forever.

{part 2}

[gusu-emilu]

miscellaneous MDZS/CQL fic recs (AO3)

broken into sections: Character Study (-esque), Wangxian, Jiang Cheng ships, Yi City (or Yi City-adjacent), Humor/Crack, and Other

Character Study (-esque)

Wei Wuxian

my eyes got used to the darkness by @curiosity-killed (M, Sunshot Campaign era, 4.4k): The funny thing, the thing that makes his lips curl in a grin and his hands shake with laughter, is that all these cultivators with their lofty principles and noble ambitions can’t even notice the ghost among them. Sure, they shiver at his presence and flinch from his cold hands, but not one of them puts it together. Lan Wangji chases him with healing music and Nie Mingjue frowns solemnly at his dancing corpses—and he laughs and laughs and laughs because they just don’t get it. Emilu's commentary: CW for mild body horror.

Jiang Cheng

in our respective ways by @veliseraptor (T, Sunshot Campaign era, 5.7k): Jiang Cheng has his golden core back. But he seems to have lost Wei Wuxian.

You Know I've Fallen, but I Know How High by villainais (M, Post-WWX's death, 2.7k): Jiang Cheng loses both of his siblings in Nightless City. Minutes apart. He trudges home to Yunmeng with one body, holds a private funeral with a single coffin, and allows himself to wear his mourning robes for ten days—permits himself not a single day more. He is still too young and inexperienced, an unfledged boy to the cultivation world, and he is rebuilding Lotus Pier on his own. He will not gift the other sect leaders the satisfaction of seeing him vulnerable. Propriety be damned. Hanguang-jun emerges from his seclusion wearing white. He does not stop.

Nie Huaisang

it deepens like a coastal shelf by @wolffyluna (M, Post-WWX's death, 21.6k): When Nie Huaisang meets Mo Xuanyu, he realises two things quickly. One, this kid is so doomed. Two, this kid would be a great unwitting spy in his plans to bring down Jin Guangyao. It would be so easy to get into Mo Xuanyu's confidences, and so easy to get him to tell him anything he needs. ...only thing is, that wouldn't be very good for Mo Xuanyu's life expectancy. But he'll do it anyway, if it helps him avenge his brother. A fic about man handing on misery to man, the parallels and cycles in the relationships between Jin Guangyao and Nie Huaisang and Mo Xuanyu, and the lengths these characters will go to meet their goals and if there are lines they won't cross.

Lan Xichen

an old man in dried mouths by @tenacious-minds (T, Post-Canon, 3.3k): Xichen thinks. The tea had always stained the crockery red. Emilu's commentary: Lan Xichen and Jin Ling talk about Jin Guangyao.

can you be a quiet man? by @basket-of-loquats (Unrated, Post-Canon, 70.7k+) But something inside him snapped at Guanyin Temple-- and Lan Wangji watched it happen, saw the exact moment that Lan Xichen went from broken to shattered, when he buried his sword into Jin Guangyao’s chest, when his sworn brother stared up at him with wide eyes, blood dripping from his mouth, when he pulled himself closer and closer and closer-- When he whispered "Why don’t you die with me?", and Lan Xichen hadn’t argued. Emilu's commentary: Lan Xichen / therapy with a side of Wangxian.

Wen Ning

breathless (but i'll pretend to breathe for you) by swordsainted (T, Burial Mounds Settlement era, 4.1k): Wei Wuxian is silent for a long minute, and then he looks at Wen Ning, something raw and open and hurting behind his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he says again, softer this time, and Wen Ning shakes his head, still smiling. “You’ve protected everyone. How could I hate you for that?”

Mo Xuanyu

stand at the pit's mouth by @eldritch-elrics (M, MXY's death, 9.3k): The dreams and regrets of a man on the edge of oblivion. Emilu's commentary: Surrealist/absurdist screenplay.

Wangxian

I would wait for a thousand years by bleuett (T, Immortality Post-Canon, 10.4k): During the worst of winter, a traveler comes to stay at Lan Wangji's inn. He wears a red ribbon in his hair. “Do you see the rabbit?” Wei Ying asks and points at the moon. “That’s the moon rabbit, he helps make Chang’e more immortality elixir. He keeps Chang’e company.” “I do not wish the rabbit for company,” Lan Wangji says tightly. “You are the one I want by my side.” “And I’m here, Lan Zhan. If you go to the moon, I’ll follow you, I’ll always be here now.” Emilu's commentary: Lan Wangji meets Wei Wuxian centuries later and does not remember the past. There is also an excellent podfic by @forgotten-envies

Look Not With The Eyes by Spodumene (G, Post-Canon, 28.1k): Wei Wuxian returns from his travels to join Lan Wangji on a routine night hunt, but when things take an unexpected turn, Wei Wuxian will have to fight for what he's really looking for. Emilu's commentary: Case fic.

All In A Good Time by bigboobedcanuck (E, Post-Canon, 8k): Lan Zhan is struck by a curse that brings him intense physical pain unless he's being touched. He is stoic and tries to hide his suffering. Wei Wuxian is worried and protective. Perhaps they will finally admit their feelings?

Across a Lake of Glass by Zizzani (E, Figure Skating AU, 92.2k+): Each year, Gusu Skating Club runs a camp for only the most elite athletes of each region. This year brings a new skater from the Yunmeng Club who wears skates lined with red and a smile made for war. He skates like a demon. Figure skating au featuring lots of healthy rivalry, pre and post-competition bonding, and an inexplicable fall from grace through the eyes of the media.

Jiang Cheng Ships

Chengqing

display my heart for you to see by @souridealist (M, Post-Canon Wen Qing Lives AU, 5.5k): Jiang Cheng has his own secrets. Some of them are part of the unburied past; some of them are about how long it's been since anyone has touched him.

while I'm in this body by @souridealist (E, Post-Lotus Pier Massacre, 3.9k): For just a few minutes, alone in her office, Wen Qing allows her self-control to slip enough to cry. It's just her luck that that's when Jiang Cheng comes looking for her. Emilu's commentary: Femdom.

Chengning

it may be that it doesn't matter by @wildehacked (T, Post-Canon, 6.6k) “Are you crying?” Jiang Wanyin asks him, and Wen Ning frowns. Pats his cheek with one hand. “No.” Emilu's commentary: Holy Grail of Chengning.

Whatever It Is by morau (E, Post-Canon, 20.5k): It starts, as with a lot of things, with a very poorly thought out prank, courtesy of Wei Wuxian. Emilu's commentary: A LOT of sex and even more emotions lol

won't run away (we're here to stay) by @qi-ling (T, Post-Canon, 3.5k): "Please don't feel any pressure to accept this, and you can take as much time as you need to think about it." It's a set of robes, in shades of deep purple, complete with leather bracers. Cut in a different style than that of the disciples or household staff, closer to the understated robes Wen Ning typically wears. He reaches out to feel the fabric. His deadened nerves can't sense delicate textures well, but even he can tell it's of a quality on par to Wanyin's own wardrobe. This is startling enough coming from Jiang Wanyin, but then Wen Ning notices the belt. In particular, the silver bell in the shape of a lotus affixed to it. Only recognized members of the Jiang sect may wear the clarity bell. Or, Jiang Cheng has an invitation for Wen Ning.

Zhancheng

By Proxy by @veliseraptor (E, Post-WWX's death, 12k): Jiang Cheng and Lan Wangji, looking for comfort in all the wrong places. Emilu's commentary: Hate sex that made me cry

Yi City (or Yi City-adjacent)

Songxuexiao

Heaven Has A Road But No One Walks It by @silvysartfulness (M, Post-Yi City arc Canon Divergence, 123k+): One of the most complex spells of demonic cultivation the world has seen is brought to fruition, and Xiao Xingchen draws his first shaking breaths in over seven years. This, it turns out, is only the start of his problems. Emilu's commentary: Pretty sure everyone already knows about Silvy's happy songxuexiao road trip fic but it has to be here.

Xue Yang & Lan Xichen

Hours On Empty series by @lady-of-the-lotus (M to E, Post-Canon, 57.8k+): AU where Wei Wuxian never came to Yi City and Xue Yang is still running around post-canon disguised as Xiao Xingchen. "Fractured Ice" - Xue Yang whisks a nihilistic Lan Xichen off on a murder roadtrip to raise Xiao Xingchen and Meng Yao from the grave. Because that will solve all of their problems, right? "Control" - "Fractured Ice" retold from Xue Yang's pov. "A Thousand Miles In Its Light" - Alternate ending to "Fractured Ice" and "Control"

Songxiao with Xuexiao Flashbacks

Nothing Beside Remains by @eldritch-elrics (T, Post-Yi City arc Canon Divergence, 21.9k): And Xiao Xingchen is dressed in dark clothing that is not his, and his sight is all of a sudden sharp in a way that it has never been before, and Xue Yang is not here. “He wouldn’t,” he breathes. “No, he wouldn’t do that. He’s too—” “He’s too what?” Wei Wuxian steps a foot closer, face hard-set. “Too cruel? Or too kind?” Or: Xue Yang uses the Sacrifice Summon on Xiao Xingchen. Xiao Xingchen lives with the consequences.

Humor/Crack

The Hangover: A pre-wedding Dramedy series by natcat5 (M, Modern AU, 51.6k): It is not a bachelor party. That was made clear on all the invitations. It is a congratulatory get together for Jin Zixuan, attended by his family, the family of the bride, and the young masters of the other two families in their circle. The gathering is not to go later than midnight, everyone must drink in moderation, and no one is allowed to be hungover tomorrow. Wei Wuxian had promised Yanli, three fingers in the air. Jiang Cheng had rolled his eyes, but promised as well. Saturday morning, Nie Huaisang and Jiang Cheng wake up alone in a hotel room, missing shoes, phones, and almost all their memories of what in the world happened last night. Also missing: Wei Wuxian, brother of the bride, Lan Wangji, esteemed guest, Lan Xichen, esteemed guest, Jin Zixun, cousin of the groom, Jin Guangyao, brother and best-man, Jin Zixuan, THE GROOM, who is due at his bride-to-be's house in six hours. That's plenty of time to find everyone...right?

Jiang Cheng Loves Jar Jar Bombad Mui by @lady-of-the-lotus (G, Post-Canon, 1.7k) Jar Jar Binks washes up on the shores of Lotus Pier. Can he win the lonely Jiang Cheng's proud heart? Neb neb answer is yesa. Emilu's commentary: There's also a podfic by @aowyn. Yes, with a Jar Jar voice.

Other

Nie Huaisang & Wen Ning

By Name by nirejseki (G, Post-Canon, 1.3k): After the traumatic events in the now-collapsed temple, Wen Ning lingered behind and unexpectedly saw Nie Huaisang, the undisputed victor of an all-around terrible evening, sitting on the steps of the temple, looking exhausted and miserable, as if he’d won nothing at all. Wen Ning found himself drifting over to him.

Jiang Yanli & Nie Mingjue

utility by magicites (G, Arranged Marriage AU, 2.3k): Jiang Yanli and Nie Mingjue's wedding is a political one — a gesture of unity between their Sects. A way for her parents to finally get some use out of the plain-faced sham of a cultivator they call a daughter. “Jiang-guniang,” Nie Mingjue says, and the formality in such a setting as intimate as their wedding chambers startles her, “I don’t wish to bed you. Or any other woman, for that matter. It isn’t fair for you to live alone because of my own preferences.” She rests her hand on his arm, cool relief flooding her body like water on a summer afternoon. “If it helps, I don’t feel desire for men,” she whispers.

Jin Guangyao / Nie Huaisang

Pulling Strings by @eldritch-elrics (E, Post-WWX's death, 5k): Nie Huaisang, quite drunk, turns up at Jin Guangyao’s door one night with an unexpected request. Emilu's commentary: Nie Huaisang knows Jin Guangyao killed Nie Mingjue. This interaction is more symbolic than anything else...

[bevioletskies]

dream a little dream of me

summary: Ryunosuke had never been one for gloomy, rainy weather, had always preferred the comforting warmth of a clear, sunny day. When a particularly heavy rainstorm keeps him and Kazuma in bed for hours on end, he finds himself slowly starting to think otherwise.

word count: 2.4k | read on ao3

a/n: For @asoryuu-week, day four of seven (prompt: "domestic"). This fic takes place post-Resolve; mild spoiler warning for Adventures and Resolve, where events may be alluded to but not described in detail. All names and honorifics are taken from the official localization, with the exception of Sherlock and Iris.

Fic title is from the song Dream A Little Dream Of Me by The Mamas & The Papas.

“Remind me, Ryunosuke, what is it they say about a heavy head? Because yours is certainly making it harder for me to breathe.”

Ryunosuke sighed, lifting his supposedly heavy head from his partner’s chest to level him with a sleepy glare. “Good morning to you, too. Must you demean me before we’ve even gotten out of bed?”

Kazuma’s warm, slightly raspy laughter soothed Ryunosuke somewhat, though he still couldn’t help but feel slightly irritated. “Well, it’s hardly my fault you’re so fun to tease. No one else reacts quite like you do.” Then, Kazuma cupped Ryunosuke’s jaw in one hand, running his thumb across Ryunosuke’s mouth. “And I mean that in all manner of things, if you get my meaning.”

“You’re terrible,” Ryunosuke informed him, though he allowed Kazuma to kiss him anyway, grunting slightly when Kazuma rolled over to straddle him, sinking his entire body into Ryunosuke’s, fingers digging into his sides. “Mm...Kazuma, th-they’re waiting for us downstairs - ”

“Let them wait,” Kazuma murmured, playfully nibbling Ryunosuke’s bottom lip. One of his hands had now moved to Ryunosuke’s thigh, caressing him teasingly. “It’s been too long since we’ve had some time to ourselves.”

“You were only here two nights ago,” Ryunosuke said breathlessly; Kazuma’s mouth had quickly made its way from his neck to his collarbone, leaving a heated trail of kisses down the length of his throat. “Remember? That’s when I finally agreed to - ”

“Ry-u! Kazz-y! Won’t you be joining us for breakfast?”

“Damn,” Kazuma muttered, reluctantly climbing off so he could smooth out the front of his jinbei. Despite Ryunosuke’s continued annoyance at Kazuma’s insatiable nature, if he wanted to put it kindly, he also couldn’t help but admire how flushed Kazuma’s ears, neck, and chest had become in the last few minutes alone. “We’ll be right there, Iris, sorry for keeping you!”

“That’s okay!” Iris called back, her footsteps already beginning to fade away. “Just as long as you’re both properly dressed, alright?”

Ryunosuke groaned, dropping his head into his hands. “This is all your fault, you know that?” Kazuma merely scoffed, rifling through his bag so he could find the fresh set of clothes he’d packed for his overnight stay. “Though I suppose nothing will ever be as bad as the time you pulled me aside in the middle of an investigation and - ”

“I thought we both found that to be a thrilling and memorable experience, but fine,” Kazuma said with a dramatic sigh. “I’ll see to it that we won't try anything that adventurous ever again.”

“We almost got caught!” Ryunosuke exclaimed, agitatedly flapping his shirt in Kazuma’s face. “Don’t you realize how much trouble we would’ve been in?”

Kazuma stared at Ryunosuke in complete and utter disbelief. “...Ryunosuke, you’ve committed treason. You’ve implicated so many government officials, exposed so many government secrets - ”

“...all the more reason not to take a chance?” Ryunosuke offered sheepishly. “Anyway, let’s get dressed before they come looking for us again. I swear I can hear Susato-san’s footsteps coming up the stairs.”

A little over an hour later, Ryunosuke, Kazuma, and Susato returned to the attic, pleasantly sleepy from the generous meal that Iris had prepared for everyone. The rain was still thumping against the windowpane, an erratic tap-tap-tap that filled the entire room, rendering the three of them barely able to hear themselves or each other.

“I know you were planning on returning to your own flat, Kazuma-sama, but I would advise against it in a storm like this,” Susato mused, momentarily brushing the curtains aside so she could look out over the soggy, sorry state of London’s streets. “And I’m sure Naruhodo-san wouldn’t complain if you stayed.”

“I’m sure as well, though Ryunosuke is clearly in no position to answer either way,” Kazuma said dryly, gesturing in Ryunosuke’s direction, where he was currently curled up on the floor by Susato’s tea set, half-asleep and hugging his daruma to his chest. Susato watched, giggling, as Kazuma walked over to gently prod Ryunosuke in the shoulder with his foot. “Come now, Ryu, don’t make me carry you back to bed.”

“We both know you’d like that,” Ryunosuke mumbled. Susato only just managed to refrain from rolling her eyes at them - she’d been privy to far too many of their supposedly private conversations for her liking - instead electing to pat Kazuma on the arm.

“I think this is the perfect weather for a nap, personally,” she said, looking at him meaningfully. “If you plan on returning to bed as well, I can let Iris and Mr Holmes know not to disturb any of us until dinner.”

“That would be great, Susato-san, thank you,” Kazuma said sincerely, though he secretly suspected she just wanted to leave them be. Once she disappeared back down the stairs, he looked down at Ryunosuke with an irrevocably fond sigh. “Ryunosuke…”

“Yeah, yeah, ‘m getting up,” Ryunosuke yawned, reluctantly pulling himself to his feet. “Bed?” Grinning, Kazuma wordlessly took Ryunosuke by the hand and led him towards his bedroom - their bedroom, really, given how often he stayed over these days. Moments later, they clumsily tumbled back into bed, having changed into their sleepclothes once more.

“You’ve still got a bit of egg on your face,” Kazuma observed, wiping Ryunosuke’s cheek. “How does this keep happening to you?”

“Eat too fast,” Ryunosuke murmured, turning to kiss the palm of Kazuma’s hand. “Food...good.”

“Your grasp of both the Japanese and the English language is incredible,” Kazuma drawled, carding his fingers through Ryunosuke’s hair. He then pulled him closer, burying his face into Ryunosuke’s neck. “I thought you went back home to finish school, did you not? Surely you can do better than ‘food good’.”

“You’re so mean to me,” Ryunosuke said, sighing, letting out an exaggerated exhale directly in Kazuma’s face. Still, he turned over so he could wrap his arms around Kazuma’s waist, snuggling contentedly into his chest. “I really should just kick you out and make you go home.” Laughing, Kazuma kissed the top of his head.

“Not in this weather, you wouldn’t,” Kazuma replied. As if to illustrate his point, there was a loud, thunderous crack that practically shook the entire room. “If this storm keeps up, I might have to live here indefinitely.” Ryunosuke merely grunted in response. “Well, you don’t have to sound so pleased about it.”

“Oh - no, it’s not that,” Ryunosuke reassured him, sitting up somewhat so he could look Kazuma in the eye. Despite Kazuma’s typical brusque, yet affectionate nature, he could tell that Kazuma was slightly hurt. “I was just thinking about how much I dislike storms. Rain is fine on occasion, but...it seems as if London is in a permanent state of misery sometimes, you know? And it makes us miserable all the while.”

Kazuma’s clouded expression cleared up instantly. “It’s been ages since we’ve had sunshine,” he agreed, now dropping his head to rest on Ryunosuke’s shoulder. “It would’ve been nice to go for a walk together before I leave...whenever that is.”

“Like we used to do before class,” Ryunosuke said quietly, nodding. “You could never convince me to join you during your morning exercises, though.”

“Forget morning exercise, I had to literally drag you out of bed sometimes,” Kazuma snorted, tangling their fingers together. “I hear Susato-san hasn’t had any luck with getting you to exercise more, either.”

“I exercise enough,” Ryunosuke huffed, pinching Kazuma’s side; much to his dismay, Kazuma merely laughed in response. “I do plenty of pacing up and down during trials, you see.”

“I do see,” Kazuma teased. “I should look for permanent scuff marks behind the defense bench and the witness stand the next time we’re in court. You have a tendency to drag your feet, after all.”

Rolling his eyes, Ryunosuke made a show of yanking his hand out of Kazuma’s grasp and turning over with his back to him, pulling his side of the blankets over his head. “...I’m really starting to think you have nothing nice to say about me at all.”

Even when he wasn’t looking at him, he could tell Kazuma was smirking. “Oh, I think I praise you plenty. But in case you were wanting to hear it…” In one quick motion, Kazuma swept the bundled-up Ryunosuke into his arms, Ryunosuke’s back pressed against his chest, his breath ghosting the shell of Ryunosuke’s ear. “...I love you, Ryunosuke. And I’ll say it as many times as you’d like; all you need to do is ask.”

“Wonderful, now I just sound needy,” Ryunosuke said, sighing yet again, though he craned his neck to kiss Kazuma anyway, tossing the blanket around his shoulders so they were both enveloped in its warmth. Kazuma slowly lowered him onto his back, onto the mattress, knees braced on either side of Ryunosuke’s hips, fingers digging into Ryunosuke’s waist.

“You can insult me back, I don’t mind,” Kazuma murmured, sucking a bruising kiss along the crook of Ryunosuke’s jaw. Though they’d crawled back into bed for a nap, Ryunosuke was starting to feel more and more alert by the second. “Do your worst.”

Ryunosuke hummed, thinking. “...sometimes, you try too hard. You need to relax more, Kazuma. There have been some jurors and witnesses who’ve been intimidated by you, even though you aren’t trying to be malicious.”

“Fair enough.” Kazuma’s voice was low, raspy, sending shivers up Ryunosuke’s spine. “Anything else?”

“You have a bad habit of interrupting people,” Ryunosuke continued, prodding Kazuma in the chest with an accusatory finger. “Even Iris seemed annoyed with you last night, when she was asking us about our latest trial. I know you think you were helping, but I can speak for myself just fine. We’re not in school anymore.”

“...ah.” Kazuma looked humbled, almost remorseful. “I...I’m sorry, Ryu, I didn’t realize. I honestly thought we were just telling them about what happened together.”

“And you need to stop biting me like I’m a piece of meat - ”

“No one can see them!”

“Kazuma, you're doing it again - ”

“Doing wh - oh.” Kazuma burrowed his face into Ryunosuke’s chest, cheeks burning hot with shame. Ryunosuke couldn’t help but laugh; it wasn’t often that he got to embarrass Kazuma and render him speechless. “I...see that I’m not quite the partner I’d thought or, or hoped I was.”

“Last, but definitely not least - ” Ryunosuke abruptly took Kazuma’s face in one hand, squeezing his cheeks until his lips puckered “ - you don’t need to be quite so dramatic, either. I still love you all the same, Kazuma.” He smirked. “And I’ll say it as many times as you’d like; all you need to do is ask.”

Kazuma stared down at him with wide, imploring eyes. Then, he cocked his head to one side, his frown melting into a warm, radiant smile. “...again.”

“I love you.” Ryunosuke kissed Kazuma’s cheek, then the tip of his nose, then finally, his lips. Beaming, Kazuma kissed him back, a little sweeter this time, a little less sensual. “Especially because you’re a little needy, too.”

They fell silent for a few minutes, save for the steady sounds of the rain and thunder and wind whistling past their window, exchanging slow, languorous kisses and simply enjoying one other’s company. Though Kazuma spent more nights at Baker Street than not, in a way, it still felt as if they had months, even years, of lost time to make up for, even though they hadn’t been apart - or a part of each other’s lives, for that matter - for that long. It was times like these that Ryunosuke found himself reminiscing about their university days, the early days of their companionship, when they’d have spirited debates that ended in spirited laughter and meandering conversations about nothing in particular.

“I can hear you thinking, partner,” Kazuma murmured, brushing Ryunosuke’s hair out of his eyes. “Something wrong?”

“No, not at all,” Ryunosuke said, pulling away momentarily to yawn. “Only that we were supposed to be taking a nap, and instead, we spent the last ten minutes poking fun at each other. Though I suppose that’s just an extension of the way we speak to each other in court at times.”

“Susato-san has been scolding you about that as well, has she? Perhaps we do need to - I need to be more careful,” Kazuma corrected hastily when Ryunosuke leveled him with an impressively Kazuma-like glare. “Though we’d be in even more trouble if I were to, say, openly comment on how handsome you looked in court just last week, when your hair was a little bit longer in the back. I thought it suited you.”

“Why do we need to be in trouble at all?” Ryunosuke retorted, elbowing him a little harder than necessary. “I’d rather we do our jobs like the proper lawyers that we are - ”

“Well-behaved schoolboys, you mean,” Kazuma teased.

“ - and come home at the end of the day, where we can do as we please,” Ryunosuke finished.

Kazuma looked at him consideringly, his gaze impossibly soft. “Ryunosuke Naruhodo, are you implying you’d like me to move in someday?”

“What? I - ” Ryunosuke stared at him, momentarily stunned. Then, he relaxed, his head dropping back to his pillow, where Kazuma followed him down, their eyes still locked. “I, er...I thought that was a given. Though I worry that...that people might talk, as they’re wont to do.”

“Professor Mikotoba lived here with Mr Holmes for some time, did he not?” Kazuma pointed out. “Besides, even if people talk, why listen? All that matters is what we think of ourselves, as trite as that might sound.” He leaned in close, pressing a lingering kiss to Ryunosuke’s forehead. “So, just know that whenever you decide to ask, you already have my answer.”

“Then I think I’ll make you wait for just a little bit longer before I do...if only to get back at you for two nights ago,” Ryunosuke added with a smug smile, laughing when Kazuma glared daggers at him in response.

“And you think I’m the cruel one,” Kazuma muttered, pulling Ryunosuke into his arms once more so he could hold him rather possessively, their legs loosely intertwined beneath their mess of blankets. “You told me you enjoyed yourself.”

“I did, believe me,” Ryunosuke grinned, blushing faintly at the sudden vivid memory that had come to mind. “But just this once, I’d like to have the upper hand.” He then leaned in to kiss Kazuma’s exaggerated pout. “Anyway, we really should be getting to sleep now, or it’ll be time for dinner before we know it. I can barely keep my eyes open at this rate.”

“Agreed,” Kazuma said, yawning. He shuffled closer, dropping his forehead down to rest against Ruynosuke’s. “Good...morning, Ryunosuke.”

Ryunosuke shot him one last sleepy, fond smile before letting his eyes drift shut. “Good morning to you, too, Kazuma.”

_____

a/n: Welcome to my fourth entry for Asoryuu Week 2021! We've moved on from sad Kazuma hours to semi-horny Kazuma hours, I guess? Blame it on Kazuma talking about getting Ryunosuke off and holding his hand over a hot plate and finding ways to shut him up; you can't tell me he's not doing this at least a little bit on purpose. Anyway, I always love writing plotless cuddling fics where they basically talk about nothing. I could've made this way, way longer, easy, but we've still got three more days to go!

Thank you so much for reading and I hope you enjoyed! Likes and reblogs would be much appreciated, and I hope you're all safe and healthy and doing well ❤️

[spiltscribbles]

Prompt 37 (from the first list) and bodyguard au seems interesting

By the way I love your writing please never stopped just finished your recent fic and its one of my favourites.

~Notes: 😭😭😭 baby u can’t be out here recklessly making me sob!!! I am so flustered right now!! Thank you so much for being a beautiful soul 😌😌 ok NEGL the bodyguard thing is not here Becs I’m dumb and couldn’t think of one, but there’s protective sirius💜 I hope you don’t hate this!!! ILU!!!

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Smash Game  |  Send Me A Prompt💜 |  A Reblog Means SO Much!!!!

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Alphard Black was a good man,  a man of his community,   a man of the law. He taught the ins and outs of the constitution  at Columbia, never went an inch over the speed limit, hell, he even  separated his recyclables into their proper piles for the garbage collector, and  all while spending his down time volunteering at some sort of virtuous charity or impactful outreach program for inner city youths—the man basically leaped right out of the screen of some cheesy, after school special, wacky ties and rumpled hair aplenty.

Alphard Black was a virtuous, humble man who abided by the laws set out for him to a painstaking degree—So Sirius sorta thinks it’s hilarious that he’s kind of the exact antithesis of his uncle— the man who brought him up after running away from his bat shit parents and their bat shit values as the top of the one percent.  Just kind of though.

Sirius likes to think he’s still a good guy—albeit in the typical, non second coming of Christ wannabe kind of way.  He gives spare change to homeless folks at Grand Central, doesn’t sneer at raucous kids inside of restaurants or busses… for fuck’s sake  he even smiles at strangers more often than not—— just the typical, What a nice day isn’t it, smile and not, I’m actually a blood thirsty maniac ready to carve out all your organs and wrap your naked, dead body in saran wrap Dexter style, smile…Which is actually a type of smile Sirius has become intimately familiar with considering that unlike his Uncle Alphard, Sirius may have a problem with the whole “Laws are created for the good of the public,” ideology, and rather subscribes to the way of thought that thinks it’s kind of thrilling to see how much you can bend and skirt around the rules till they break, or till he gets caught. Which in turn mostly manifests into Sirius participating in a very high demand business—the sort that’ conducts it’s transactions within the metaphorical underground, and makes it so he spends his days with a group of brilliant  assholes that he considers family, and a discretely wicked boy who he thinks is most probably the love of his god forsaken life.

Mother Mary,  help them all.

~*~

“Padfoot too Moony, are you in, Moony.” 

A moment of static passes before Remus’s voice trickles through the minuscule bluetooth  snuggled in Sirius’s ear, and he can’t help but smirk. “Why are you still trying to make these codenames work—they don’t work, they’re all awful and trash,  and we should just stick with the numbers we were given when Moody first scouted us.”

“Mmm yeah, Moons, talk dirty to me.”

“You’re a fucking idiot,”

“Say trash again.”

“I hate you,” Remus intones. He  sounds all surly and bothered, and Sirius’s fingers curl together to card through the phantom strands  of his hair, knowing full and well how adorably flustered Remus gets whenever they are having one of their little sparring sessions—It’s also the same look he gets whenever he’s incredibly turned on and has no idea how to handle it. Coincidence? Sirius thinks not.

“Ah, Moony, my love, you say that as if my perfect baritone isn’t the highlight of your day. Like you don’t write sonnets and odes about it’s every cadence and lilt in your little diary you think I don’t know about. As if—“

“I’m shutting you off now,” Remus cuts in with his best, I’m trying to pretend  that I am so totally annoyed even if I’m actually really amused by you and all your antics, voice. It’s one that’s basically come second nature to him whenever he speaks to Sirius, ever since they had met three years ago and Sirius had to teach him the trick of the trade after Remus had been invited into the fold, while also trying not to completely accost him with his lips and hands and teeth until the work day was over.

“You would never.” 

“You seriously have an overinflated sense of worth if you’re starting to doubt that I very much would,” Remus goads, but he forgets that Sirius can see every nook and cranny of the swanky penthouse from his perch in the getaway van, thanks to his very beautiful laptop monitor.  And yeah, Sirius can so totally spot that little flicker of a grin tugging on the edges of his pink lips,  where Remus is trying to hide it behind the flute of wine in his grasp—his very strong and capable grasp, one that’s wrapped around the neck of that glass just so tight—Oh, erm, yeah. That’s  a thought Sirius should definitely not be having at their current predicament.

“Righto, beautiful, whatever you say.”

“Was there an actual reason for your little interference, besides you being pissy that you had to take the get away position this time around?” Remus sighs, long suffering before offering a subdued, half grin to a very haughty looking woman passing him, predatory leer on her plump lips. And jeez, Sirius bemoans her poor eardrums if they’re suppose to be carrying diamonds that thick all night long— Poor hag will probably end up needing stitches like his dear mother.

“I missed you is all, lover.”

“Goodbye, Sirius.”

“Oh fine, you total spoil sport. Just an FYI that Marlene’s gotten into the volt’s room, and she’s decoding it as we speak.”

“Oh, good. Should I-“

“Moons, it’s Marls, she’s got her shit handled. You just stand there and be a the good, pretty honeypot that we all know you can be.”

Remus growls somewhere deep in his throat, and it’s bringing a flurry of such beautiful imaginings to the forefront of Sirius’s mind— including last night, with Remus’s lovely, thin wrists tied up and Sirius’s mouth trailing up and down his every patch of skin.

God, was that a good night.

“You’re a pain in my ass.” 

“I know, it’s a point of pride for me that I get to say I tap that. But hey, always game to switch things up if you are?”

“You are the absolute worst person ever.”

“Ooo are we circling back around to speaking filthy things, because I’ve been having this fantasy including you and these lace—“

That’s when Remus actually does shut off the communication device, and starts chatting up some smarmy businessman who can’t stop staring at his protruding collarbones.

Sirius is most certainly not jealous.

Nope, not at all—Not even a little bit.

Sirius is not jealous.

Okay, fine…So he’s a bit bothered, but can anyone blame him? All of that—chorded muscles and sparkling eyes—is reserved for  Sirius, and Sirius alone. It’s taken years of volleying barbs and really intense sexual tension that was all finally resolved after a way too dramatic spat outside some sleazy BDSM club on the wrong side of town where Sirius got himself fucking shot, and Remus couldn’t stop yelling at him for being such a mother fucking, idiotic, thoughtless prick, (Remus’s words not Sirius’s,) for them to finally get to this point. For fuck’s sake, it seemed as if Remus’s anger fueled diatribe would never end, so Sirius just took the dilemma into his own hands and slanted their lips together, bloody and breathless, panting out an “I love you too,” while Remus just patted up and down Sirius’s torso, not knowing where to put his hands, dumbfounded and eager. As if he could hardly believe that it was actually happening, as if he was shocked that Sirius had finally just put them out of their mutual misery and spoke out loud what’s been lingering in their gazes, and tailing the ends of too short exchanges for years at that point—ones always composed of banter and barbs but always to fearful to take the extra step they yearned for.

Yeah, so it wasn’t exactly a cinderella story level of romance, but the point is they’ve fought tooth and nail to finally get to this point in their relationship. Nights made up of spilt hair on warm sheets, and  hungry kisses of farewell, and shirts tumbling together so many times that  they don’t even know which belongs to who anymore—All of them lingering with a sent of both of them, together. Something intimate. Something remarkable. Something far too soft when considering their line of employment—But it works for’m, and that’s all that counts.

Before Sirius could get to lost in getting all starry-eyed over the life they’ve built for themselves, Sirius moves to sweep his hands across the keyboard, A cautious eye still on Remus and his unwanted suitor while dividing the screen so that he can check back on Marlene’s progress, which is quite impressive if he does say so himself.

“And Black Widow pulls through again,” He commends with a low whistle, watching her practically stroll out of the volt, ancient artifact securely settled in the bag swinging off her shoulder, and cocky sneer proudly splayed across her pretty face.

“You know it dweeb.”

“THat’s not my code name,” Sirius points out  with a put upon exhale.

Marlene’s only response is to hike up her manicured brows in counterfeit surprise.  “you sure? I could’ve sworn…”

Sirius legitimately contemplates just driving off and leaving her stranded, signaling to Remus a separate meet up point for just the both of them. But Eventually, he reasons  that might be a bit of an over reaction. So he settles for just growling out a reminder for her  to “Respect the name,” while a glowing Marlene slinks into the passenger seat.

“Your so precious.” Sirius swats her hand away where she’s begun rubbing her knuckles into his scalp. “Call pretty boy and let’s bounce, will you?”

Reluctant, Sirius listens—only and only because he’s about ninety nine point five percent positive that she could probably beat’m to a pulp with one hand tied behind her back and both eyes glued shut.

~*~

The mission was one they’ve been calculating for months, a huge catch with a credibility brought with it that doubles its actual monetary prophet—(And wowza, that price check is all levels of ridiculous.) Moody is beyond  proud, and tells them as much with a crazy large celebration back at their little underground headquarters, (which is actually an entire floor on one of the top levels of a huge ass skyscraper in the meatpacking district that disguises itself as just a financial consultant firm in the light of day.)

It’s made even more wonderful considering how he, Remus and Marlene are basically the guests of honor for their success. So that night  they drink, and dance and just generally get absolutely slobbered…Then subsequently remember nothing the following morning, as tradition always dictates.

Though Sirius does  distinctly remember trading sloppy hand jobs in the bathroom with Remus while the latest Beyonce banger pounds in the space between them.

 It’s a good night.

~*~

Unsurprisingly, the hangover that persists even two days later really makes Sirius question the worth of all that celebrating, and he ponders on whether or not being sober would be so bad.

“Morning, Black!” 

Sirius cringes back at a crowing Dorcas—Looking as wickedly gorgeous and put together as always—Dark eyes clear and methodic, and long curls obviously freshly washed. 

“Sorcerous!” He accuses with as much vehemence as he could muster. “your evil! How are you even so perky! Stop it! Stop! You’re hurting my eyes!”

Dorcas just preens with far too much amusement than what should be warranted—it’s almost as if she’s enjoying his pitiful disposition. “Not all of us got as sloppy as you Saturday night may I remind.”

“Then you’re doing your entire life incorrectly.”

“I just have a modicum of self restraint, unlike you.”

“Lies! Lies and slander! I am so very disciplined! I didn’t even tell you guys about the time Remus gave me a blow job in the middle of a glass elevator when we were shopping for Jamsie and Lily’s engagement gift!”

Dorcas just rolls her eyes heavenwards, painstakingly exasperated. “C’mon, dumb ass, Alice needs you to use those hacking skills of yours to get the money Lestrange still owes us for collecting those tears of the ocean. And her bank account is sealed shut.”

“Ah, no Cas ’s too early! And my head hurts! I can’t.”

“Shouldn’t have been such a drunken mess during the party I reckon,” Dorcas scoffs with an imperious tilt of the head, tugging him along without even an ounce of sympathy.

“Hey! It was a celebration!” Sirius flails, and Dorcas just looks at him with a decidedly unconvinced glower. 

“It’s all in moderation Sirius.”

“Not at a party it isn’t!” He argues back, totally knowing he’s in the right.

“Yeah whatever, you’re just lucky you weren’t sent off to Shanghai with lover boy, which by the way,” Dorcas pivots on her heels  to face Sirius straight on, prodding at the juncture where his neck meets his shoulder.  “Looks like you missed a hickey sweets,” she toots loftily, poking at it again, a flush blooming across Sirius’s cheeks in response.  “Not good work decorum if you ask me.”

“You’re face ’s not good work decorum,” Sirius snarks back mulishly. Dorcas just laughs with glee.

“Do I need to talk to poor, innocent Remus about proper biting placement for you once he gets back?”

“Pff, Remus and innocent don’t belong in the same sentence.”

“Fine, then  I can just give you some tips on how to properly layer foundation? I’m sure it’s a travesty how easily shit shows up with your Wonder Bread complexion.”

“You actually are evil! Aren’t you?”

Sirius could still hear Dorcas’s cackles from down the hall where Alice has set him up for the morning, and he idly thinks to himself how exactly he’s made it so that every woman in his life could destroy him with nothing more than a look.

~*~

Considering that all of their  livelihoods are basically glorified bank robbers, Sirius knows that their jobs don’t really lend themselves to being able to check in on each other whenever they’d please—the only devices they’re allowed for communication are the bluetooth sets  for the team deployed on the task at hand, and a single burner. It can get annoying sometimes, but Sirius and Remus always make it a point to send each other a message from the router phone  whenever they arrive to the mission’s ground of operation—It’s a practice ingrained into them, one  they began long before they ever started dating, one  that they never break, not even if they’re arguing or it’s the middle of the night—It’s important. They’ve both lost to many people in their short lives, and they both know how it feels to be delegated to the worrying mess, wondering what’s happening to their loved one, being consumed by the most awful of possibilities. They do it because they respect each other far too much not to.

So Sirius finds it excruciatingly odd that he doesn’t hear from Remus in over thirty-six hours since he left to the Shanghai hit. 

“Maybe he just forgot, Pads,” James shrugs, always the level headed ringleader. “No Proclivity is absolutely bullet proof—Ah, excuse me for the unplanned pun.” He scratches the back of his head a little sheepishly— the glasses of his wireframes glinting in the light of their shared workspace.

And the thing is, point. James is totally right. Remus just could’ve forgot. It was a long plane ride, he could’ve just been jet legged and a little dazed and it could’ve just slipped his mind  to message Sirius when he landed. That’s totally a possibility. 

But see the thing is, that’s also totally not a possibility—like at all. Remus is like the most diligent person on the face of the planet, which may kind of seem out of character considering how he’s more of the type to follow his heart over protocol when it counts, and his entire livelihood is based off the evasion of the law—But even still, Remus is also the guy who likes a true and tried method. He likes having security in the aspects of his everyday  life he can control. Sirius knows how borderline neurotic Remus can get about certain things, like finishing all of his paper work the night it’s given, or having a stable workout regiment, and a bunch of other minuscule, everyday things that tethers him. But Sirius also knows that the texts Remus sends him blows all of those out of the water. They’re something crucial—something vitally important. If the roles were reversed, if it were Sirius who forgot to send the text, then yeah, Remus would have a perfect history to look back on and just shrug it off as Sirius having been thoughtless, no big deal. Remus would just make a note to give him  an ear full when he gets back. 

But the rolls aren’t reversed.

It’s Remus who didn’t send anything, and Sirius knows it in his heart of hearts that this is not normal, that Remus would never have forgotten. Remus would never have fucking been able to go to sleep without passing Sirius a message of safe arrival. It’s just not him. 

James still looks unsure even after Sirius’s way to verbose and borderline babbling explanation of why he knows something isn’t adding up, so he decides to hit him below the belt.

“If this were Lily you wouldn’t be second guessing this.” 

James jolts back as if Sirius had just smacked him, which Sirius guesses is kind of true, in the metaphoric sense at the very least. But whatever, Sirius’s right, and he knows it. 

IF this was Lily— the beautiful, kind baker that James had met coincidentally on a random Sunday afternoon, someone completely divorced from this world— well, there would  be no room for discussion.

“IF this were Lily you would trust your gut, and we’d already know what went wrong. We’d know that you were right, the she wasn’t safe.” Sirius’s face feels heated, and he knows that his throat is closing up, but he can’t help it god damn it. This is Remus—And even the thought of him being in any way hurt—No, Sirius refuses to think that way. Because he’s not, he can’t be. This is Remus god damn it. He’s brilliant and strong and he can handle himself. He’s what everyone in their group secretly strive to be—He’s not hurt, he can’t be hurt.

James just sits there, gawking at Sirius, for a moment of pure and utter silence. Sirius doesn’t even flinch, doesn’t fold back from the intensity in his best friend’s— his brother’s— gaze. 

“This is Remus god damn it, James”

Something fierce rippling over his face, James nods, finally seeming to understand.

“Let’s tell Moody,  and call a group meeting. We need to figure out what the hell’s going on.” 

Sirius sags with the little relief he’s given, pretends that it doesn’t feel like there’s not a wildfire still spreading over his chest  from the  bone deep fear.

~*~

Two hours later finds their little ragtag group huddled in the largest meeting room they have, and  Sirius hunched over a menacing letter that was hand delivered by one of Lestrange’s ghoulish little minions— Crouch if their intel is correct. 

“Any news is good news, right?” Peter— their mousey little researcher— says in some weak attempt of comfort from where he’s silently been situated in the love seat the furthest away from the lump some, and Sirius replies by snarling viciously at him;  making Peter shutter back, like the spineless weasel Sirius has always assumed him to be.

Sirius is not comforted. Sirius is furious and sick and he hates everything  in sight. And all Sirius could think of is Remus, Remus, Remus.

“What do we do,” James’s voice is strong, convicted in the painful silence of the room—But when Sirius looks up, he could still see the worry etched into his handsome features, and the fear threaded into his stance. 

James is scared, and that might worry Sirius more than anything else could. 

“This is my fault, I sanctioned just stealing the money she owed us and I was the one who thought Remus would be fine on a solo mission—I thought it’d be a simple grab. I didn’t put two and two together—I just didn’t—“ Alice breaks off, looking away from the group, and Frank slings an arm around his wife’s slender shoulders.

“Hey now, ’s not your fault, ’s not no ones,” as if to emphasize his point, Frank gives a downright menacing grimace to everyone in the room, daring them to disagree. “It’s Remus, he’s resilient. And that bitch knows if he’s actually hurt we’ll destroy everything she’s ever built for herself.” 

“Don’t be so sure,” Sirius’s surprised of the jaggedness of his own voice, leveling him with a look of utter fury. “She’s a psychotic, selfish, self indulgent bitch—There’s worse things than just beating him up or locking him in some cellar.” 

From the corner of his eye he sees Alice shutter, is briefly reminded of that stint where she was badly injured after a run in with one of the darker ringleaders in their line of work, Riddle. And then he remembers, unbidden, how that bastard has some sort of fucked up Harley Quinn, Joker esthetic going on with Bellatrix Lestrange— and a sick, twisted part of Sirius that actually does blame Alice for sanctioning those two risky missions so close together, is savagely pleased of the effect that the reminder has on her. But the rest of Sirius is just disgusted by himself and hates himself even more when remembering where Remus is at this very moment, and what he must be going through. There’s no time to be pointing fingers, and Sirius knows it.

“Whatever, no time to think of it now,” Sirius rises, and the way all of their eyes follow his every move (Even Moody who is the actual boss— doesn’t go over his head. 

“What do you think we should do from here?” Dorcas asks in a small voice, clutching onto the letter like a life line—She’s Remus’s best friend, Sirius knows that, knows that she stopped only skirting  along the edges of this unsavory line of work until Remus came along and helped her wiggle out of her shell. And the reminder makes Sirius feel such a burst of aching for Remus all at once that he nearly topples over, just barely catches himself with a hand on the tabletop.

“Peter,” Sirius barks, making the blonde finally straighten. “Check out where Bellatrix is scheduled to appear next.”

“Ah, erm on it, of course.” 

Sirius starts to feel a little better—no not better, balanced. He knows what needs to be done, what will   happen next, knows that it’ll turn out all right. 

It has to turn out all right, because he can’t fathom a world where it doesn’t— a world without Remus isn’t worth even a breath.

~*~

If there’s anything that Sirius knows about supreme bitch face herself, it’s that Bellatrix is  cavalier to a fault. So it really doesn’t surprise him when Peter finds out that she’s holding a little gala for her new play things art exhibit in her own home that night, and Sirius intends on giving his congratulations, whether or not he’s on the guest list. 

~*~

“Hey, can you hear me.” 

Sirius presses an inconspicuous finger onto his eardrum when Dorcas’s voice breaks through, speaking the affirmative. 

“All right, well Moody says that upstairs is most likely where you’ll find’m. Marlene and James will stay down at the party just incase anything goes wrong.” 

“Right,” Sirius nods to himself, trying to put together all the new information that’s swimming in his mind. “Thanks Cas.”

“Stay safe, and bring him home. Don’t fuck this up, Sirius.” Her voice is small and fragile. Sirius could picture the gleam to her big doe eyes. “We need you both safe.”

“Of course."

~*~

As expected, the upstairs is a labyrinth of doors and alcoves that Sirius could barely wrap his mind around, the only constant thought is that it makes sense that Bellatrix would want to keep the money from the job she had them perform for her. The rent for this place definitely can’t be cheap.

Sirius tries at least ten different rooms before he comes across one that’s locked from the inside as well as a deadbolt, and His heart seizes with a choked sort of hope before he starts pounding against it. 

“Remus! Remus! Are you in there!” His voice goes ragged at how loud he’s screaming, but Sirius doesn’t let up. He starts calling  for him even louder if possible. “Remus!” 

“Ah, ah, ah,” Sirius stiffens, his blood running cold before slowly turning around to a very amused looking Bellatrix Lestrange. Predatory sneer swept across her blood red lips, and weight slung to her left hip. The picture of radiance and leisure in her slinky, black dress. She’s having fun toying with Sirius, with all of them. 

“Where the fuck is he,” Sirius spits out tersely—trying to sear wholes right through her disarming face. He thinks with a start  that she’d be pretty in an almost unchanging way—a timeless elegance that kind of mirrors Remus’s. But where beneath Remus’s golden exterior is all passion and goodness and an endless capacity of love, under Bellatrix’s pale white skin and dark eyes and sheets of even darker hair is just ugliness and cruelty and Sirius has never hated anyone more, or so intensely.

“Oh sweetheart, I’m so sorry that they sent the best of their group to the den,” She swaggers up to him, each step premeditated—a lion closing in on her prey, and her leer right then— self assured and cruel all at once— is like a mirror of his mother’s so thoroughly that it’s painful. “I’d really hate to ruin those movie star good looks you’ve got going on,” she runs the back of her hand down his face slowly, tendrils of her warm breath edging his lips. “And honey, you really are so deliciously gorgeous. But Moody needs to learn that no one double plays me so flippantly. No  respect, that kind of behavior  really can’t be tolerated. You understand that, don’t you  love?”

Right then, Bellatrix moves to  gouge Sirius right in the stomach with a dagger she had hidden in the sleeve of her dress—but Sirius’s quicker. 

He sweeps Bellatrix’s feet right from under her, twisting her arm behind her back and using her own weapon to chop off the doorknob, all in one fluid movement. Though,  he only has a sparing moment to feel boastful before he steps into the room to find Remus—sickly looking with blood matted in his golden locks, before everything turns to a buzzing in  the background—Sirius runs on autopilot, with the only crucial thought being to get Remus out safely. 

“Baby, I’m here, I’ve got you.” Sirius tells him with the words catching in his throat, and feels such a drowning amount of relief when he hears a gargled retort from Remus. “I’d never let anything happen to you, love. I’m so sorry. I’ll never let something like this happen again.” Sirius tells him with all the earnestness in the world, gently collecting him into his arms. “I’ve got you now, I won’t let go.” The promise is  as sure and true as the pump of his heart—Remus, Remus, Remus.

~*~

When they all return to headquarters, everyone circles a still limp and shallowly breathing Remus, while Dorcas figures out the extent of his injuries.

It’s the worst hour of his life Sirius thinks—The not knowing, it hurts like nothing else. And he swears once more, to himself and the moonlight and the stars peeking through the skyline that he’ll never let this happen, never again., doesn’t want Remus ever out of his sight.

~*~

A week later, and everything feels as if it’s back to normal—more or less.

Their bedroom smells like sage—thanks to the candles Lily bought Remus for his last birthday—And Remus’s swaddled into the most comfortable blanket Sirius could find—his twisted ankle elevated, and a fresh bowl of soup on his night stand.

It’d be the picture of absolute bliss… Now if Remus wasn’t scowling so morosely. 

“You seem mad,” Sirius notes, standing over him with a freshly fluffed pillow. Remus looks up at him from under his spider leg lashes, so very unimpressed.

“You’ve never taken care of me  nearly so intently   a day in your life.”  Remus charges.

“Untrue!” Sirius squawks in contrary. 

“When I got food poising from that sushi place last year, you blamed me for eating it wrong.”

“Yeah, well it’s blasphemous to ever blame Kimiko! The woman is a titan!” 

Remus’s mouth quirks up, his eyes twinkling with unadulterated adoration. “You’re an idiot.”

Sirius deflates. “Okay, so I might be kind of majorly mother penning it right now,” Remus cranes a incredulous brow. “Okay, okay so a lot mother penning it. But, Remus— love— you were missing—like legitimately missing. And then i found you and you were…” He trails off, can’t even speak the horrors of that night. 

“Yeah, I was,” Remus links their fingers together, pulling Sirius closer, and opening his mouth so that when Sirius crouches to come face to face, he can kiss him properly.  “But you happen to be a pretty all right boyfriend, you found me—I’m fine. You made sure of that.”

“More than all right prick,” Sirius knocks their foreheads together and Remus feigns being in excruciating pain. “I fucking hate you,” he snorts, saddling against Remus’s side, and nuzzling into his neck, taking in the miraculous scent of him— the citrus and cinnamon and sunlight that he’s come to crave at all hours of the day. “I love you sort of a lot, and it was the worst three days of my life, all right. Can you understand that?” 

Remus only hums,  kisses the tips of Sirius’s fingers before lacing them into his own.

“I understand, love, but Sirius, I’m fine. I’m here. You’re amazing, but you don’t need to protect me. Not constantly. This is our lives, and I need you to trust me that I can handle myself for the most part. All right?” 

Sirius makes a displeased sound, lips curled distastefully, and it makes Remus actually giggle like they were school boys again. And Jesus, Remus’s smile is blinding and beautiful and fucking hell, he’s here. He’s back in there room, back in Sirius’s arms.

“God, I missed you.”

Remus crunches upwards, kissing Sirius, and it feels like a promise that he’ll never leave him again. “I love you Sirius.”

Sirius leers, isn’t ready to have the conversation about learning how to let Remus go out without him. So instead he traces his thumb over Remus’s beautifully plump bottom lip, and bends down to whisper into his ear. “So can we talk about the lace then, because I’ve made some purchases and—“

Remus pushes him off their bed, and Sirius feels his laughter punching out of him in response.

~*~

~My Wolfstar FIC Index💜

[animeyanderelover]

Hi! actually I'm kinda embrassed for requesting prompt because I already ask for hc...but can I request Black Butler number 26 with Ronald ? Thank you!!💓💓

You really don’t have to feel embarrassed about this, I don’t have a limit for sending requests though I appreciate it if a person knows when to stop. But two requests are fine with me.

Tw: Yandere themes, unhealthy mindset, unhealthy relationship, possessiveness, obsessiveness, clinginess, death, killing

Prompt 26: “...Why do you cry?! Who made you cry?! Tell me their fucking names so I can rip their heads off for making my angel cry!!!”

You hadn't quite realized how much time had already passed by, the whole day had been gone by in a blur, you not even realizing that it was already night, sun nearly having disappeared from the horizon completely. Time flew by fast, didn't it?

If you would have known that sooner, maybe this sudden news wouldn't have hit you that hard. Of course not only the old people died due to their age or a sudden disease took someone, who could have actually spend a lot more time under the living, deceased all of a sudden. Basically anything could happen to someone, no matter how old or young anywhere.

That had today sunken in in you, having attended the funeral of your closest friend. He had passed all too suddenly away, even for his parents his death had been a shock. The reasoning of death was unknown, the only obvious fact was that he had been murdered by someone, all alone and most likely petrified before his life had been taken from you.

His parents had told you that he had wanted to tell you something on that night, what exactly they didn't know. He hadn't even told them, saying that for now it was only for your ears to hear. It stung incredibly that he would never get the chance now to tell you and you couldn't hep, but wonder what exactly he had wanted to say to you. Now it didn't matter anymore anyways, he was dead.

And you, you were deeply caught in your palace of thoughts, going through anything you could have and should have done whilst you still had the time with him. It was funny, people never seemed to think about everything they could have done better whilst they had a certain someone in thei life until this person was gone. Why was that? Why didn't you do more for him? With him? The only thing you had left now were your memories with him and a bleeding wound his sudden death had left in your heart.

So you didn't even realize the soft knocks on your door at first, nor even when they seemed to get louder and more harsher. You were too deep in your own land, memories flashing nonstopping in front of your eyes. Memories which had once been sweet and warm, but now were bitter and painful. Why had he leave this early? He hadn't even lived his life yet. He hadn't met a nice person yet, hadn't even experienced true love yet. And now he would never.

"(y/n)! Hey! I know you're in there! What's wrong did something happen?" A sudden voice finally made you very slowly turn your attention somewhat back to the real world, realizing who's voice it was. Was it already that late since Ronald had appeared in front of your house? He usually was busy during the day, working didligently before coming later always over to you and spend the time he had with you. He was your boyfriend after all. A clingy and very smothering boyfriend, but you still loved him a lot.

At first you didn't feel the real motivation to move. You had hit the bottom of your current misery, mourning over your best friend, the most idiotic, but lovable person you had ever met. Next to that you really didn't want Ronald to see you in your current state. Cheeks and part of your clothes, especially your sleeves, being stained with your own tears, hair disheveled due to having tossed around in bed the last few hours, meaning that your pillow had already fallen victim to your sorrow and crying. You didn't only feel shitty, you were convinced you looked that way as wel.

"(y/n)! Something is wrong, isn't it? What happened babe? You know you can talk to me about anything!" His voice was weakened due to the wooden door and the distance between it and your bedroom, being seperated by exactly one floor. But you still sensed it in his voice, the steadily raising worry and panic. Your eyes wandered to the door of your bedroom, thinking whether you should ignore him and spend this night alone or let him in and searching for comfort in him.

"If you don't open this door in the next minute, I'll break it! Come on, sweetie! Please let me in and help you!" You might as well have taken it as a joke at first, not believing that he would seriously break your door if it wouldn't have been for the following sentences. "(y/n). Open the door. Now."

There was this sudden switch in his voice, going from the typically 'overworried boyfriend' tone to something else. Just know he had sounded somewhat deeper and much more calmer than before, his voice somehow giving you the feeling that he wasn't kidding. You were talking about Ronald, he wouldn't do something like this...right?

Deciding that you didn't want to find out, you slowly started sitting up, blinking the exhaustion out of your eyes and wiping the wetness decorating your face as good as possibly away, hoping it wouldn't be too obvious what you had done the last few hours. But whom were you even trying to fool? Even the most oblivious person would have noticed that you had been crying.

"Don't break the door! I'm coming already." You had barely the strength to scream loud enough so that he would hear you, voice scratching uncomfortably against your throat, needing some rest after all the previous whimpers and small cries of yours. You actually contorted your face a bit when hearing yourself yelling those words, voice breaking at the end of the last sentence and the unpleasant hoarse sound your voice made. There was no way Ronald wouldn't have heard this.

He didn't. "Are you feeling well? You sound terrible! Please let me in!" The knocking sounds intensified together with his growing panic, making you hurry up, despite feeling like your body wasn't able to handle anything above just laying in bed. When hearing your steps approaching, you heard something akin to scratching sounds on the door, imagining that Ronald was getting a bit desperate.

Without any words you opened the door, instantly stepping behind it whilst holding it wide open for him to enter, hiding behind it since you didn't want him to witness how terrible you currently looked with your red and puffy eyes.

You heard him quickly stumbling in, almost falling due to having leaned his body against the door. But he managed to not be greeted with the floor, catching his balance and instantly turning his head around, searching for you. It took him less than two seconds before he had discovered your form, still hiding behind the wood.

One step was all it took for him to be by your side, grabbing the door and closing it quickly, shielding you and him from anyone outside witnessing what was going on in this house.

You had lowered your head to the ground, gaze focusing instead on his shoes which you could clearly see. They didn't really interest you, but you didn't want to look up in his face. A stupid thing to do, you knew he would make you anyways. But it was just how you acted right now.

"Babe..." His voice had gone soft, hands gently holding yours and squeezing them in a comforting manner. "What's wrong? What makes you currently feel down? Tell me how can I help."

You let out a bitter and pained chuckle, starting to grip his hands in a firmer hold as well, feeling the rising need to throw yourself in his arms and hopefully get rid of some of the currently heavy rain clouds of grief and aching surrounding your heart. "I don't think you can help me as much as you would like. Not in a wa you want to right now."

Bitterness was dripping out of every word you spoke and you found yourself quickly burrying your head in his chest and letting go of his hands, instead grabbing his arms and tightening your grip on them as you felt once again the burning and hot sensation of tears gathering in your eyes and tracing your cheeks once again. You were emotional and knew it, but who wouldn't be after such a shocking and heartbreaking loss.

Ronald himself felt his heart breaking a bit as well when suddenly feeling you clinging onto him so tightly, your tight grip on him being a silent and wailing plead for any sort of affection and comfort he could possibly give you. It hurt him seeing you like this, normally you weren't like this. The tears wetting his clothes in that moment were just adding up to this dolorous pulling on his heart strings and he felt himself embrace you rather quickly in a warm and slightly possessive hug, feeling himself growing slowly slightly angry at whatever or whoever had put you in your current condition.

"What's wrong?" Everything was wrong. You had just lost an important person and were crying rivers over him. "I...I...T-today..." You had barely time to hiccup anything, especially a full sentence out during your increasing sobs. You had thought that you had cried the worst part out earlier, but now that you had Ronald with you, the string that had seemed to hold your emotions in check seemed to be cut off, making everything inside of you turning up and down again. It was not a completely bad thing. it just meant that in presence of Ronald you felt like you didn't have to hide anything. Nevertheless, it only added even more layers of pain and heartbreak over your currently fragile heart.

You felt him tensing up the more your breath became erratic and the more you sounded like you would choke any minute on your own sobs, the more his grip tightened around you and his attempts to hush you and try to calm you down sounded more and more panicked. You hadn't even time to answer his questions, being too busily drowning in your own tears.

"...Why do you cry?! Who made you cry?! Tell me their fucking names so I can rip their heads off for making my angel cry!!!"

You stiffened up, slightly startled by the sudden loud noise which Ronald quickly noticed. "I'm sorry for scaring you just now! I'm...just panicking right now a bit because I don't even know why you're so upset. I want to help you and feel currently a bit useless because I can't do anything to make you feel better."

He had quickly lowered his voice, using a more gentle and comforting tone to not scare you again. You slowly managed to relax again in his hold, acknowledging the fact that he was right now just worried over you. "It's-it's fine. I'm just...my-my best friend (f/n) died today. Earlier his fu-funeral was held."

You felt slight confusion stirring up inside of you when you felt him shortly stopping in his movements, feeling his muscles cramping a bit under his skin. You lifted slowly your head, blinking up at him.

Maybe for the shortest of seconds you thought he had a weirdly guilty expression on his face, but maybe your vision had just been a bit blurred due to the still present tears in your eyes.

"I'm sorry to hear that. I remember that I've read something about this in the newspaper this morning. He was yesterday evening killed, right?" You just nodded, pushing the look on his face quickly away, deciding it had just been an imagination due to your tears. "Don't worry, it'll get better over time. I'll be here for you whenever you need me." You dearly hoped that you could believe in those words.

Maybe he should have thought about it more before doing it, he hadn't expected you to be in so much sorrow. Sure, he had definitely knew that you would go through a phase of sadness and pain, but he hadn't expected such an extreme reaction. He had needed about three hours to manage to calm you just enough down so you could finally give your mind a rest and go to sleep because he had realized just how exhausted you had looked, all the stress and crying tiring you out. His whole shirt had been soaked by tears and snot, but it wasn't like he cared. His focus had only been on helping you finally getting some sleep.

Maybe...just maybe Ronald could have done it a different way. But now it was too late to regret such things and thinking back, he had given the guy many chances to back off. He knew how close both of you had been to each other and the last thing he had needed would have been competing with your childhood friend. He had been unsure, feeling threatened. What if you would have chosen your friend over him?

But now that man was gone forever and whilst Ronald felt definitely terrible for having inflicted so much suffering onto you, he also couldn't help, but feel the tiniest bit glad that he would continue holding you whilst you were sleeping safe and soundly. You most likely wouldn't be that way if you would know that he was the one who had killed your friend.

But only him and your friend knew this. And that guy would never get a chance to tell you, he had taken that secret with him in the afterworld. Just like his love confession...

[runningtwiceasfast]

I wrote a thing for the Harry and Ginny discord Incognito elf story exchange. I haven’t decided if I am going to publish it anywhere but thought I would post it here in the meantime. Thank you so much to @thedistantdusk for organizing. Hopefully someone enjoys! 

All the Difference

“If you are going to lay around here all day then you can at least make yourself useful.”

Harry looked up sharply, having been jarred rather unceremoniously from where he had been staring at the door to the shop, as if he could will his girlfriend into existence.

He gave a scowl at George, tapping his fingers idly on the counter. “Why did she have to call an emergency quidditch practice anyway right during the first Hogsmeade visit of the term?” He mumbled mostly to himself. He hadn’t seen his girlfriend in months and the one time they finally were both free something inevitably had come up.

Ginny was a prolific and entertaining correspondent and she had been able to sneak into various fires for rendezvous with her boyfriend but he longed to see her in the flesh. Some alone time wouldn’t hurt either.

Harry stared moodily once again at the door.

George came to stand by him and they both stared silently in their vigil. Eventually George grew tired of Harry’s nonsense and gave him a hearty whack on the shoulder.

“Alright no more of this sad mooning. You are the boy who lived! The man who defeated Voldemort! Witch Weekly’s most charming smile or whatever,” George gave him a sidelong glance. “Although how they even managed to catch you smiling is beyond me. Tell me, do you think those smiles will run out and you’ve been saving them all for darling Gin-gin?”

Harry gave George what he hoped was a menacing look. “Fine, if you don’t want me mooning about your store then I will just leave. I’m sure Ron and Hermione won’t mind me showing up to their date,” Harry said sarcastically remembering Ron’s warning to stay far away from him and Hermione for the next hour. While he was happy for his mates it was slightly annoying to be third wheel to their fights and subsequent makeups which now included way more tongue than they used to.

“I thought having you around might draw in more customers. You know like…’come shop where the boy who lived shops, come buy puking pastilles where Harry Potter does’ but honestly mate, you are now scaring off the customers.”

Glancing around, Harry did notice that the shop was rather empty for a Hogsmeade weekend. Feeling even worse than before, Harry hopped off the stool and shrugged on his robes. “I’ll get out of your way,” he mumbled, resigning himself to heading back to his flat alone and maybe doing some paperwork.

“Not so fast Chosen One!” George called and Harry looked back around to where George was waving a finger at him. “Come back here.”

Not having anything else to do, Harry approached George cautiously, having seen too many first years turn into canaries to feel altogether secure in whatever shenanigans George had planned.

George produced a small vial from his pocket. The contents were a glittery pink and Harry frowned. “What is that? Something that will turn me into a turkey?”

Barking out a laugh George shook his head before turning thoughtful. “No, but now that you mention it that might be a good idea. We can call it, “Turkey Tonic.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “What do you want? Have you found something that will summon Ginny here from quidditch practice?” Harry whined.

“No loverboy but I do have the next best thing. It is a new thing I invented based on the Patented Daydream Charm.” George shook the vial and then produced it again with a flourish. “Harry Potter, meet the Patented ‘What If’ Charm.”

Harry took the small capsule and looked at it critically, eyebrows furrowed. “What if charm?”

“It lets you go back to a time in your life where you made a different decision, took a different path. It lets you see what life would be like if one thing was different.” George made a motion like a butterfly flapping its wings. “You know, like the butterfly effect or whatever.”

“So like, what if my parents didn’t die? What if Voldemort picked Neville as the chosen one?” Harry asked wryly. George scoffed.

“As if Neville would have been the chosen one. No nothing that big. But…what if Fred and I hadn’t left school the way we did? What if I wore a red shirt today instead of this spiffing purple one.”

Harry looked again at the small vial in his hand. “Ok what do you want me to do with this?”

“Don’t be daft. I want you to take it and tell me what you think.”

“But what would I even say?” He felt rather flummoxed. So much of his life had been dictated by other people, set on a certain path. Was there a mundane thing that had happened in his life that could have made a difference?

“Ok, well, what is one thing that you wish had been different other than you know…that whole Voldemort business.”

Harry thought back. What was one thing he wished had been different? Then it hit him. “I wish I had gotten close to Ginny earlier.” He said, remembering back to their conversation at Dumbledore’s funeral. How they could have had so much more time if he hadn’t been such a plonker.

George made a slight gagging noise. “Alright, well that is incredibly gross and all but I appreciate the sentiment. What about… if you had gotten your head out of your arse and taken Ginny to the Yule Ball?”

Harry scowled at the memory, of asking Cho, of taking Parvati. Of the disaster of a Yule Ball. “Alright fine, I would have had a better time at least.”

George clapped his hands together. “There you go! Now hurry up and take the charm and I’ll see you on the other side.”

Harry uncorked the vial, but before he raised it to his lips he sent George another look. “Wait a minute, who else has tested this? Should I be worried?”

“Young Harry I am offended. How could you think so little of me?” George placed a hand over his heart and gave him a wounded look that did nothing to make Harry feel assured.

“Alright well if anything happens to me I’m sending Ginny to beat you up,” he said before raising the vial at George. “Cheers.”

The liquid burned slightly going down Harry’s throat but the taste was pleasing. A hint of cherry. And then as sudden as he was in George’s shop he was in Hogwarts. He was much shorter, much skinner and he was feeling sad for some reason.

Oh yeah…Cho…Yule ball…tournament…

Completely forgetting about dinner, he walked slowly back up to Gryffindor Tower. Cho’s voice echoing in his ears with every step he took. “Cedric — Cedric Diggory.”

So consumed in his misery, he almost tripped over a windswept looking Ginny Weasley.

“Watch where you’re going Potter,” she laughed until she got a good look at him, the smile dying on her face. She gave him a frown, head cocked to the side. “Did something happen?”

Harry shook his head, knowing she was assuming it was something Voldemort related and not some typical teenage boy angst. “Nothing like that. I just asked Cho to the ball but she’s going with someone else.” He gave an awkward shrug, unsure of why he was even telling her this. Perhaps it was too raw and he needed to share it with a friendly face.

Ginny’s frown deepened. “I’m sorry Harry. I’m sure any other girl would be happy to go with you,” she said, blushing red and they both got quiet.

“Where are you coming from?” He asked her, taking in her appearance for the first time and noticing that she wasn’t in robes but instead in some sort of athletic wear.

She blushed again, placing a strand of hair behind her ear self-consciously. “I just went for a quick fly. Trying to sneak back into the common room now.”

Harry momentarily forgot his ball induced depression. “You fly?” He asked her incredulously. She had never participated in the Weasley family quidditch over the summer. Harry tried to think if he had ever seen her in the air.

She only smiled in response, something mischievous and proud in her eyes. “I’ve been stealing the twins’ brooms at night and teaching myself to fly for years.” Harry looked at her again as if for the first time. It shouldn’t be such a shock to him that she had grown. They all were older and changing and Ginny Weasley wasn’t an exception. She was still short, barely coming up to his shoulders. Her red hair came all the way down her back in waves and she was beginning to fill out and look more like…well, more like a girl.

“Are you going to the ball with anyone?” He blurted out. Her eyes widened in response and she was silent for awhile.

“I-I…no I’m not. I’m a third year so I can’t go unless someone older invites me,” she explained, her face now so red he could barely make out her freckles.

Harry let out a breath, well aware that if she turned him down he would have likely broken some world record of rejections in the shortest amount of time.

“Would you go with me? To the ball?” He cringed at the clarification. Ginny was speechless for a moment before opening and closing her mouth a couple times. Eventually she nodded.

“Yes Harry, that sounds nice,” she said hoarsely. Harry gave her a small smile before both their attentions were drawn to a loud commotion down the hall. Ginny seemed to notice the source of it immediately.

“Ron? Ron!” Ginny called out jarring Harry into action as well as they caught up with a dazed looking Ron.

Ron was pale, his freckles standing out like pocks on his blood drained skin. Harry was instantly alarmed. “What happened?” He asked, immediately thinking the worst. Ron just groaned in response and Ginny sent Harry a frantic look. The two of them shrugged off all the snickering onlookers and dragged him to the common room where they plopped him unceremoniously on a couch in a distant corner.

Ron kept shaking his head and moaning and it was a full three minutes before they were able to understand what happened.

“Oh Ron,” Ginny was clearly struggling to keep the smile off her face. “You didn’t.”

Ron had his face in his hands and continued to mutter “Why did I do it,” over and over again, the words muffled through his hands.

As Harry comforted his best mate he exchanged looks with Ginny and gave a sigh in relief. At least he had gotten a date to the ball. He watched as Ginny pushed an errant strand of hair away from her face as she patted her brother’s arm sympathetically. Perhaps he might even have a good time.

_____________________

Harry saw Ginny very little in the days leading up to the ball. The professors piled on the homework for the fourth years and Harry was determined to take advantage of the excitement leading up to Christmas. In between impromptu snowball fights and letters from Sirius he had almost forgotten about the egg and the fact that he would be dancing in front of not only the entire school but two other schools as well.

Professor McGonagall gave him this unhappy reminder at the end of the last transfiguration class of the year where she insisted on corralling the Gryffindor students that would be attending the ball into an empty classroom.

“You will be representing the great house of Godric Gryffindor as well as your school and I feel I must do my duty to make sure none of you embarrass me,” she sniffed, her eyes glancing over to the Weasley twins before landing on Harry. He swallowed roughly, the image of him falling rather spectacularly on his bum in front of everyone while in his dress robes flashing across his eyes.

McGonagall began to play some music, grabbing Ron in the process and forcing him to lead her about the room. Harry was thankful he wasn’t so caught up in his misery that he was unable to enjoy the spectacle.

“They make a rather fine couple don’t they?” A cheerful voice said behind him and he couldn’t resist smiling back at Ginny as her beaming face came into view.

“He isn’t completely embarrassing himself is he?” Harry mused, looking back to the makeshift dance floor where Ron and the professor were now moving in time with the music, Fred and George looking on and throwing conjured rose petals on them and clapping loudly.

“No more than he did when mum tried to teach him to dance,” Ginny said under her breath and Harry snorted, picturing young Ron waltzing with his mother in the Burrow. The laughter died in his throat as the scene in his mind turned quickly from Ron and his mum to Harry and his own mother, his father laughing as they spun each other in circles.

Perhaps sensing his change of mood, Ginny stayed close but said no more as they watched Ron take a turn about the room with their professor.

Christmas arrived rather suddenly and Harry, despite consistently receiving Christmas gifts since he had come to Hogwarts, was still rather surprised to find gifts at the foot of his bed. After dealing with Dobby and finishing opening up the rest of his gifts, it was suddenly time to get ready for the dance.

Ron, who was still trying in vain to find out who Hermione was going with, had tried to enlist Ginny who had vehemently refused.

“Ron if you ask me one more time who Hermione is going with I am going to hex you so bad you can’t use the toilet for a month,” Ginny had finally threatened and Ron had mostly ceased his fruitless task. Still, though, he grumbled when Hermione had left them three hours before the dance to get ready. Harry saw Ginny follow shortly and figured it was time for him to start getting ready as well.

Harry and Ron, who was taking Parvati, had agreed to meet their dates in the common room and eventually Harry was able to drag a very reluctant Ron to leave the dormitory. Harry had reassured him multiple times that his robes were fine and definitely did not look like a dress but he feared he hadn’t been very convincing.

Harry saw Parvati first in her robes of shocking pink. He watched her glance over at Ron, her eyes running over the frayed edges of his robes before taking the arm offered. It was then that Harry noticed Ginny.

She was standing a little behind them, staring at him a little shyly. Her robes were white and floated prettily around her and Harry thought rather irrationally of an angel. Her red hair was down, having been pinned half up with a golden barrette that Harry realized upon further notice was a little snitch. She had done something with her eyes to make them slightly bigger and Harry took a dry swallow.

He had thought by going with Ginny he wouldn’t have to have been nervous. They would have had a good time and enjoyed a laugh. But it must not have registered to him that Ginny was a girl and a pretty one at that.

Offering up his arm like he was supposed to, he felt her grip him lightly. Again he looked over at her as they followed Ron and Parvati out of the common room. It was then that he realized that he had yet to actually say anything to her. Cursing his stupidity he cleared his throat rather unsuccessfully.

“You—er—look nice,” he said awkwardly.

Ginny blushed. “Thank you Harry. You clean up rather nice as well.” She smiled at him and he felt himself inexplicably relax.

“Wait until you see Hermione,” Ginny whispered in his ear and Harry caught a whiff of something lovely and flowery and he wondered if it was possible a smell could make you drunk.

Shaking the thought out of his head he looked over at her curiously but she mimed zipping her lips with her free hand, her eyes sparkling mischievously.

The entrance hall was packed and they mindlessly followed Ron who was being led by Parvati to where her sister was standing with another Ravenclaw boy Harry didn’t know.

“Where is Hermione?” Ron asked, eyes darting over to Ginny as if she was going to attack him.

Ginny smoothed her dress and smiled. “Really Ron why are you so concerned?” Harry stifled a laugh in his own shoulder. They watched their fellow students milling around with some interest before Professor McGonagall called the Champions over. Harry sighed and reached again for Ginny.

“Good luck, mate,” he said before taking Ginny forward, letting the crowd part for them. They joined Fleur in her pretty silver robes and Roger Davies who Harry thought was perhaps looking a little dazed. Harry avoided looking at Cho and Cedric a little too well that he missed Ginny jabbing him in the ribs as he looked up at the girl who was with Krum. His jaw dropped.

It was Hermione.

Once Harry was over the shock of a Hermione who didn’t look like Hermione at all he felt tugged along by Ginny as she pulled him over to Hermione, chattering to her in fast paced squeals.

“Hi Harry!” Hermione finally greeted him and Professor McGonagall came over and told them all to get in line in pairs and to follow her. They then walked into the Great Hall to applause. Harry felt his face burn at the attention. A small squeeze on his arm centered him and he looked gratefully at Ginny who was gliding confidently next to him. She gave him a wink and he relaxed, able to make it to the head table without tripping over his feet.

“Ron looks like someone took his prize niffler,” Ginny whispered to Harry, drawing his attention more fully to her and not the gaping occupants of the Great Hall. Harry looked over to where his friend was staring at Hermione with narrowed eyes.

As they approached the table Harry felt Ginny tense and he realized that she wouldn’t be the only Weasley at the table. Instead of Mr. Crouch the fifth seat at the table was occupied by Percy who made it very clear to Harry that he had to sit next to him.

Percy’s smug face was replaced by a look of astonishment as he noticed who Harry’s date was.

“Ginny, what are you doing here?” He asked as they all sat down. Ginny frowned and Harry had to bite his tongue in order to not answer for her. She could handle her own brother. Still, Harry didn’t like the look Percy had on his face.

“Harry asked me,” she said simply. “What are you doing here?” She asked and Harry nodded, aware that this was the much better question.

The two of them endured Percy’s sycophantic monologue about Mr. Crouch and how he had been promoted. Harry barely resisted snorting into his water goblet when Ginny asked with a straight face whether Crouch had stopped calling him “Weatherby” yet.

They both tucked into their dinner eagerly, eavesdropping on the conversations of the other occupants of the table. Harry found that his sides were hurting from laughter mostly from Ginny’s impersonations of Roger Davies dazed look on his face as he listened to Fleur complain about the decorations.

“At ze Palace of Beauxbatons, we would never sit in chairs! We would be carried to eat on clouds made of silk and serenaded as we ate,” Ginny whispered in Harry’s ear, effecting Fleur’s accent in an exaggerated way that had him pushing away his plate of goulash.

Eventually they finished dinner and the Weird Sisters began playing. Ginny nudged Harry. “I think we are supposed to dance now,” she said somewhat shyly. Ginny stood up gracefully, holding out her hand for him. He managed to stand up without completely tripping over his robes, taking her smaller hand within his.

He followed her to the dance floor, eyes locked on her form, shutting out everything else. All of his senses felt dulled, the music a faint hum in the background, the spotlighting centering him blocking out everything else except Ginny. Seamlessly Ginny placed one of his hands on her waist, holding out his other hand in an approximation of what the other couple’s were doing.

Her hand was light in his but also strong. He worried for a second that his hand would be sweaty but Ginny didn’t seem to indicate there was anything particularly off with his hands. Instead, she gave him a reassuring smile as she steered him in a circle on the dance floor.

As they turned to the music Harry avoided catching anyone’s smirking eyes by staring at Ginny. He wasn’t sure he had ever really looked at her. She had a faint dusting of freckles on her face and full red lips that shimmered slightly. Her robes felt slippery in the hand on her waist and he gripped more thoroughly causing her to squeak slightly.

“You are a good dancer,” he told her, and even though they were in the middle of a giant crowd he had the fanciful thought that it was just them alone. She blushed.

“Thank you. Mum taught us at an early age.”

They were quiet the rest of the dance, Harry noticing that they were thankfully no longer the center of attention, the rest of the couples having joined them on the dance floor.

The song ended and they both let go of each other, standing in the dance floor staring at each other as another, faster song was struck up.

“Come on,” Ginny pulled at his arm to where Ron and Parvati were sitting, Ron shooting daggers at Krum with his eyes. Ginny took one look at her brother and grabbed his arms, pulling him up.

“Oy! Ginny what are you doing?” Ron asked, shoving off Ginny’s hands.

“You are looking entirely too much like a prat Ron! You have a lovely date, you’ve eaten a good meal. Let’s go out there and have fun! Look at Harry’s socks Ron. Those are socks that are meant for dancing.”

Harry laughed and watched as Ron reluctantly followed his younger sister to the dance floor. Harry offered his arm to Parvati and the four of them made their way over to where Fred and Angelina were dancing exuberantly in the center of the dance floor.

A few moments later Hermione and Viktor joined them, Ron avoiding Hermione but reluctantly letting Ginny pull hm along.

Eventually they stopped to get butterbeers. Parvati had been asked to dance by one of the boys from Beauxbatons and Hermione was still dancing with Viktor so it was just Ginny, Ron and Harry. They grabbed drinks, escaping outside to the warming charmed air. Ron was still put out and kept grumbling under his breath, the words “Hermione” and “Vicky” alternating coherency. The three of them sidestepped an angry looking Snape who seemed to be discussing something rather nasty with Karkaroff who looked anxious.

They reached a fountain, Harry now greatly entertained by the story Ginny was recounting that seemed to center on the twins having turned all of Ron’s Martin Miggs comics into more suggestive materials. Ron seemed more like himself at that point and they were all surprised to encounter Hagrid and Madame Maxime having a quiet conversation.

“It was my mother,” said Hagrid quietly. “She was one o’ the las’ ones in Britain….” Hagrid’s voice trailed off as Harry’s attention was drawn to Ginny who was swatting at a rather large beetle that had fallen on her arm.

“Yuck!” She hissed, swatting at it and giving it a little kick. “Creepy bugger.” She shuddered slightly and Harry had an irrational thought that he should offer her his cloak before realizing that he wasn’t wearing one.

They returned to the dance floor just as the Weird Sister’s began playing one of their more popular dancing songs. Ginny’s face lit up and Harry followed her to the center of the room, shrugging apologetically at Ron who had resumed his grouchy mumblings.

“I love this song!” Ginny called to him and he watched as she closed her eyes, moving her body to the beat, long since having abandoned her shoes. Her enthusiasm was contagious and he did his best to approximate her movements finding himself smiling widely wondering if this was fun, if this was what having fun felt like.

The song ended, a slower tempo one taking its place. Ginny made a motion to leave the dance floor but Harry pulled her to him.

“This was fun. Thank you for coming with me Ginny,” he told her sincerely. She gave him a wide smile.

“It was fun! Thank you for inviting me. It isn’t every day a girl gets invited to the biggest event of the season and with a champion no less,” she teased him.

The last song ended to a loud round of applause and everyone began heading back to the entrance hall. Ginny let out a sigh. “I’m not sure I’m ready for this night to end but I’m also exhausted. I’m hoping Colin was able to get some ice cream from the kitchens. He told me the first through third years were allowed to have some late snacks to make up for not being invited to the ball,” Ginny explained as they made their way out.

“What’s your favorite ice cream?” Harry asked, suddenly realizing that he didn’t know that much about the youngest Weasley. She gave him another one of her wide smiles, eyes flashing conspiratorially.

“Mint chip!” She told him happily. A part of his brain registered that for later. As if he knew there would be a moment when he would need to know what kind of ice cream Ginny liked. What her favorite color was, what she liked to do when she was bored and whether she preferred that first rain of spring or the first snow of winter.

Harry felt himself getting dizzy, a tug behind his navel making him slightly nauseous. The edges of his vision grew hazy and Ginny flashed in and out of view.

“Harry?” Ginny was asking….”Harry?”

“Harry!”

Harry jerked awake, the splash of cold water in his face an unwelcome jolt of icy reality. It took him a moment to realize he was not in the entrance hall of Hogwarts. Instead he was in George’s shop. He was no longer fourteen, no longer stumbling awkwardly behind his date, ready for Cedric to tell him about the egg…Ron’s fight with Hermione.

He shook his head, running a hand through his hair, reality seeping in.

“Sorry mate, you only get half an hour no matter how good the fake memory,” George gave him a hearty thump on the back and the visions of Ginny looking lovely on his arm, of laughing with her, taking the mickey on Ron were gradually replaced by those of Parvati sitting miserably next to him, Ron not talking to anyone…reality settling in.

“That’s some powerful magic, George,” Harry said finally. The ‘what if’ charm had indeed let him experience what life had been like when he was shy, awkward, Cho obsessed and completely unworthy of what life with Ginny would be. It had been nice to experience a Hogwarts with her but he smiled realizing that, while he may have messed it up before, he had gotten a second…well third really, chance.

Both George and Harry looked up as the bell to the store jingled and a windswept Ginny entered the store. For a moment Harry thought he was still under the influence of the charm and hallucinating.

“You shouldn’t be here…you told me you wouldn’t be here,” he said finally, stumbling over the words. Ginny gave a laugh, reaching out to give him a hug.

“I snuck away. Don’t tell the Head Girl,” she whispered into his ear and Harry was overwhelmed by the comforting smell of flowers.

“Seeing as she likely has her tongue down Ron’s throat I doubt she will care,” Harry said, pulling back so he could look at her fully.

The Ginny before him was no blushing third year. Still in Hogwarts robes but much more filled out and beautiful, looking at him with love and trust in his eyes. He felt that familiar warmth collect inside him as he gazed at her.

“Come on, let’s go get some ice cream,” he told her, waving goodbye to George and pulling her into his side.

“Ohhh you know I love ice cream,” she said brightly, snuggling into him.

“Mint chip?” He asked.

“Mint chip.”

[merryfortune]

Salvia

Written for 100ships on Dreamwidth Challenge

Prompt - #74 Sage

Title: Salvia

Ship: Eirika/Saleh

Fandom: Fire Emblem Sacred Stones

Word Count: 5,462

Rating: M

Warnings: No Warnings Apply

Tags: Post Canon, Period Typical Sexism, Pregnancy, Tokophobia, Menstruation, Period Sex, Cunnilingus, Wedding Night Sex, Pregnancy Sex, Motherhood, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canonical Character Death, Some Gender Essentialism, Minor or Implied Ephraim/L’Arachel

   Eirika was not afraid of dying on the battlefield.

   In the culture of nobility and bloodshed, there was honour in falling by the blade of a sword. No one pitied the dead who had died so righteously for a grand cause such as war.

   However, she was afraid of dying in her marital bed.

   Like her mother.

   Her mother’s spirit was always talked about so pitifully and it distressed Eirika. She had fought to give birth to twins and the exhaustion had been too much for her yet no one recognised or acknowledged her valiance in wanting her children to be born safely. Her struggles and how the nurses tried to help but ultimately, it had been up to her and her strength. And so, the natural cause that claimed her from life’s toil had been her own children rather than old age like her and her husband’s vows had hoped. The story of her mother’s passing was told every year, before Eirika and Ephraim would celebrate their birthday, reminding them of mortality and gratitude. 

   Instilling a fear in Eirika that Ephraim would not understand his loins were not those of a woman’s - or woman to be. She grew afraid of her own body and the possibilities of it.

   When Eirika had her first bleed as a pubescent child, she was terrified. Distraught. Utterly inconsolable. For hours, Eirika could not be pried away from her bed as she sobbed. Not even Ephraim could get through to her and comfort her. She just wanted to be alone with her misery of mind and body. Her periods thereafter would be of similar outbursts, at least until Eirika learned her own pattern, tracking it meticulously as it solidified and she grew better at managing her symptoms. 

   With more years under her belt and with certain medicines never too far from her, the worst that Eirika felt upon her menstruation was behind her. Nothing more than the silly dramas of a teenage girl. No one, not even Ephraim, likely could have guessed that she still carried such strenuous pains as a young woman. That the blood she shed in private would terrify her more than what she would shed during the war. 

   Yet there was an agony that she hadn’t known in years that was uncorked following the peace. Eirika was wrecked by this condition that she had been handling so well for so long so, she retreated into her room, banishing all from seeing her until she felt better. She felt like a tumultuous child again but there was little she could do against the anxiety and how the cramps riddled her.

   She recalled how she was scolded as a child for being so selfish about her bleeds. She was a child but she was about to become a woman because of it. Many of those who had a monthly bleed were able to retain some capacity of usefulness and strength, expected to go on with their days and weeks. The maids, the servants, the farmers: any occupation at all was named and the expectation remained the same. 

   Eirika hadn’t thought about that scolding in so long but it stung. She hated this selfishness as she curled up in a ball in her bed. She was all but begging to be struck by rapture as she waited out the worst of it. She didn’t want anyone at all to see her, not a soul, and she wasn’t thinking anyone would want to see her, there were no meetings scheduled, no visitations to be made. All in all, it was a good time for her menstruation to come as there was, for once, a lull in all her duties and yet…

   Someone did desire her company and he had come a long, long way for it.

   Thus, Saleh was all but turned away at the door of the Renais castle today. That, he supposed, was quite unusual. He was allowed inside but was not allowed to visit Eirika but he only ever made the journey down the mountain to return Eirika’s visitations.

   “Is the Princess unwell?” Saleh inquired of Ephraim.

   “Ghastly, so.” Ephraim replied. “She hasn’t been this sick since she was a girlthing.” 

   Saleh’s ears pricked up, he folded his arms and he had a good idea now as to what Ephraim was alluding to. “I’m versed with some magic for those more mundane issues, you know, perhaps I ought to have a look at her.”

   “I would rather not.” Ephraim decided.

   “Ah, of course.” Saleh nodded. “If it eases your mind-”

   “I do trust you, Saleh, I have left you many times in my sister’s company alone, but we have more appearances to upkeep with all the gossipers around again. Funny how they thin, and scatter in times of war and return in times of peace.” Ephraim mused.

   “An apt observation…” Saleh murmured, court politics were never going to amuse and yet. “However, Prince, I thought that a good segue, one I wish to make, if you would allow.”

   “Oh, my apologies, speak your peace, Saleh.” Ephraim replied.

   “I was hoping to ask for Eirika’s hand in marriage.” Saleh said.

   Ephraim blinked. Then blushed. “I would miss my sister sorely but I imagine, up on that mountain of yours… You must miss her as well. She just lights up the room, doesn’t she?”

   “She has a gentle joy that I have come to selfishly yearn for.” Saleh admitted in a soft, quiet voice.

   “Well, she is her own woman though I doubt she will be in the mood to discuss such things but I will leave you to it.” Ephraim said and he pat Saleh’s shoulder, an awkward feat given that he was shorter than Saleh.

   “Thank you. It might be wiser to broach the subject at a later date but I will try today, her sickness might reveal true feelings she may not be inclined to voice otherwise.” Saleh considered the possibility.

   “Then I pray that your head remains on your shoulders,” Ephraim joked, “but her room is that way. Just follow the sound of her sobbing or snoring, whatever phase of her bleed she’s ended up in.”

   Saleh broke away from Ephraim and allowed him to continue his duties of royalty. Saleh felt exhausted just watching, the moment Ephraim stepped away from their conversation, Seth hounded him and as did plenty more folk who required his attention and resources. Rebuilding Renais and surrounds whilst noble was in equal measure headache inducing. So, Saleh sought Eirika.

   Eirika heard Saleh come up the hall. Though she did not know it was him at first. She merely heard the sound of his footsteps and that alone managed to irritate her. She had asked that no one disturb her so she could revel in the full of her misery and have her tantrum so a visitor was unwelcome. Though, when said visitor revealed himself as Saleh, her preconceived selfishness was less appealing.

   Saleh knocked politely and introduced himself to the door. From inside, Eirika relented and Saleh came inside. He swallowed a lump in his throat. Eirika’s bedchambers were as large - if not larger - than his abode in Caer Pelyn and he had plans of asking her to give up such opulence after forgoing once already. Saleh steeled himself for the worst as already he could tell Eirika’s mood was uncharacteristically foul.

   Eirika knew she looked a mess. She felt entirely wrecked and so, she glared. Her hair stuck up in funny ways and she forced herself to sit up in her bed, surrounded by piles upon piles of pillows and blankets, and looked like the titular princess from the fairy tale about a pea stashed beneath layers upon layers of bedding.

   “I was not expecting you, Saleh.” Eirika said, grumpy. “Had I known you were coming, I would have behaved. Made myself presentable. You must think me worse than a child.”

   “May I sit on your bedside?” Saleh elected to ask in lieu of validating Eirika’s assumptions.

   “Yes, you may.” Eirika replied.

   Saleh delicately perched himself side-saddle on the edge of Eirika’s bed. His eyes were calm yet calculative. Though not probing, Eirika felt herself studied and that made her uncomfortable. She preened where she sat even though the slightest movement caused more than a mere tremor throughout her body. She was wracked with abdominal pain and just wanted to curl up into a ball and try to sleep the agony off but she persevered like she was expected to do.

   “I had heard you were unwell and your complexion is clammy…” Saleh murmured.

   “Thank you for your assessment, Saleh.” Eirika sarcastically replied and that surprised Saleh.

   “I have some knowledge of white magic, the sorts of spells my Grandmother found useful in these situations, I can ease your burden of pain if that pleases you.” Saleh said despite having been initially taken aback, he did his best not to show it.

   Eirika grimaced, “I haven’t needed another’s assistance in this matter for a long, long time…”

   “It's not like you to reject help, you are usually the first advocate for it.” Saleh mused. “Your bleed truly brings out a side of you that I have never known, I find the shift fascinating-”

   “You know?!” Eirika exclaimed.

   “Yes, your brother-”

   “I’m going to kill him!” Eirika shrieked and she threw a pillow at Saleh.

   He let it smack across his face. “It’s a cycle of nature, it is nothing to be ashamed of.” he pointed out.

   Eirika wailed in anguish but she did eventually let Saleh heal her. His magic was soft and glowing, it didn’t stop the bleeding but it did quell the pain. No longer did Eirika feel as though she were fit to perish from the abdominal pain but she could still feel the flow of blood uncomfortable.

   “Do you feel better?” Saleh asked.

   “I do. Thank you.” Eirika murmured.

   “Then, if you are feeling up to it, there is a matter I wish to discuss with you but if you are not in the right headspace for it, then so be it.” Saleh said.

   “What is the matter then?” Eirika asked. “One that could not be fit for a letter, clearly, one that brought you all the way down the mountain, even.”

   “Indeed.” Saleh thoughtfully nodded his head. He took a breath. “Princess, I desire your hand in marriage.”

   Eirika couldn’t believe what she had heard. She felt some sort of eager joy swirl through her but Saleh’s words remained unreal to her. She had made a lifelong friend in Saleh during the war and though there was much to do with the post-war rebuilding and celebrations, she still sent him letters. She even made the tiresome pilgrimage to Caer Pelyn a handful of time to spend weeks at a time up there. Not necessarily a vacation as Eirika would assist in their daily lives as she could but compared to the hustle and bustle of royal life, it was rather restful.

   Caer Pelyn was a beautiful place. The air was delicious, if frigid. The grass grew in deep, dark greens and the forests were hardy. The people were not outwardly welcoming, furtive and secretive, but Eirika had never been a dire outsider in their midsts as she was a good friend to Saleh, whom she did love with a heart of a serenity.

   If she accepted this proposal - that felt all too soon and yet, some ladies were married and pregnant already at Eirika’s age - then her life would change drastically. Her title as princess would be for naught in the mountains and she would be relinquishing certain luxuries that she had longed for during the war, living rough.

   Saleh took a breath, “This was too soon to spring on someone ill, I should have waited.” he hastily apologised.

   Eirika’s heart began to break. Fracture. She inhaled sharply and her expression became a teary grimace.

   “It is a lot to take in, at once.” Eirika lamented. “It is not that I am not interested, or that I don’t love you, I just- I am merely unwell. Shaken by this revelation.”

   Saleh inched closer to Eirika and he caressed her face. His hands were cold but his eyes were warm.

   “I will take care of you.” Saleh affirmed her. “If you are worried you will be a burden or otherwise unfit to living with me in Caer Pelyn, I will take care of you and it would be my most sublime joy because the Princess that I know, she doesn’t back away from a challenge. She gives herself away until she is in pieces and when that happens, she appreciates my counsel to put herself back together again.”

   Eirika began to flounder. She wanted to tell Saleh of her fears, of her anxieties, of how her mother had perished but she found herself unable. The words were damming and clogging in her mouth. Her lips were feebly parted but she was ultimately unable to bring herself to say anything at all. 

   Yet Saleh suspected that he knew what Eirika was failing to communicate, he kissed her lips and she meagrely kissed back. Eirika closed her eyes to this sudden kiss and her heartbeat felt frantic in her chest. 

   “I will take care of you body and soul, Princess, if you so let me.” Saleh whispered to Eirika and he placed his hand on her thigh.

   Eirika understood what Saleh was insinuating as he undressed the sheets and blankets off her body but she was hesitant to shift her legs, so Saleh parted them for her. She felt her guts twist and knot, with cramps and anxiety but she let it happen. Her heart pounded and she squirmed as she sat on her bed, pillows propped up behind her and she bled.

   And Saleh licked. Eirika gasped, her exclamation palpable to Saleh as he continued. He was clinical as he assessed her wound, kissing it and delving forth his tongue, pleasuring Eirika in ways she could not have fathomed previously. With his mouth alone, Saleh brought Eirika to climax and when he looked up at her, blood on his lips, that sealed their claim.

   The following day, Eirika would publicly agree to Saleh’s hand in marriage. Her fears quelled. Though, she had no other choice now, Saleh had spirited away her virginity and as an honourable man, he would not further disgrace Eirika but none but they would ever need to know such salacious details. Thus, their marriage was approved and Ephraim entrusted his dear sister to the sage from the mountains. An unusual pair but Ephraim could see the serenity that Saleh brought Eirika. He appreciated that.

  Later, in private, they kissed and Eirika could swear she still tasted blood - her blood - on Saleh’s lips. Yet, she didn’t mind that phantom taste.

   The preparations for their marriage in the months ensuing were difficult but a welcome to change the drearier affairs that had to be arranged for. Saleh, on behalf of all Caer Pelyn, was gifted a very handsome dowry from Ephraim per the custom and Eirika, meanwhile, got to plan her own wedding.

   She had never dreamed thoroughly of what her wedding would be like and given that she was not marrying further into royalty or aristocracy, grandiosity felt ill advised. Thus, the resulting ceremony was quiet and held outside with only their closest inner circle in attendance. Ephraim gave Eirika away, walking her down the aisle in their mother’s dress: the only display of true opulence at this event in which Eirika and Saleh’s rites were read and vowed.

   Eirika felt her stomach turn as she said her prayers and kissed Saleh. Growing up with only her father, she had never seen the dynamic of husband and wife modelled, not that she was expecting a usual such dialogue with a husband like Saleh but still. Perhaps it would have quelled the anxieties she felt, especially knowing beneath her mother’s beautiful and regal wedding dress, she was wearing lingerie. 

   Lingerie that Saleh would later discover when he disrobed Eirika in their private, honeymoon suite with the intention of consummating their marriage. He disrobed her gently, pulled away all the layers and lace and ate her out once more. Eirika came over and over again with Saleh’s tongue in her womanhood. He came, too, inside of her.

   Despite being reserved individuals, they were not immune to that honeymoon phase, apparently. Hands all over each other from Castle Renais to Caer Pelyn. When they finally arrived at Saleh’s abode, there was not a room that Eirika did not become accustomed to.

   Saleh’s home was now Eirika’s home and so, she decorated it a bit more to her liking, adding planter boxes to the windows and bringing a few heirlooms from home, heraldic tea sets and the like. Saleh didn’t mind at all, he loved how the red and gold of Eirika’s trinkets brightened up his home and he always had a soft spot for flowers and now, on his dinner table, there were fresh flowers weekly in a vase.

   At that dinner table, they ate exceptionally well, all things considered. Eirika was a good cook and the produce that she bought and collected from the market was some of the most fresh and delicious that she ever had the privilege of working with. As for the meals Saleh made, they were well kept recipes that his grandmother’s great grandmother and beyond had passed down and so, were well worked and homey, always warming Eirika’s belly regardless of mist, shine, or rain.

   Their marital life was truly bliss thus far. There was nothing Eirika could possibly want for as she merged more and more with the folk of Caer Pelyn, befriending the locals who accepted her warmly. Yes, she missed her brother once in a while but she knew that he would visit eventually, in a few more months time and if he didn’t, she would give him very good reason to make the ascent.

   As Eirika was dutiful in tracking her monthly bleeds, it didn’t escape her notice when she missed one. And then two. The dizziness that she was experiencing was also worrisome, as was the nausea. The signs were beginning to mount and as were her anxieties. So, she sought her dear grandmother-in-law who welcomed her into her place of work and residence warmly as she usually did.

   There was a knowing look in her eyes as she allowed Eirika inside. She closed the door behind Eirika and took her by the hand, leading her to a bed where she could sit.

   “You know why I’m here, don’t you?” Eirika asked in a small voice.

   “Aye, that I do, that I do.” Dara replied.

   Eirika smiled a small smile. That was an odd comfort. The wordlessness that followed was thankfully non-invasive and soon enough, by her measure, Dara had the answer that Eirika was expecting: she was pregnant with her and Saleh’s first child.

   But her demeanour learning such news was grave. Solemn. Dara had thought that such a kind-hearted soul as Eirika would be overjoyed with the news. Instead, she sat as though she were a flower claimed by an icy frost. She was just frozen.

   “Are you okay, my dear?” Dara asked.

   Eirika hugged herself, specifically around her middle where her child gestated. She shook her head.

   “I am many things but not a mind reader…” Dara murmured as she sat with Eirika and caressed her face, wiping away a lone, dewy tear that threatened to spill out and over her cheek.

   “I lost my mother to childbirth.” Eirika revealed. “What if I am meant for the same fate?”

   “I have seen many women through their births and have never lost any of them, I will guide you through that endeavour as well and I will not lose you either, I promise.” Dara said and she took Eirika’s hand to examine it. The feeling of Dara’s fingers stroking Eirika’s palm was comforting, she hazarded a smile. “You have a long lifeline, you will live to see your children’s children, I can assure it. You have a warrior’s spirit and I’m sure your mother did as well.”

   “I’m still terrified, Grandmother, but thank you. I trust your words above all else. I shall live and I shall be a good mother.” Eirika decided for herself, even if her fears made her fingers tremble.

   “Good.” Dara agreed. “Now go and share this with Saleh, he will be your rock going forward. I have no doubt you will both make wonderful parents.”

   Eirika hiccuped, swallowing a sob. Grief and terror was miraculously giving way to the beauty of life. New life. She was going to do it: she was going to be a mother. Her heart raced. She rubbed away a tear and smiled through the sheen.

   “He’s always been my rock. My breath of fresh air, I have never doubted his propensity for fatherhood, unlike with myself and these anxieties I’ve always carried regarding motherhood.” Eirika half-spoke and half-cried.

   Dara caressed her face again, “If you ever need to talk, I can listen and give counsel as you please.”

   “Thank you, Grandmother.” Eirika replied and she leaned into Dara, her forehead pressing gently against Dara’s.

   With a nasally breath, Eirika collected herself and bade Dara farewell. Eirika kept her head up and her heart was heavy yet refreshed with strengths she didn’t know she possessed. Or perhaps had never had until now. Eirika returned to her home where Saleh was waiting for her with a basket of freshly picked herbs that he found growing in the mountains.

   Saleh welcomed her home with a kiss in the middle of her forehead. He held her hands and they had a conversation at their dinner table. It was like he already knew, before Eirika could even tell him and honestly, Eirika appreciated how he was able to read her, predict her. 

   “I know.” Saleh told her, his voice was low and soothing.

   “You're going to be… We’re going to be parents.” Eirika’s voice was giddy and frantic, she was afraid all the same as she was happy.

   “You will be a wonderful mother, my Princess, and I will do my best to support you through this phase.” Saleh assured her.

   “Thank you, Saleh, I would be nothing without your guidance and support, I swear.” Eirika replied, outpouring with gratitude and hormones and teardrops, as well.

   Saleh reached across the table and caressed Eirika’s face, wiping away her tears. They were soft and warm, she nuzzled into the palm of his hand, feeling the eb and flow of the sagely magic that he possessed and sighed. She felt calm and secure in her husband the love and honour he had unto her. 

   For once, she felt entirely confident about her role as a woman to become fodder to foster more children for the glory and reign of her royal status. As her brother was unwed as of the present, the child in her belly was the technical heir to the Renais throne and that amused her greatly, she would admit. But she did wonder if her brother had a future wife in mind, if at all.

   Sending him news of her pregnancy did confirm to Eirika that her brother had a plan and one that involved L’Arachel of all ladies but there were a few obstacles to her hand, least of all Dozla, let alone Rausten bureaucracy but the news did excite him. He sent back gifts for the baby, seeming rather certain that Eirika would bear a boy as the clothes that he had, allegedly, picked on a whim were quite masculine or androgynous at best but the main thing was that Ephraim was very, very enthused about being an uncle. He desired to visit on the shortest notice possible and Eirika looked forward to it.

   She did not, however, look forward to the more unglamourous aspects of her pregnancy. Sharing the news was wonderful, the nausea and so forth not quite so but regular visits to Dara kept the anxieties that were like festering devils away. Much like her grandson, she, too, had much wisdom to share if not more so given how old she was.

   “Would it be disrespectful to Nada Kuya if I had a daughter and named her in reference to the princess of legend?” Eirika asked over tea one morning at one of her visits with Dara.

   “In reference, no, but invoking the spirits can have great consequence. If the child does not live to the name, more than the living suffers.” Dara explained.

   “Oh, I didn’t realise, I shouldn’t have assumed-” Eirika rambled.

   “You couldn’t have known our quirks, I’m sure it is very common practice amongst your own kin to reuse names.” Dara replied understandingly. “For example, I was named for an ancestor named Sara.”

   “Oh, I see.” Eirika replied. “So, for example, if I had a boy and Saleh agreed, if I wanted to honour the spirit of my Father and his values, hoping our child would grow into such nobility, then Frederick, or Fred for short and even Freddo as a pet name, might be more fitting than simply Fado?”

   “Correct.” Dara nodded her head.

   “I understand better now, thank you, Grandmother.” Eirika said but Dara could already hear the next query in Eirika’s voice. “Are there any more things I may not yet know about Caer Pelyn and its people? Its culture?”

   “A few, more likely than not.” Dara told her.

   “I’d be happy to be educated then.” Eirika replied, enthusiasm making her features seem jolly.

   Dara smiled and shared a few legends that Eirika had not yet heard from Saleh or any of her friends in the village. Eirika listened eagerly, with her hand on her belly.  Already, it had grown some in just her first trimester alone and it only continued to grow.

   Eirika listened to Dara’s advice and all her lore. Though some of the stories that she shared harrowed Eirika, others only stoked her conviction to be a good mother and to survive the ordeal of her childbirth. Dara was pleased to cultivate more and more of Eirika’s confidence, weaning her off the myths and misinformation that she held so tightly onto in her fears.

   As time went by, Eirika’s belly had grown more so. Her belly-button had popped her embarrassment but Saleh found it oddly cute. Her hips widened and were painted with pink stretch marks. She found herself tiring more easily but nothing lifted Eirika’s spirits quite like having visitors.

    By the time her brother could escape the castle, with his bride to be in tow, no less, Eirika was on the cusp of her third trimester and was beginning to look huge. Ephraim was still delighted to see her and more delighted still to witness the movements and kicking of her small child that she gestated. L’Arachel was thrilled as well and brought so many gifts from Rausten, Eirika was running out of places to stow them and unlike Ephraim, she was convinced that Eirika was going to have a girl.

   Eirika was scared that they would both be right in the end. The possibility of twins did loom and it was a possibility that frightened her deeply. Whilst she cherished the memories of growing up with Ephraim, a true and forever friend she could never be fully parted from, the idea of her labour being complicated by that did harrow her. After all, it was exactly that unexpected complication that had weakened her mother before ultimately claiming her.

   For these fears, Eirika talked them through with Ephraim and he had the utmost trust in Dara and the other wise women who would take care of Eirika through her labour. Even if he was far, Eirika was in his thoughts and he knew, like flint striking a rock makes fire, that she would not meet the same fate as their mother. As for if she had twins, Ephraim wasn’t so sure but he hoped that if she did that they would have a similar bond to them and Eirika agreed, consoled.

   Renais Castle - and also Rausten - beckoned Ephraim and L’Arachel home. Eirika bade them a bittersweet goodbye, knowing that her child would be born and several months old before they would be reunited again. The notion of it made Eirika quake in her boots but Saleh held her hand firmly. A time for them to joyous and excited was upon them or would be soon enough, he reminded her through her fears.

   A reminder that could not be more timely. A month after the visit from Ephraim and L’Arachel, Eirika’s water broke on the night of the winter equinox.

   Even though she and Saleh had a solid plan for what to do in that emergency, the panic unique to firsttime parents possessed them and any strategy and tactical knowledge they had was abandoned to the winds. Fortunately, they managed to get Eirika comfortable in her bed and Saleh was able to go fetch Dara and the other women who were trained in these endeavours.

   Those moments without Saleh by her side were the most terrifying that Eirika had ever experienced and she had been on the brink of war and collapse and even death itself. But she felt oddly strong as she managed those initial contraptions, muttering prayers for the swiftness of her husband and Dara’s return.

   Saleh’s house had always been quiet, at least before he boarded Ewan and then it became lively with the apprentice’s mistakes and mishaps and misadventures. Yet schooling a boy in magic was completely different to how loud and noisy his abode became as it became host to midwives and wise women and, of course a soon to be born screaming bundle of joy. Saleh could only wait upon the results as he entrusted his wife and mother of his first child to his grandmother.

   Eirika squeezed Dara’s hand. Her heart raced and she was terrified yet had never felt stronger as she went through the motions of this herculean feat known as childbirth. Her body was wracked with an agony the likes of which she had never known and was going to hesitate to want again but Dara kept her calm using a combination of magic and consoling words.

   By nothing less than a miracle in Eirika’s opinion, she survived and she had safely given birth to her firstborn child. Her baby which screamed and howled and was whisked away for a bath whilst she remained, open legged and empty. 

   She watched as Dara bathed her baby and uttered sacred prayers, asking the spirits to ensure a happy, healthy baby and Eirika could only smile, exhausted. She was floating in a dream, a bloody dream but a dream nonetheless, when her baby was returned to her and her husband was permitted once more into the room brimming with women’s business.

   “Congratulations, my dear, you have gifted myself and the world a little baby girl.” Dara said and there were winks of tears in her ancient eyes. “I have a great-granddaughter now, thank you.”

   Eirika hugged her baby girl tightly, nuzzling her face against her baby who wailed and whinged that she was hungry and cranky from just being born. She smiled, not caring at all for the racket.

   “Thank you, Grandmother.” Eirika replied, relieved.

   Saleh entered the room whilst Eirika allow her baby to latch onto her breast to suckle. He smiled and on the way, he hugged and kissed his grandmother who was elated with the joy and safety of this delivery.

   “Saleh,” Eirika murmured, “we have a daughter now.” She couldn’t have sounded happier as her daughter drank of her milk for the first time.

   Saleh looked at the baby who shied away from him in favour of sating her needs. He smiled gently, admiring the dark tufts of steely blue hair. He couldn’t help but see a lot of Caer Pelyn in this child, more than the appearance of Renais. That did make his expression hint with pride.

   “She’s beautiful.” Saleh replied at long last, bowing down so he could kiss Eirika’s temple, she was dishevelled and sweaty yet she had never radiated more beauty to him than right now. “Do you have a name in mind?”

   “I do.” Eirika replied. “If it is alright with you, I would like to name her Nadia.”

   Hope, Saleh realised but something more, too, he thought, evocative of the spirit of Nada Kuya. He smiled as wide a smile as he ever does, perhaps wider.

   “Nadia is a perfect name for our child.” he agreed as his daughter babbled, satisfied that she was no longer hungry - or nameless, apparently.

[arvandus]

Touch (pt 4)

Pairing: Dabi x Fem!Reader

WARNINGS: 18+ only please!  Drug abuse/withdrawal, adult language/themes, heavy angst, past trauma/abuse, anxiety/panic attacks, PTSD, fluff, pining, slow burn, eventual emotional SMUT. *please pay attention to the chapter tags as these warnings will apply at different times*

Synopsis: When you first joined the LOV to lend your healing quirk, Dabi  terrified you.  Not interested in attachments, he wanted to keep it  that way.  That is, until he needs your help. (Slow burn, soft Dabi).

Please let me know if you’d like to be tagged in future chapters.

Recommended Chapter Song:

Bloodstream by Stateless

Part 1  Part 3

Artwork credit to @hellowon31​ on Twitter (https://twitter.com/hellowon31)

Part 4 - Wounded

Later that day, while Dabi sat in his room nursing his migraine and checking his phone for a response from Giran, he heard a quiet knock at his door and the sound of footsteps fading away. He opened the door and found a white takeout bag.

Curiously, he picked up the item and looked inside to see tonkatsu ramen and a pair of chopsticks with some napkins, along with another bottle of water for good measure.  He scoffed.

You brought him ramen.

Not one to turn away free food, Dabi brought the item into the solitude of his room and removed the lid. The smell hit his nose and he inhaled deeply.  He hadn’t eaten anything all day, locking himself in his room to avoid the others while his persistent nausea made all foods sound unappealing.  He drank water from the tap when he felt like he needed it, ironically hearing your scolding in his head each time he did so.  His head and body aches were definitely reduced, but his mind felt off, different.  He was grateful Shigaraki hadn’t given him any assignments today.  He’d probably just incinerate anyone he came across, starting with Crusty Hands himself.

As Dabi ate, he mulled over his situation.  Having to request your help for his burn was bad enough.  But letting you see him like this?  Broken by the weight of his addiction?  It left a sour taste in his mouth, hampering his enjoyment of his noodles.

He didn’t have much choice – he knew he needed your medical care, so turning you away wasn’t really an option.  Risking infection would only make a bad situation worse, and it was impeding his ability to get back to work.  He hated being stuck in here, alone with his thoughts.  So, when he let you in earlier, he had hoped you’d patch him up and leave, his hostile mood and harsh words a muzzle for any questions you may have felt tempted to ask. 

Dabi should have known better.  Now you were involved in supplying and managing his medication – something he would have never asked for. Against his better judgment, you managed to entwine yourself deeper into his life, even if it was for just a short time.  How was it that he kept losing control of the situation?

It was your fault.  It had to be.  You had managed to navigate him like charted waters even though he never gave you a map.  In hindsight, Dabi was honestly impressed; he knew he wasn’t an easy person to get along with, especially when he was in such a dark place. 

Then again, maybe he did withhold some of his cruelty, despite how horrible he was feeling earlier. He knew he could get downright nasty when he really wanted to, his words honed to kill.  If he truly hadn’t wanted you here, then things would have gone very differently.  That thought was even more disconcerting – that for some reason, he felt the need to behave himself around you in some unspoken desire to keep you around.

It must have been the desperation.  That was it. Maybe he was hoping that if he stayed in your good graces, that you’d use your quirk on him and free him from his misery.  Even now Dabi wanted to feel your hands on him again, to feel your power seep like a mist into all of the dark parts of him.  The more you touched him, the harder it was for him to get the sensation of you off his skin and out of his head.  Maybe he really was becoming addicted to you.  Why else would he have even let you in? Why else would he have let you stay?

He recalled you reaching out your hand at one point as if to touch him and it had made his pulse race with anticipation as he pretended not to notice.  But you had changed your mind and Dabi was left with heavy disappointment, as he tried to understand why.  Did you have fears of your own? Of getting too close to him?  If you were smart, you would trust those instincts.

Maybe he should reach out to his villain connections to find someone with a healing quirk.  It’d expedite his recovery and reduce his exposure to you.  It wasn’t cheap, though… healing quirks cost a pretty penny in the underground.  They were rare enough to come by in hero society and even more so in the villain network.  Not many healers followed a life of crime – they naturally lacked a propensity for violence that the lifestyle required.  Even if a healer could be found, could he afford it? Probably not. 

Plus, there was the fact that he wasn’t much loved, even by the dredges of society. He had built a reputation for himself, long before he crossed paths with Shigaraki.  He had no patience for stupid people with nothing but shortsightedness and lustful violence to offer, which turned out to be nearly everyone.  His list of those willing to work with him was unsurprisingly short.

Dabi downed the warm, salty broth and set the container down to stare at the last bits of seasoning stuck to the inside, trying to read his future like tea leaves.  They provided no answers, of course.

“Fuck.” He muttered.

Dabi’s troubled thoughts were interrupted by a ‘ding’ on his phone.  His hand betrayed his composure, snatching the technology up swiftly.

It was a text message from Giran.  Fucking finally.  Maybe the universe wasn’t so fucked up after all.

Dabi’s eyes glossed over the words quickly, his mouth setting into a thin line.  Giran had a seller he could hook him up with, but it would cost him, of course.  And the worst part was that Dabi would have to wait.  Giran was out of town and wouldn’t be back for at least a week.

Until then, Dabi was at your mercy.  Luckily for him, mercy was something you had in ample supply.  If only it wasn’t wrapped nicely in a pretty face and an addictive touch.

It looked like the universe wasn’t done fucking with him.

By the time evening rolled around, the pills you had given him were already beginning to wear off. Dabi expected as much.  So, when you knocked on his door to change his bandages and check on him, he couldn’t help but breathe a small, secret sigh of relief.  If he was stuck with you for the next couple of weeks, then he might as well take whatever help he could to make himself a functioning human being.  He could hold out until then.

When he opened the door for you, you greeted him with a smile that immediately made him question his resolve. Were you happy to see him? Fucking why?

You watched him closely, trying to look for a healthy color on his cheeks, and happily noted the empty food container still sitting on his desk.  It was an impromptu decision on your part – you were out getting food for yourself, and his words had echoed back in your head.  It had sounded good at the time and buying for two was just as easy as buying for one.  Plus, you had a feeling he hadn’t left his room all day, and you didn’t recall seeing a mini fridge in it.

Dabi noticed your happy glow and followed your gaze to see what you were looking at.  He rolled his eyes when he realized.  He probably should have said thank you once he noticed. That was what normal people did, at least.  But he didn’t want to draw attention to it.

You began your typical round of questions.  “How are you feeling?” you asked.

“I’m gonna need more of those pills.” Dabi replied as he removed his shirt for you.  The one light in his room was already too bright for him. Behind him, he could hear the drip drip of his bathroom faucet, each ping on the porcelain like a hammer behind his eyes.  At least it was evening now, which meant he could open his window to the cold night air to counter his elevated body heat.

You had begun unpacking the supplies you needed to treat him but paused to turn and look at him with wide eyes. “Really??” you asked in disbelief. “I just gave you some this morning.”

“What can I say, doll. They took the edge off for a bit, but that’s about it.” He replied with a shrug.

You pursed your lips in thought as you eyed the man in front of you.  He didn’t seem as bad as this morning, thankfully.  But you could tell he still wasn’t his usual self.  You doubted that any amount of pills you gave him would fix him entirely, though.  No doubt his body was feeling the effects of switching to something different after what was probably years of use.  Most importantly, the pills you had on hand simply weren’t as strong as what he normally took. 

You had considered this, of course.  In fact, much of your day was spent trying to figure out your next course of action for Dabi. He was a League member after all, so if he couldn’t function for some reason or another then he technically fell under your responsibility.  He needed to get back onto what he was taking before.  Fortunately for him, your own connection was incredibly reliable and had better access to medical supplies than most.  It just so happened they would be able to get the same medications he was taking.  The downside was that it would take a little bit of time – there was a lot of fake paperwork to create in order to get access, since it was a high-class opioid. Until then, you had to keep him above water.

“Fine,” you said begrudgingly.  “I’ll give you a few more.” You took the bottle out of your bag and handed him three pills, hoping they would get him through the night at least.  He took them from your hand, the heat of his fingers against your palm lingering like the kiss of sunlight on a leaf.  You froze for a moment at the sensation, before realizing that you were standing there with your empty hand out.  You took your hand away, embarrassed.  You probably looked like an idiot…

You pushed on, ignoring your overly critical brain.  “Please try to wait it out as much as you can before you take-”

Your words were cut short as you watched Dabi down the pills dry, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed.  He caught your eyes in his own with a challenging, mischievous glow swimming in their cerulean depths.

You frowned at him. “You’re ridiculous.” You huffed.  “You might want to try stretching those out a bit more.  If I run out, you’ll be up shit creek.”

Dabi grinned.  “Don’t worry, doll.  I got a hold of my middleman earlier.  He’ll be hooking me up in a week, then I can pay you back.”

You were stunned by his offer to reimburse you.  You felt strangely… appreciated?

But damn it – he was too efficient for his own good. You hadn’t expected him to find a replacement so fast.  Suddenly, you began to second guess your actions.  Maybe you should have checked with him first…

Anxiety crept in like a fog. Would he be mad that you took matters into your own hands?  Half-truths fell from your mouth while your mind struggled to reach a decision.

“Oh, um… it’s okay.   I already put a request in for more of these since I figured I’d be treating you for a bit.  I know they’re not as good as yours, but they’re better than nothing.  They’ll be available for pick-up in a few days.”

Now it was Dabi’s turn to be surprised.

“You didn’t have to do that.” He said as he looked away from you.  It was the first time he’d ever broken his gaze with you first.

“Well, I didn’t know how long you’d need my help with this, and I didn’t want you to suffer.” You said. You noticed his sudden avoidance and guilt filled you.  Did he feel ashamed?  Humiliated? Did you wound his pride somehow?  You didn’t even tell him all the facts, yet…

You bit your lip nervously, and an awkward silence begin to make its way through the room.  Dabi picked up on it immediately, of course.

He looked back at you, his eyes narrowing suspiciously.  “What?”

“Um, well… I didn’t just get more of these pills.” You explained.  “I talked to my supplier and was able to put in a request for the ones you were taking too.  But they’re harder to get, so it might take longer before they’re available.”

“What?” Dabi repeated, his surprise deepening.  His blue eyes widened slightly.  This was so much more than he had ever expected from you and he wasn’t sure how he felt about it.  Annoyed? Flattered?  Embarrassed?  Dabi never felt embarrassed.  Then again, he’d never had someone look out for him the way you did these past couple of days.  There had to be a catch.  Did you want something from him?  What could he possibly offer you?

“Why would you do that?” he asked, his words laced with mistrust.

You fidgeted with your fingers, drawing your thumb nail along underneath your index finger.   His presence seemed to fill the room.  Something about the tension in his body and the wariness of his tone reminded you of a wounded animal, ready to bite.  You wanted to choose your words carefully, to put the man in front of you at ease. 

Instead, the words fell out of your mouth in a rambling mess.

“Well, I knew these weren’t really going to be sufficient for you.”  You looked up at him.  “And I told you I wanted to make sure you were getting your medication from somewhere reliable.  Besides, this way it’s covered by the League instead of you paying out of your own pocket.”

You shifted your weight slightly, unsure if you should say anything else while he continued to pierce your soul with his sharp gaze, trapping you like a spider in a web.  Oh shit, was he mad?  He seemed mad.  Maybe? Why the hell was he staring at you like that?  Why wasn’t he saying anything??

Maybe you made a mistake.

Finally, you couldn’t handle the tension anymore and worked out an apology through your clumsy lips. “I-I’m sorry, I should have checked with you first.  It’s just, I had to get in my medical order today, and I didn’t want to bother you earlier.”

Dabi broke his hold on you with a blink.  “Wait. So Crusty Hands is paying for my drugs?”

“Yeah, I guess.” You replied with a shrug.  “He has Kurogiri give me an allowance and I decide how I want to spend it.”

A chuckle escaped Dabi’s lips. “That’s fucking great.  I bet he’d lose his shit if he found out.”

You secretly released the breath you were holding as your tension left your shoulders.  “Well, he shouldn’t find out. Your pills are expensive.”

“Oh, he’s definitely gonna find out.” Dabi grinned.  “I can’t not rub it in his face.”

You scoffed and crossed your arms.  “Are you trying to get me dusted?”

Dabi’s grin froze for a moment as he stared at you, mirth in his eyes.  “He won’t dust you, doll.  You’re too valuable.”

You stared back at him, skepticism written all over your face.  “Yeah, well that nice budget he gives me helps me stay valuable. So, if you know what’s good for you, you’ll keep your smart mouth shut.”

“It’s cute that you think you can boss me around.  If you’re gonna make me keep secrets, then you better make it worth my while.” Dabi leered.

“Worth your while?” you echoed, confusion in your eyes.  All your mind could conjure in that moment were impure ways to silence that attractive mouth of his and you were pretty sure that wasn’t what he meant.  Your mind got increasingly distracted as you wondered what kissing him would feel like, with his different textured lips and the rings on the corners of his mouth.

Goddamn it.

Dabi’s deep voice pulled you back to the present.

“Don’t act coy with me, doll.” Dabi replied casually.  “You think you know me so well, you’re making all my choices for me now. What do you think I want?”

A moment ago, he seemed low energy due to his withdrawal, barely holding onto his sanity out of courtesy of your presence.  Now, all of a sudden, he was dripping with what you could only describe as sex appeal. He’d completely pulled the rug out from under you with his sinuous words wrapped nicely in a heavy drawl.  His body leaned into your personal space just enough to make you lean away slightly, even though your body wanted you to go in the opposite direction, to meet him move for move, like a puppet on strings. If only his hands could caress you the way his voice did, then maybe you wouldn’t feel so tense...  Rational thought abandoned you as you struggled to pick up the broken pieces of your façade while your imagination ran with the freedom of a wild horse.

Dabi watched your blank expression in amusement, enjoying having the upper hand.  You looked downright terrified.  What was going on in that pretty little head of yours?  If he didn’t know any better, he would have thought you were going down a naughty rabbit hole.  But Dabi scratched that theory – he wasn’t the type of guy girls fantasized about… right?

He watched as you faltered between your secret thoughts and your defensive words.  “Don’t hurt yourself, sweetheart.” He teased.  “I thought you were the expert? You’re always so smart with all the answers.”

“Wha-” you stammered. “Shut up, Dabi.”

“Just give me a few more of those pills for later and I’ll be silent as the grave.”

“Is that what this is about?” You pushed your hands against his bare chest, and he let you, backing out of your personal space just enough to let you breathe. “You’re ridiculous.”

“What did you think I meant?” Dabi grinned.

“Nothing.” You huffed. “Stop trying to get under my skin.”

“Stop letting me.” he countered.  “I thought you were a professional?  Do you get this flustered with everyone? Or maybe we got somethin’ special, doll.” Dabi knew he was pushing it, but the moment was too fun not to, your flustered reactions spurring him on.  The more you gave, the more he wanted to take. Normally, gals didn’t let him get this far…

“Why are you like this.” You grumbled in annoyance.

“‘cause you seem to like it.”  Dabi stared down at you.  Were you gradually getting closer to him or was it his imagination?

“You wish,” you replied, denial thickening your tone into barbs. You tilted your chin up defiantly. “Maybe you’re the one who likes it.”

Dabi laughed.  If you wanted to play with fangs out, then he’d play along.

“Don’t think too highly of yourself, doll.  You’re not my type.” He mocked.

You stared at him, dumbfounded, his words cutting you before you could even understand why.  Perhaps it was the attack on your self-esteem, or his blatant declaration that he had no interest in you.  Just like that, the heat of the moment turned to ice, your eyes betraying your hurt before you could mask it behind detached anger. 

Dabi faltered in his assault; he hadn’t expected the words to have such an effect on you.  If anything, he expected you to provide a sarcastic agreement about him not being your type either, or you not wanting to be his type, or something along those lines.  He expected you to be annoyed, yes.  Mildly insulted, sure.

He did not expect you to see you so wounded.

Your lips pressed firm together as you took a steady breath through your nose to keep your eyes from suddenly watering by the slap of emotion that threatened to drown you. 

“Yeah, well you’re not exactly a catch yourself.” You replied coldly.  Whether or not your words mattered to him, you had no idea.  His face was an emotionless mask as he straightened his back and retreated from what was left of your personal space.

If he was going to say anything in response, you didn’t give him a chance.  You lowered your eyes to the level of his bare chest which now seemed impossibly far from you even though you had touched its warmth only moments before.

“Turn around so I can finish.  I have to go check on Magne after this.” You said emotionlessly.  It was the first time he’d ever truly heard you speak like that, and he quickly decided that he didn’t like it.

You finished hastily without any further conversation and left with a curt “goodnight,” before Dabi could finish putting his shirt back on over his head.

After you had gone, Dabi stared at the door for a moment, before he sat on the edge of his bed and ran his long fingers through his black hair.  He wanted to ignore it and forget it; it wasn’t supposed to matter.  But, alone in his solitude, his mind replayed the moment over and over for him, unrelentingly, until understanding slowly came.  The stubborn seed of realization forced its way through his deeply rooted denial, his conviction not enough to refute what he plainly saw.  Your small gestures of kindness, your excessive commitment to care for him, the way you smiled at him when you saw him… your wounded expression at his callous words.

Did you like him?

“Fuck.” He muttered. ___________________________________________________________

 Part 5

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Taglist: @lemonfvck​ @vs-redemption​ @inanabsentia​  @sheedaabee​  @toshiuwuu​ @marydragneell​ @chillinwithmybakubros​​ @genuinelytodorokisbitch​ @sam-i-am-1025 @redflannel​ @axerrri​​ @necccomancy​​ @miadraws0​​ @hot-pocket01​ @hopelessdisasterr @dummythiccwitch​ @villainsdeku​ @aquzairus @officialtrashbusiness​ @hemdem018​ @purplesweethart​

[mercuryislove]

Hi Lynn! Hope you’re having a good funny question Friday. I’m back with my silly little shopping list :)

💀 for Andhira

🤕 for Vera

📓 for Ciaran

🗣 for Yixing

👽 for Anwei

⚖️ for Go Eun

I had a lovely funny question friday, even though it was very busy lol I'm just happy I'm answering these in a timely manner instead of three days late again :P

💀 Has your oc ever lost anyone to death? Multiple people? People close to them? How does the loss make them feel?

Andhira is super duper old, so she's lost many, many people close to her. Not immediate family members (because her grandparents were LONG dead by the time she and her brother were born), but cousins and an aunt and uncle (on her mother's side), as well as a TON of close friends throughout the years. There are other high born families similar enough to hers (and some might even say vying for her family's power lol) that haven't been so lucky to keep in the good graces of others. She's never made a habit of befriending a lot of mortal people, but there have been times where she gets close to them (usually hunters), and those losses in particular were pretty tough to swallow. Mostly because they typically meet with gruesome ends rather than just. get old and die. (The lifespan of an average hunter is, um, short. Josef is absolutely an exception and not the standard.) At this point in her life, losing people she cares for doesn't break her heart the way it used to. A thousandish years is a long time to watch a LOT of people die, whether she was close to them or not, so it's to the point that she has a pretty like. standard way of grieving for people. If an immediate family member were to die though, she would be gutted. Like. fully and completely ruined for all of eternity, no light at the end of the tunnel kind of misery. But like. what are the odds of that happening, right?

--

🤕 What is the worst injury your oc has ever suffered? Do they have any scars or lasting physical reminders of it? Do they get sick often or have any lasting medical conditions?

I think I've mentioned it in passing in another edition of funny question Friday, but Vera is almost blind in one eye from an accident on her penultimate hunt. She got clawed on the side of her face pretty bad and almost lost her eye (and could have lost her whole damn face). The scars are well-hidden enough in her hair, but when she shaves her head as she is wont to do, they're more visible. She definitely can't see in the dark in that eye, her jaw clicks, and she doesn't sleep on her side because that side of her face gets achy, but other than that there aren't any significant last effects. Once again if I could draw people, I would love to draw her scars but alas, I can't fucking draw people ._. Also I don't know if this counts as a lasting medical condition, but she's also a recovering addict and has been four years sober when the reader first meets her.

--

📓 Write a typical diary/journal page by your oc! Or if you'd rather not, describe their journal. Do they keep one? Why?

Ciaran does actually keep a journal, and I've thought about the dumb shit he would write in it lol This is what it might look like on a typical day:

I had the nightmares again. They come and go, and it seems like they've been coming more than they've been going. It's the same every time. Like the very first night. Even after all this time, I can't help but think of what Sihla used to say, before it all went to shit with her. She heard the whisper. I always thought she was fucking crazy, and she is. Was? I guess she's still alive out there. But maybe she isn't/wasn't as crazy as I thought. I hear it too sometimes. Especially now. In my dreams. It's quiet, but I know it's there. I don't know what it says or who's speaking, but I feel its pull. Like the voice itself is pulling my thread. No clue where it wants me to go, though. I wake up before then anyway. Anwei doesn't like to talk about it. I think she hears it too, but she doesn't tell me her dreams anymore. Probably not a good sign, but there's nothing for me to do about it. She's too fucking stubborn. And that's why I stole her breakfast this morning :)

Go-Eun told me she's been tracking some guy in the city for at least a week now. Said he's weird and kind of rude, but he has a good reputation. Said they almost got in a fight last night too, so?? Mixed signals on that one. He's supposed to come up today but I have too much shit to do to meet him this morning. Anwei will handle it if I'm not around.

UPDATE: I met him. He gave me a nosebleed. If I don't fuck him, I'm going to kill myself.

--

🗣 What are the most painful words that can be said to you oc to utterly break them? What are the words that you could tell them to cheer them up? Maybe some advice to give them the boost they need?

Well, the first and easiest way to devastate him is to remind him that he is his father's son. That no matter how far away he runs and how much he drinks to forget and how much he denies it, they're cut from the same cloth. They share so much in personality and demeanor and looks and behavior that he could never hope to escape who he really is. He can try his damnedest to hide it, but it only takes one tiny spark to set him off and for him to reveal his true colors. The second thing to tell him is that he deserved every horrible thing that happened to him in his childhood because he is fundamentally inferior, and you know what? Maybe he deserved even more, because sometimes he seems to forget that fact. The third thing is that not only did he deserve the abuse, but it made him a better person. Toughened him up and prepared him for the cruel reality of the world he lives in. That without it he would have been soft and pathetic and too kind. Despite it all, he still wants to be all of those things, so who's to say that one more slap to the face wouldn't have fixed the problem? The fourth thing is to tell him that nobody will ever really love him, because he only functions as a means to an end. He is a product to be used and discarded as necessary. He was born to meet the needs of others, and we'd all be shocked if he didn't die meeting the needs of others. Fifth is that his daddy should have beaten him to death when he had the chance so that everyone could've been spared the misery of ever having known him.

Why do you want to hurt him so bad? Hasn't he been through enough??? :(

I feel like I should preface this by saying that half of this stuff is just what's going through his head on a semi regular basis :/

Now that we've bullied him to death, here are some things to tell him that he might appreciate: first thing is that no person on earth deserves to be hurt like he was hurt. That it wasn't his fault, that he didn't do anything wrong, that the only ones to blame are the ones that let it happen in the first place. Second thing is that so many people DO actually love him and care for him. Even the ones that don't say it. Even people he probably doesn't know about. They don't see him as a means to an end, they don't pretend to care only because they want something he can give, and they have no plans to cast him aside when they've used him up—because they aren't going to use him up, and because there's nothing to use. Third is that it doesn't matter where he comes from and it doesn't matter who his stupid parents are because you are the person you choose to be, and DNA has nothing to do with it. Kindness and love and aggression and evil are not inherited at birth. Fourth is that nobody cares that he's short and nobody would bat an eye if they saw his scars.

--

👽 Describe your oc as if they were an urban legend or myth!

The first survivors of the death of the gods claimed there was a silent white crane that would fly across the sky each night. If you were lucky enough to see it, fortune would follow. The words meant little in the aftermath of the gods' death, but some found comfort in it. As the years passed, the simple tale grew into something more. There were whispers that when the gods fell, something new was born in their wake. Not a human, not an animal, not a god. Somewhere in between. People wondered if perhaps the elegant white crane was the hybrid the gods left behind. After all, fortune followed wherever it was seen, in the same way Kefnei once bestowed fortune to the most devout followers.

Some wanted to worship the solitary bird, and some wanted to hunt it. All wanted to find it. If not to kill it, then to capture it and make it their own. Of course, the mysterious bird would always outsmart hunters and couldn't be found. In fact, no one spotted it for years. Decades, even. It didn't take long for the memories to fade and for the hunts to end. The white crane had nearly been forgotten, until one clear night, far north beyond the Jarhuan sands... the solitary white crane flew from one corner of the sky to the other. Many saw it that night, and just as it had in the old days, fortune followed those who spotted it. Fervor grew again, and those fortunate enough to see the beautiful crane glide through the dark sky wanted nothing more than to take it for themselves. They wanted to unlock the secrets of the lucky little creature, be it god or not.

And again, the white crane disappeared, this time for centuries. The legend of a graceful bird that promised good luck to any who might witness it never truly faded, and people painted murals of white birds over their doorways and hung crane feathers over fireplaces in an attempt to harness even a fraction of the good fortune that the mythic white crane offered.

Some say the bird never existed at all, that it was something people told each other to make themselves feel better in the remains of a ruined world. Others believe a king on an isolated continent in the southern hemisphere caught the bird and kept it for himself forever, and that's how he's lived so long and kept his people so happy. And others still believe that the white crane flies free, but that it only makes its appearance to those who truly deserve to be graced with good fortune.

--

⚖ What is the biggest crime your oc has committed? Are they a thief, a cheat, a liar? What is the smallest, most petty crime they've committed? Or do they not do crime at all?

Go-Eun is a bit of a thief lol. She grew up with very little and got good at sneaking around to steal what she needed. And I know lying isn't technically a crime but she is an exceptional liar. She's like. the best liar and the best secret-keeper in the business, and she has to be that way because she's Ciaran and Anwei's right hand man and she has to keep their secrets! Also they taught her pretty much everything she knows about the fine art of manipulation.

Anyway, as for biggest crime... uh, does murder for the sake of revenge count? When she was fifteen she DID murder the man who killed her sister after tracking him across the continent for three years. Since then, she's made it a habit NOT to, um, kill people. She got it out of her system, and it felt good and righteous but there's still lingering guilt and she'd prefer not to do it ever again. She leaves that sort of thing to people with less stringent morals. And for a “petty” crime? Stealing food to feed people that need it. Listen, nobody's going to know that stuff is missing anyway. If she didn't take it, someone else would.

[passionate-reply]

This week on Great Albums: one of my favourite “hidden gems” of the mid-1980s, Blancmange’s *Mange Tout* is about as extra and in-your-face as it gets, full of dense arrangements, gender-bending bombast, and musical instruments from Southern Asia.

Welcome to Passionate Reply, and welcome to Great Albums! This time around, I’ll be taking a look at one of my favourite hidden gems from the mid-1980s, the sophomore LP of Blancmange, entitled Mange Tout.

Despite their relative obscurity today, particularly in comparison to many of their contemporaries, Blancmange weren’t total strangers to the pop charts. Their first full-length LP, 1982’s Happy Families, would yield the biggest hit of their career: “Living on the Ceiling,” which peaked at #7.

Music: “Living on the Ceiling”

While it never got to be a chart-topper, “Living on the Ceiling” is still an unforgettable track in its own ways. Perhaps its most distinctive feature is its use of the traditional Indian instruments, the sitar and tabla. While 80s synth-pop is certainly full of Orientalism, most of the references you’ll find are pointing to the Far East, and the perceived aesthetic sophistication and techno-utopian futurism of China and Japan. Aside from certain works of Bill Nelson, Blancmange were pretty much the only ones engaging with South Asian musical themes. Blancmange’s instrumentalist, Stephen Luscombe, grew up in London’s Southall neighbourhood, which had a high population of immigrants from Southern Asia, which led him to a lifelong interest in Indian music. Combined with electronics, it makes for a totally unique sound, which ends up sounding better in practice than it might in theory.

While any time White European musicians turn to alternative cultures as artistic tools, there’s a valid cause for some degree of criticism and concern, there’s also an artsy, left-field un-hipness about Blancmange, who seemingly drew from Indian music not only alone, but purely for sonic enjoyment. Unlike the exotic fantasies spun by groups like Japan, none of Blancmange’s songs seem propelled by any specific idea or ideology about India, but rather seem to tackle common pop themes of love and heartbreak against a seemingly *non sequitur* musical backdrop. While we, as listeners, might have strong associations with particular sounds, this is ultimately more cultural than innate, and there’s really no reason why a composition with Indian instruments must revolve around some theme of “Indian-ness”; it isn’t like people in India don’t also fall in love. However you feel about these influences, the role of Indian instruments is only increased on Mange Tout, where they appear on multiple tracks, including the album’s most successful single, “Don’t Tel Me.”

Music: “Don’t Tell Me”

On Mange Tout tracks like “Don’t Tell Me,” not only do the instruments return, but so do the session musicians who had performed on “Living on the Ceiling”: Deepak Khazanchi, on sitar, and Pandit Dinesh, on the percussion instruments tabla and madal. “Don’t Tell Me” is a track with a lot of pop appeal, lightweight and singable, which makes it a bit surprising that it was actually the final single released from the album. It certainly impresses me that Blancmange managed to create such bubbly and finely tuned pop, given that neither of their core members came from any formal or technical background: Luscombe had had a history in avant-garde music ensembles, and vocalist Neil Arthur became interested in music via the DIY culture of punk. Their first-ever release, the 1980 EP Irene & Mavis, sounds more like Throbbing Gristle than Culture Club, but they somehow managed to arrive at something quite sweet and palatable in the end. That said, it’s also possible for sweet to eventually become too sweet--and this line is provoked on the album’s divisive second single, “That’s Love, That It Is.”

Music: “That’s Love, That It Is”

In contrast to the lighter “Don’t Tell Me,” “That’s Love, That It Is” is utterly bombastic, with a vicious intensity. The instrumentation and production style is dense to the point of being borderline overwhelming. By this point in his life, Stephen Luscombe had recently discovered that he was gay, and his time spent in nightclubs that catered to the gay community provided another pillar of Blancmange’s signature sound: the influence of the queer disco tradition, which is almost certainly the source of this tightly-packed instrumental arrangement style. Blancmange never seem to be mentioned in the same breath as other stars of queer synth-pop like Bronski Beat, Soft Cell, and the Pet Shop Boys, presumably due to the combination of their overall obscurity and the fact that Luscombe was never the face of their band, but I see no reason not to include them in the same pantheon of camp. Speaking of queerness, it’s also worth noting how Blancmange played with gender, particularly on their cover of “The Day Before You Came.”

Music: “The Day Before You Came”

A solid eight years before Erasure’s iconic Abba-Esque, Blancmange offered their own interpretation of an ABBA classic with “The Day Before You Came.” In their hands, it’s a languid dirge, and a meditation on quotidian miseries for which the titular event seems to offer little respite. The unchanged lyrics, portraying the narrator working in an office and watching soap operas at night, are subtly feminine-coded, but the deep and unmistakably masculine voice of vocalist Neil Arthur seems to muddle those connotations. While it is a cover, I’m tempted to sort it into the same tradition as Soft Cell’s “Bedsitter” and the Pet Shop Boys’ “Left To My Own Devices,” as a work which musically elevates the everyday life of a campily self-obsessed character to the sort of melodrama the narrator perceives it to have.

I’ve spent a lot of time praising the instrumental side of their music so far, but it’s also true that Blancmange wouldn’t be Blancmange without Arthur’s contributions. The presence of his rough and untrained voice, with the added gruffness of a Northern accent, draws a line between these tracks and a typical pop production, and he sells us quite successfully on the gloomy, ominous feeling of tracks like “The Day Before You Came” and the album’s lead single, “Blind Vision.”

Music: “Blind Vision”

On the cover of Mange Tout, we find an assortment of seemingly unrelated items, which form a sort of graphic wunderkammer against a pale beige backdrop. Perhaps the best theme that could be assigned to them is that of travel--we see several means of transportation, such as a boat, a motorbike, and an airplane flying above a map, as well as items that can be taken as symbols of exotic locales, such as a North American cactus, and an elephant and Zulu nguni shield from Africa. Only the harp is clearly evocative of music itself--and this instrument won’t even be found on the album! The album’s title, “Mange Tout,” suggests that we are getting “full” Blancmange, or “all of” Blancmange. Taken together, the cover and title seem to imply that this album is stuffed to the brim, and contains a whole world of musical ideas. I would definitely agree that that’s a major motif of the album: it’s audacious, explosive, and free-wheeling. It very much feels like an album that was put together on the back of a first initial success, with a pumped-up budget and bold creative vision, and hence pulls no punches. Perhaps the most compelling feature of Mange Tout, and the primary reason I recommend this album so highly, is its unbridled enthusiasm for what it’s doing. Even in its ostensibly experimental moments, Mange Tout feels not like an album that is “trying” something, but rather one that boldly and assuredly proclaims the things it does, and embraces a kind of “more is more” maximalism.

In hindsight, it’s easy to see Mange Tout as the creative as well as commercial peak of Blancmange’s career. Their follow-up release, 1985’s Believe You Me, is far from the worst album I’ve ever heard, but it definitely doesn’t feel quite the same as the “classic” Blancmange works, adopting a more middle-of-the-road, radio-friendly synth-pop direction, with less of the South Asian influences and experimentation that really set them apart in the saturated synth-pop landscape. While not a work devoid of merit, Believe You Me was a relative commercial dud, and the duo would split soon after, chiefly citing personal and creative differences--though they did have a brief reunion in the early 2010s.

Music: “Lose Your Love”

My favourite track on Mange Tout is “All Things Are Nice,” which, alongside the neo-doo-wop “See the Train,” would be classed as one of the more experimental tracks on the album. Full of tension, “All Things Are Nice” alternates between eerily whispering vocals from Arthur, and a variety of samples from other media--which was still a relatively cutting-edge technique for the time. “All Things Are Nice” is almost certainly the most conceptual track on the album: as samples discuss world war, and Arthur whispers that “we can’t keep up with it,” the song is probably to be interpreted as a commentary on the runaway nature of technology and so-called “progress” in the modern age. The titular assertion that “all things are nice” seems to be ironic--or perhaps it embodies a sheer love of chaos and unpredictability, for their own sake, which would certainly fit the album’s mood. It also feels like it might be a sort of defense of the album itself: like I said, *Mange Tout* is serving us “all of Blancmange,” and isn’t it fun to get to have all of something? That’s everything for today--as always, thanks for listening!

Music: “All Things Are Nice”

[djinmer4]

Freaking hated the formatting of the last post so here it is again.

~~~~~~~

“Alright,” Jiang Cheng dropped his jacket on the coat stand and took the chair in the center of the room.  “I did what you asked and followed you to your torture chamber, now can you give Sandu back to me?”  He tried to match the other’s teasing tone from earlier, but the attempt fell flat and his voice came out as serious as ever.

Behind him, he heard the click of the lock, and Nie Huaisang circled around to take a seat behind the desk.  “Oh, it’s not my torture chamber; it’s Meng Yao’s.”  The older man ran his hand up the scabbard to rest on the snakes decorating the hilt and Jiang Cheng swallowed, throat suddenly desperately dry.  “Besides, you don’t really need Sandu right now, do you?”

He scoffed, trying to cover up his nerves with bravado.  “You know that’s only a temporary thing, just until Wei Wuxian heals up enough to get back on the field again.  He was so insistent about how Suibian would miss out on all the action, I’ve been using it just to shut him up . . . “ His voice died as Huiasang tilted his head and gave him a half-smile.  “What?  Do you know something about that idiot’s injury?”

Gold flashed from the other’s eyes.  “Not my secret to tell, unfortunately.”  They sat in silence for a while, Jiang Cheng stewing in a mix of apprehension and anger.  The only reason he didn’t get up and leave the room immediately was the fact he had just seen his foster brother two hours ago, testing out some new training routine with Lan Wangji.  He knew he was fine, confronting him about being more hurt than Jiang Cheng had initially assumed could wait.

Huiasang must have gotten impatient because he started talking.  “Right here, right now, I want to put an offer out.  I didn’t want to chase you down, so taking Sandu was the only way to make sure you saw me.”

He took a deep breath and tensed his shoulders to keep them in place.  “You didn’t have to take so much trouble, I would have followed you anyway if you had just asked.”

“Thanks, but I wasn’t so sure.”  The other chuckled and stood up, walking in front of the desk.  He slipped his fan open and waved it in front of his face.  It hid the lower half, but the way those gold eyes crinkled at the corners gave away the smile.  After a second, he reached behind him and held Sandu up again.  He slipped the blade out of the sheath, smiling. “I want to cut you in on something.  It’s a bit crazy and risky but I think it would be worth your while to trade the typical for something a bit more colorful.”

The sword was placed back down on the desk, and he stepped close to Jiang Cheng.  The fan came up to trace his jaw and the younger man swatted it away, hoping desperately that Huiasang hadn’t noticed how his pulse had jumped at the indirect touch.  “I think you’ll want this opportunity.  A chance for a different part in the play, on the other side of things.  I mean, you could do like you do, or you could do like me.  Stay in the cage of the Jins have put you in or take the key.  Take the chance to fly.”  He pulled back but left his hand extended.

“Are you . . . “ One severe eyebrow quirked.  “Are you asking me to defect?”

“Of course not.  Just consider siding with a different faction within the Agency.”

“Okay my friend, you want to cut me in.  Well, I hate to tell you but it just won’t happen.  So thanks but no.”  He stood and collected his jacket from the coat hook.  “I think I’m good to go.”  He hesitated for just a second.  “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone about this.”  He turned and walked back to the other.  “I admire you and that whole show you’re doing with R&D.  But I’m a field agent, not an analyst.  I’ll have to leave that up to you.”

He held out his hand for Sandu, but Huiasang slid it behind him with a slight smile.  Frustrated, Jiang Cheng stepped on the chair, trying to intimidate the other man into following his wishes.  He leaned down to catch Nie's chin in his hand, forcing the Quartermaster to tilt his head up and have citrine meet topaz.  “I’m fine with the role I play in the Agency.  I’ve got what I need and I don’t need to see the other side of things.  So go and do what you do; I’m good to do like me.”  He turned away, stepping on the back of the chair to drop to the floor.  The change in position hopefully hid the disappointment on his face.  This was not what he had been expecting (dreaming) when Huiasang had stolen Sandu and asked to speak to him in private.

He walked over to the door, but when he tried the handle it was sealed.  “Dammit!”  Not wanting to turn around and needing an outlet for all his emotions, Jiang Cheng leaned back and kicked the lock in.  But before he could leave, he felt a soft hand land on his shoulder.

“Is this really how you like to spend your days?  Whiskey and misery?  Bad info and delays?”  The field agent tensed again, eyes wide, knowing the head of R&D was talking about Wei Wuxian’s FUBAR mission.  “Oh don’t give me that look Jiang-xiong, I’m the one you drag to the bar every night.”  Innocent eyes narrowed.  “You know what happened to Wei-xiong wasn’t an isolated incident, merely the worst one in the last year.  The worst one since my brother.”  And oh, that made Jiang Cheng flinch and turn away.  No one talked about Nie Mingjue, not with him still in a coma.  That had been a mission gone bad too.

“If I were mixed up with you, I’d be the talk of the Agency.  They’d say I was losing my edge, becoming one of the clowns.”  Because it was true.  Never mind that Huiasang had turned R&D around from when Meng Yao had been promoted to 2IC, never mind what Jiang Cheng thought about him, Huiasang was still the laughing stock of the entire agency.  The useless, younger half-brother of the indestructible (or so they thought) agent 007.  Huiasang’s dismal failure at anything physical or weapon-related was downright infamous even among the paperpushers.  Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji may not mind being stained with the younger Nie’s bad reputation, but Jiang Cheng wasn’t so thick-skinned.  A tryst would have been one thing, a professional relationship was another.

The older man followed him out into the hall.  Despite his irritation, he found himself stopping to listen to that calm voice.  “But you would finally have some control over things, have a chance to make sure something like this doesn’t happen again.  No one can stop every mistake or obstacle luck throws at us, but at least this plan can prevent the Agency from having more ‘incidents’ with malice-aforethought.”  Jiang Cheng turned around.  The older man smiled and drew Sandu, causing light to flash right into his eyes.  “Now that seems like a deal worth taking.”  Huiasang swept to a low bow, holding out Sandu to the field agent.  “But I guess I’ll leave that up to you.”

Jiang Cheng swallowed, then put his hand on his sword.  He thought about Nie Mingjue, bloody and unresponsive when they had finally found him in that forest.  He Sheng, who had been tortured to death after his cover had somehow been blown.  And finally, Wei Wuxian, barely alive when he crawled out of the Burial Mounds, on a mission that Meng Yao had personally signed off on.  “Alright, I’m listening.”