#not really understanding the real purpose of these things that appear on the ocean floor. he just thinks they're “neat”...

[cosmicwhoreo]

Maybe Grand Reef Cookie shouldn't always try to make the things he finds into some sort of tea or meal....

[popopretty]

Storm Bringer Spoilers (6)

One of my favorite scenes where Port Mafia went all out on Verlaine in CODE;4. I like this part because it introduced a lot of Port Mafia’s skill users that have never appeared in both the manga and the other novels. It was so fun to read. 

Dazai made some interesting statements and theories here too. I like the dialogue at the end, where he kinda slipped and let out some of his real emotions. 

PS: I can’t believe I actually typed out 5000 words! I was drafting this on my phone so I didn’t notice the actual amount of words. I know it’s not gonna be perfect and I am gonna make mistakes and I will want to punch myself so much but gosh, I am so proud of myself now!

...

The train driver put one hand on the handle, his eyes staring at the darkness in front of him.

Twenty-seven years of service. He is a veteran. He has held this handle through rains and winds, through the Great War where the bombs poured down like rain, messing up the landform.

Even for him, today’s job is unusual.

The train company he works for was bought out overnight. Together with the trains and the service schedules. Then he was ordered to operate a temporary ride. Yet there is only one passenger on this train. Even when he protested to his boss, what he got was only “stop questioning and just drive.” And then one more thing, “If you run away, it will be even worse.”

The driver took another look at the scenery in front of him. The trees have sunk into the darkness. All he could see were the silver railroad tracks and the yellow headlight. Those are the only guidelines to tell where the train is heading.

What his boss said might actually be true. Putting other cities aside, this is the unorthodox Yokohama. Anything can happen. Even if there is only one passenger, he has no intention to talk to them. If he does so, he might end up having to catch his cut off head with his chest.  _

At that moment, from the eternal darkness of the night that looks no different from the bottom of the ocean, he felt something moving.

His well-trained eyes managed to capture it from the distance. Is that an animal? No. Is it just the trees rustling? No.

That’s a person.

A person is standing on the track.

He pulled the break even before his brain went ”Oh no”.

The compressed air was released, and the train’s speed reducer made a violent metallic noise. But it was too late. The train bumped straight into that human figure.

However, that figure took the train’s hit. A tremendous force was applied on the train. The first car jumped forward. It was like they were being pulled, the rear cars also jumped off, derailed, rolling over into the woods. Like a rampaging huge iron snake, the train hollowed out a big area around it, knocked down a bunch of trees, before finally stopping.

The person who witnessed the whole event, Verlaine, smiled with satisfaction. He took the train head-on but suffered no scratches. He started walking. Towards the car with Mori Ougai. Jumping over the cars half-buried underground, getting through the cars whose electric system were starting to catch fire, he reached his target.

Mori Ougai was lying face-down. The train was fully flipped sideway, the walls become the floors and the ceilings became the walls. He was facing away from Verlaine, not moving an inch. From beneath his body, a pool of blood is slowly spreading.

He did investigate the target’s skill in advanced. It’s not the kind of secret that a formal spy like him cannot find out. Mori Ougai does not possess a skill that can withstand such an impact.

“Too easy.”

Verlaine muttered and approached his target. He is not as stupid to walk away without confirming if his target is really dead or not. He is going to check and if by some rare chances the target is still alive, he will finish them off for real.

Verlaine flipped Mori Ougai’s body over. Then his eyes opened wide.

That was not Mori Ougai.

That was a man he had never seen. He was wearing a wig and clothes to disguise as Mori Ougai. But Verlaine’s assassination preparation was thorough. He had set up a hidden surveillance device in the last station. And the images taken from there were definitely Mori Ougai’s.

When he grabbed the man trying to confirm his identity, suddenly a hand was put on his chest.

“Too easy.”

A powerful repulsive force coming from a skill blew Verlaine away. He flew through the glass windows and landed on the humus soil outside. He rolled further while scattering the soil, and hit his back against a tree before finally stopping.

”... Not bad.”

Verlaine push his hand on the tree to stand up.

He brushed off the dirt from his clothes and started thinking. The face he saw at that moment moment, the repulsive force coming from his palm. That was probably one of Port Mafia’s constituent members, the one who with the repulsion skill, Hirotsu Ryurou.

A double!

They knew about the hidden device and let Mori Ougai’s image captured on purpose, then quickly switched the double in. In other words, Verlaine’s assassination plan was seen through. Ever since he came to this country, he only knew one person who has the ability to outsmart him with such finesse. 

“Hello, Verlaine-san.” A small was sitting on the edge of a car, on top of the overturned train.

“Dazai-kun”, Verlaine said as he picked up the hat that had fallen to his feet. “I have heard the saying that age doesn’t matter when it comes to talent, but you are really frightening.”

“You are just bad.” Dazai said with a dry voice as though he was lecturing Verlaine. “This time you acted on your personal feelings too much. When you are like that, I can read all your moves. Why are you so obsessed with Chuuya?”

“Is it that strange for someone to be concerned about his brother?”, Verlaine said as he dusted the mud off his clothes.

“It is, a lot.” Dazai affirmed. “First of all, what made you believe so firmly that Chuuya was your brother?”

“What?” Verlaine narrowed his eyes.

“You saw that too, right? Chuuya’s original experimental body. Turned into bones and died.” Dazai spoke while swinging his legs that were dangling out of the train top. “That looks almost the same as Chuuya in terms of appearance. In terms of abilities, too. And a lot of other things in common. What if that thing was actually a skill-containing artificial life form, and the Chuuya who is living outside, whose only redeeming trait is being energetic, was the original one? Can someone like you who is not an expert, someone who has only browsed through limited materials from the past, see through that?”

“That is impossible.” Verlaine shook his head. “I’m not as stupid as to mistake the target in my infiltration mission. What I stole away from the lab nine years ago was undoubtedly the same as me, an artificial life-form.”

“If I look it up I will understand right away.” Dazai said casually. “Fortunately this time, the guys from the labs has demonstrated the method to rewrite the code formula inside Chuuya. If I capture some of those researchers using Mafia’s power, they will be more than happy to tell me how to read those codes. And then I will know which one Chuuya is actually. We have all the time in the world.”

“You seem pretty confident that Chuuya is human, don’t you?”

“I am”, Dazai laughed with a sigh. “There is no way a man-made string of code could create such a personality that I detest that much.”

Verlaine signed then started walking towards Dazai. His footsteps were heavy, as if he had to clean up a lot of tedious work.

“I can gently whole-heartedly explain to you the reason that was a misunderstanding... but now I have another job for you.“ he said, walking up the gentle slope that he fell from. “That is to spit out where Mori himself, not his double, is. It’s a painstaking job. Literally”

“So you have no intention to back off?”

“Of course not.”

Dazai didn’t look at anything, he gazed aimlessly into the air, “Is that so?”. Then he spoke with a disappointed face, “Then it is your loss.” A sniper bullet went straight for Verlaine’s head. Verlaine bent his upper body, and felt down the slope of humus. He rolled three times then looked up, looking at Dazai with stern eyes.

“Sniper?”

Before he could finish his sentence, yet another bullet struck Verlaine’s forehead. He almost fell to his side, pushing his hands against the ground to support.

“Your ability only works on things that you can touch.” Dazai said, swinging his legs as he looked down on his opponent. “That’s why the bullets that hit you will hit you. They just stop immediately. However, if we aim a larger sniper bullet, which has several times the velocity of a normal bullet, then it will still give you a blow the moment you use your gravity to stop it. Also...”

Dazai casually raised his hand.

From the top of the hill, through the gaps of the trees, from inside the humus, on top of big trees, more than fifty sniper bullets were fired at Verlaine at the same time. All the bullets pierced him, Verlaine growled.

Verlaine tried to hide under the shades of the trees while protecting himself by gravity. But even in the places he ran to, he got attacked from behind. Even if he tried to lower his posture to hide, the attack would come from above the trees. He had nowhere to run.

“To be able to set up this many snipers... in such a short time...”

A bullet pierced through Verlaine’s clothes and slid through his skin. It’s not a wound that could make him bleed, but there are so many of them. Ten shots in one second, then twenty, and more kept coming. It’s like the air that surrounds his whole body has become his enemies and attacked him.

Verlaine had no choice but to protect his head with his two arms and rolled himself up.

“You picked the wrong opponent, Verlaine-san.” Dazai chuckled. “I am an expert when it comes to dealing with gravity. Because no matter if I wake or sleep, the only thing I think about is how to annoy Chuuya.”

“Don’t underestimate me!”

While enduring the rain of bullets that were striking him, Verlaine grabbed a tree close by and pulled it out of the ground.

“You think you can kill me with this kind of rock throwing play? Verlaine swung the tree, trying to throw it. He planned to use the tree as a spear to crush the snipers who were hiding faraway in the dark.

However, that hand of his stopped halfway.

It was because the tree had been cut into pieces.

“Hoho, if I look closely, you look terribly like my subordinate.”

There was a flowing female voice as graceful as the sound of harp.

The burning bright red hair, eyes of the same color. Her crimson red

ombré looked like the color of ripen maple leaves. The most eye-catching thing was what floated beside her, a masked demon in a kimono. The demon was tall with long hair. She carried a sword of almost the same height as a child, as if it had no weights at all. The golden kimono melt into the air from her knees downwards, showing that it was not a real body.

“However, it was Mr. Brother who selfishly tried to poach our boy from us. I guess I can let that go after cutting off one of your limbs or two. So you’d better get lost quickly.”

Ozaki Kouyou. The Port Mafia’s young sword-woman. A powerful skill user who took Chuuya as her subordinate, accompanied by the golden demon, an embodiment of her skill, a beautiful beast.

Kouyou rolled a bright peony-colored umbrella on her shoulder. And then she twisted its handle and pulled it out. A silver blade appeared. A hidden sword.

“Mafia’s skill user?” Verlaine smiled like a beast. “But what can a mere ability user with two swords can do against gravity?”

Verlaine lowered his posture, ready to jump at Kouyou.

“Who said that I was alone?”

Verlaine’s body sank in.

Startled, Verlaine looked at his feet. The ground undulated like a snake, swallowing his two legs and even crawling up. 

Verlaine was caught by surprise. He got rid of the gravity of his own body and jumped up. He landed on a trunk of a tree nearby. But even the trunk that definitely looked tough started to liquify the moment his shoes touched. It reached for Verlaine, trying to eat him up.

“This is...” Verlaine leaped again. However, the spot he planned to land on already turned into a mud with a will of its own, opening its mouth to wait for him.

“Hahaha. Keep running, young man. Youngsters like you exist to entertain this old man. Please die quickly and offer your head to me.”

Coming from the darkness of the woods was a big, strong man who looked just like a big tree. A military uniform that has faded in places. His bristle looked like a sewing needle. He wore a judo belt around his waist, and wooden clogs on his feet The arms folding in front of his chest were as thick as a tree that has lived for hundred years.

Port Mafia’s elite, a veteran who survived the Great War. His nickname in the organization is “Colonel.”

He swung his arms like an ancient tree and squeezed his fist tightly in front of his eyes. At the same time, the ground started to muffle. The liquified soil, trees, even the overturned train, all rushed to attack Verlaine in the air. An skill user who can manipulate objects and turn them into liquids?

Verlaine kicked the first wave of liquified soil that came towards him and retreated backward. But the soil was also coming from that direction. Even if he tried to change his orbit to run, liquified soil was still coming from beneath his feet and above his head. If they touched him they would still be blown away by the gravity, but the liquid will start to cover up from the top again, giving no time for Verlaine to prepare a counter attack.

On top of that, as if to stitch up the gaps, there were sniper shots coming from all directions.

“Tch...”

Verlaine densified a small amount of dust in the air, and stepped on that to leap his body up. He wanted to take some distance. Abilities that manipulate things like Colonel’s, in most of the cases won’t work for things that are out of their sights. That’s why he planned to hide deep in the wood then throw a huge rock enforced by gravity to finish them off.

An odd thing entered Verlaine’s field of vision at that moment.

A watch.

A watch was floating in the air.

From the outside, it looked just like a normal pocket watch. A dial with numbers, a long hand and a short hand, a crown, and the internal mechanism peeking out from the edge of the dial.

The strange thing about it was that it had a size of a man’s upper body. Also, it kept turning around as if it was staring at Verlaine.

Verlaine, who possesses a wide range of knowledge on skill users, sensed the danger from that watch almost immediately.

He tore off one button from the sleeve of his suit and amplified its gravity until it weighted dozens of kilograms. Then he threw it towards the watch.

That button comet holding enough power to knock down a building, however, couldn't interfere with the watch. It smoothly slipped through the watch, knocked off trees and disappeared into darkness.

“You can’t destroy that thing.”

A gloomy voice came from the ground.

Verlaine diverted his gaze and without his notice, a boy was already sitting on the ground. He was hugging his knees with his two arms, looking miserable. He looked up at Verlaine.

“It’s no use. That thing looks at everyone. Including me, and you. We have no choices but to die. One day it will find us. One day it will catch up with us. It’s　“time”. It’s the enemy of us all.”

He looked and sounded miserably. His clothes were so long it became awkward. The hems were all frayed. The boy who was so skinny you could see his bones through his clothes glared at Verlaine and waved his finger as if he was telling him “Come here, come here.”

The two hands of the watch clicked and pointed to the number 12 at the same time. Immediately afterwards, the watch in the air was sucked into Verlaine.

That was not a metaphor, it was literally sucked into him, into his chest.

Being wary of the disappeared watch, Verlaine stiffened his body. But nothing happened. There is nothing within his sig...

The liquified soil twisted around his legs.

Startled, Verlaine shook the liquid off by gravity. Then he looked around. He had got pretty far away for sure. It was so strange that the liquified soil could chase him this close. Right after that was a shock. A sniper bullet hit his head. Verlaine span halfway in the air. He landed on the ground, scraping the humus to stop.

It was weird. The speed of the sniper attack went up. The speed of the bullet by the moment it reached him was so fast that even if he used gravity to bounce it back, he was also blown away by a corresponding force.

“Did they replace their guns or bullets with more powerful ones? No, this is...”

The ground liquified again. Verlaine jumped out to dodge, before being eaten by the soil. But the speed of the liquid tentacles that extended and followed him also increased. Verlaine took a quick look around. From the treetops that were hit by the sniper attack just now, leaves were falling down. They were not fluttering, they were dropping as if they were stabbing the ground. This means, the attack speed didn’t get faster...

“Was my time... slowed down?”

“Everyone will die before me.” the gloomy boy stared at Verlaine with dubious eyes filled with hatred. “Brothers, parents, everyone will be killed by time. But I will get away with it. With this special power of mine”

A skill user who meddles with time. For the first time, Verlaine got a cold sweat on his forehead.

Time manipulation is not just a powerful skill, it is a extraordinary skill out of this world. As far as Verlaine knew, there were only a few cases reported in the world. The fist on the list of those time manipulation skill users who are separated from the world’s reasons, was a former skilled mechanic, H.G. Wells. After creating the skilled weapons called the “Shell”, she disappeared and became the world’s worst terrorist.

The time manipulation type of skills tinker the basic principles of this world, and rewrite them at will. Because if you look from the universe’s perspective, time and space are equivalent. The time manipulation skill users hold the same power that can alter the world, just like Verlaine’s gravity. Verlaine whose movements have become dulled because of the time delay　was flooded with Mafia’s attacks. All the bullets, the swords and liquified soil.

Even if he tried to retreat, because his time has been delayed, he could only move sluggishly as if he was under water.

Verlaine’s expressions became stiff.

Dazai gracefully looked at the wooded area echoing with gun shots and roaring sounds. He looked down at the battlefield that had turned into a hell, with such a carefree expression that cooled down in the night breeze._

“This is the rule of this world.” Dazai spoke like he was singing. “It applied in all times and ages, all creatures, the absolute truth. In this world, a group is stronger than an individual. A skill user is stronger than a group. And then...”

Feeling the pleasant cold breeze coming from the blasts of the battle on his cheeks, Dazai smiled.

“... a group of skill users are stronger than one skill user.”

Verlaine pushed his body’s gravity to the max. With a powerful driving force that surpassed the effect of the time manipulation skill, he quickly escaped from the battlefield. Verlaine’s bones cracked at the sudden speed acceleration that exceeded his limit.

Even when the danger struck in front of him, Verlaine’s judgement did not falter. It was not yet a hopeless situation. He would retreat as much as he could, taking as much distance he could from the waves of skill attacks. Then he would fix his posture, manipulate the gravity of the bullets that managed to reach him, repel them and knock down the skill users, one by one. That would be his win then.

Only three skill users. Not too much of a difference in strength.

Suddenly, blood came out from his skin.

Verlaine looked at his cuffs. The skin under his clothes was peeled off, exposing the flesh inside. But only a little blood came out. He felt almost no pains.

He landed down on the ground as a reflex. Upon touching the ground, the skin inside his shoes also came off. He could tell by the slippery feel from it. But again, there was no pain.

That was a new skill attack. But the true nature of it immediately became clear.

His breath was white.

His skin is frozen, there was frost on his eyelashes.

“Let us be held. By the frozen love. Let us be held. By the frozen flower that breaks in its full bloom.” the new skill user appeared, singing with a thin and screechy voice.

Long, white hair, white fur around her shoulders, white breath. And a crimson red rose on her chest. Every time the woman takes one breath, the trees around her froze, cracked up and snapped due to the water inside it freezing and expanding.

Verlaine understood it right away.

A skill user who can cool off the temperate. The reason why his skin was peeled off earlier was because the skin was exposed to the low temperature and got stuck to the inside of his clothes and shoes. His body really became that cold in just an instant. He was frozen from flesh to born, but not much time has even passed.

A super dangerous skill user. Freezing attack does not involve physical clashes. That’s why he can’t dodge them using gravity. It is his natural enemy

Another sniper bullet hit Verlaine’s shoulder. He groaned in pain.

The bullet was cold. It froze by the time it touched his skin, forming a frost pillar. The low temperature invaded into him through the wound, eating up his flesh.

The enemies attacks were too synchronized. Time delay, freezing, sniping. Apparently, it was a tactic that had been put together to block all of Verlaine’s strengths and exploit his weaknesses. There is still something strange about this. He has been retreating at a considerable speed since a while ago, yet the gunshots never stopped. His escape route was totally seen through. Normally if he ran at this speed in the woods in the middle of the night, he would immediately disappear from the telescopic sight. Losing the targets, sniping attack would definitely become impossible. So why?

“Hihihihi, what a sweet face. Hey, just between us, but if you cry and slobber and apologize here, maybe I will let you go this time?”

The voice was close. Really close.

Verlaine turned to that direction.  No one was there... No.

In the middle of no where, a hole the size of a coin was opened. It was like the space was burnt and hollowed out, and on the other side of the hole was another different space. From that side, a black eye was staring at this side through the hole.

“Yes, it’s me. You are being watched. From now on, you can be assured even if you lock your toilet door hihihihi”

The hole was so small to see the entire thing. But that eye alone is enough. The eye was filled with malice. It had been watching Verlaine, chasing him and reporting about his positions all the time.

Verlaine fired a rotary kick by reflex at the hole.

“Oops.”

Right before being hit, the hole closed up and disappeared.

“I’m here.”

The voice came from behind. When he turned around, the same hole had been opened in a different place, looking straight at Verlaine.

That was the type of skill that connects space and monitor the targets. The skill user was probably sitting in another safe place, and monitoring the whole battle using their space connection skill. He couldn’t attack the actual skill user. If he tried to touch it, it would close immediately so he wouldn’t be able to destroy it using gravity.

Just how many skill users they have thrown in this battle?

“Hihihi, I have a present for you. From Port Mafia with love.”

From the coin-sized hole, flower petals flew out. Countless petals surrounded Verlaine then started to shine white. Yet another new skill.

The moment Verlaine tried to take a quick avoidance action, all the flower petals exploded at once.

From the train where he sat, Dazai could see the light from that explosion very clearly. The white light split open the woods at night, the afterglow burnt into the night sky.

Dazai looked at that scene, he was grinning.

“How is it going, Dazai-dono?”

From inside the train, a middle-aged man appear. He was wearing the boss’ outfit. He was the one who played the boss’ double, Hirotsu.

“As you can see, it is going well. So well that it is boring.”

In the direction he was pointing, the explosion sound was echoing, trees were falling, sniper flashes and low frequency noises were ringing non-stop.

Hirotsu took off the wig, put on the monocle he always has on, and narrowed his eyes.

“As one would expect.”

“Of course, I had to earn a lot of time to prepare all this. “ said Dazai, who was crossing his legs elegantly like a royal. “Chuuya and I had a terrible hard time fighting Randou-san. So this time I came prepared. Just to kill Mr. Assasin King from Europe, I had to gather a total of 422 people from the combat troops and 28 skill users. That is the full strength that Mafia can put in now.” At the scene where they were looking, the cold air and gun flashes kept shining. Verlaine tried to escape by threading his way in between the trees but a yellow-white ray burnt off the whole night sky, blocking that escape route. That was yet another skill user.

The plan was extremely simple. Setting up a trap and waiting. Chuuya and Adam drafted the same tactic before to defeat the Assasin King. The plan that Dazai carried out was basically the same. Identify the next target, set up traps around that target, and ambush Verlaine from behind when he appears.

The only difference between this and Chuuya’s plan is the scale of those traps. What have been set up as traps this time, was the entire Mafia’s overwhelming combat unit. The result was a one-sided destruction.

“We can keep this battle going for the whole night.” Dazai said as if he was whispering to Verlaine from far away. “Verlaine-san, you are a flawless assassin. With that vivid skill of yours, you have never once been traced down and surrounded like that, haven’t you? That’s why you have no experiences when being cornered by such a skill users organization. Even Randou-san was afraid of that dangerous flawlessness of yours.”

Dazai took out the leather notebook.

Rimbaud’s memoir. The journal Rimbaud had kept about the birth as well as full accounts of skill user Verlaine.

“I mourn for you, Verlaine-san.” Dazai put his hand on the notebook and said as if he was praying. “I mourn not for your death, but for your birth. No one mourns for you for being born. The only one who does is you yourself. That is the reason you fights... I think you are amazing. You despise the fact that you were born, you despise your own power, you despise the world. And by doing that, you came to accept your meaningless life. How wonderful that is. I don’t have that kind of courage. That’s why I wanted to talk with you more. But this is already goodbye.”

Dazai stood up, turning his back on the battlefield in front of him. He walked away.

“Dazai-dono?”

“Report to me when it is done.”

Dazai’s voice powerlessly fell to his feet. He walked away.

The next moment. A black way swelled over the battlefield.

...

[cicada-bones]

The Warrior and the Wildfire

Chapter 7: Forged

Hi! so. yeah. I'm really sorry. I had a very hard feburary and then a surprisingly difficult march. but i promise you - this isn't going to be abandoned, just taking longer than usual unfortunately. Please let me know what you think!

word count: 3418

Masterlist / Ao3 / Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

A male, all in black, felt his muscles relax as the lights slowly flickered out of the warehouse across the way. As if someone was walking through the apartment, room by room, blowing out candles. The male looked until nothing more was visible through the darkened window, and a small sigh passed his lips.

A cold wind blew towards him, carrying his death-kissed scent back to the glass castle instead of towards the apartment before him and the Fae hidden within. Lorcan knew that Whitethorn and Galathynius were in the bedroom, but there was another – a male – hidden up on the roof.

The ancient warrior scoffed. It had been even easier than he thought it would be. Without magic, they were all completely helpless. Weak.

All he’d had to do was leave a false trail from the docks through the city and into the busy market square, then turn back to the harbor and wait. Wait for Whitethorn to appear, and guide him straight to the princess.

By that very night, he’d done just that.

Lorcan had to be careful to keep out of sight, to keep the wind at his back and his scent out of Rowan’s path, but before long, his quarry was in sight. That fire-breathing-bitch-queen, arrogant as ever. She was with two others; one, the male who was currently guarding the roof, the other, a human female, with a scent like figs and mint. Soon, the female peeled off from the group, her path headed towards that monstrosity of a castle.

While Lorcan didn’t follow her, he made sure to memorize that unusual scent to keep tabs on her later. Then he followed them back to this warehouse hidden deep in the slums, and the apartment hidden within.

It had all been so easy, so simple. He’d been the one who trained Whitethorn, after all. Lorcan knew how the male worked. He just hadn’t expected him to be this vulnerable without his magic. The idiot hadn’t even bothered to fortify the warehouse when they arrived.

Probably too distracted by the princess’ lips. Or her legs.

It hadn’t slipped Lorcan’s notice that when the lights had gone out, they were both in the same room. A room that contained only one bed.

Disgust rippled through him, disgust and fury. All Lorcan wanted was to slide off his perch, rush into the warehouse, and root the two birds out of their nest. But he had to wait, wait until he could catch them off guard, until there wasn’t a sentry to warn them of his approach.

For even now, without magic, Lorcan couldn’t be completely sure that he could overpower Whitethorn. The easiest way, the only reliable way, would be to separate them. To capture the princess and hold her hostage, ensuring that Whitethorn would stand down. While he negotiated for the keys.

In the meantime, Lorcan could scout out the city, discover its weaknesses and patterns and hidden pathways. So he could plan his attack.

So as the whispers in the bedroom quieted, and even the memory of candlelight had vanished, the warrior slid off the roof and onto the street below. Letting himself be consumed by the night and trying his best not to think of just how completely and utterly alone he was.

Without a nation, without a queen.

All he had left was his purpose, and he would follow it through to the bitter end.

···

Rowan awoke to an empty bed, Aelin’s scent swirling all around him, fresh and clean as the daylight streaming through the window beside him. He could hear her shuffling about the kitchen, filling a kettle with water and lighting the stove.

Rowan turned and stretched, his muscles pulling and tightening in all the right places. It had been wonderful to finally sleep in a real bed, with space lie down properly, instead of curled into that rutting wooden box.

His body and mind felt settled, comfortable, and it wasn’t just because he was finally well-rested. For the first time in over a month, Rowan had slept without a single nightmare.

There were no screams on his lips, no haunting images behind his lids, sweat on his limbs, bile in his throat. Nothing.

Rowan almost felt tears bud in the corners of his eyes, the relief was so intense. He wouldn’t ever let Aelin get away from him again. So long as she wanted him, so long as she needed him, he would be there.

Rowan listened as another set of feet entered the kitchen. There was a moment of silence as the two demi-Fae regarded each other, a moment where Rowan prepared to intercede if necessary. But then he heard Aedion say, softly, “There are mushrooms somewhere.”

“Good,” Aelin said, only the slightest edge to her voice, “Then you can clean and cut them. And you get to chop the onion.”

“Is that punishment for last night?”

A sound like cracking eggs, then, “If that’s what you think is an acceptable punishment, sure.”

Aedion’s voice seemed somewhat cheerier. “And is making breakfast at this ungodly hour your self-imposed punishment?”

“I’m making breakfast because I’m sick of you burning it and making the whole house smell.”

Aedion laughed quietly, then shuffled forwards, the sounds of a knife on a cutting board starting from the other side of the wall.

“You stayed on the roof the whole time you were out, didn’t you?” Rowan could hear the smile in Aelin’s voice, and he felt his lips twitch in response.

Pots clattered, and butter began to sizzle. “You kicked me out of the apartment, but not the warehouse, so I figured I might as well make myself useful and take watch.”

Rowan found himself nodding with approval. The male had crossed the line, but at least he had made himself somewhat useful. But remembering what he had said to Aelin last night…it was enough to make his hackles rise.

Rowan forced himself back to calm as Aelin said, “We both have atrocious tempers. You know I didn’t mean what I said, about the loyalty thing. Or about the half-human thing. You know none of that matters to me.”

It was definitely the best apology he was going to get. And far more than he deserved.

A short hesitation, then, “Aelin, I’m ashamed of what I said to you.”

“Well, that makes two of us, so let’s leave it at that.” There was a moment when all Rowan could hear was the scrape of a metal whisk in a glass bowl, then, “I - I understand, Aedion, I really do, about the blood oath. I knew what it meant to you. I made a mistake not telling you. I don’t normally admit to that kind of thing, but…I should have told you. And I’m sorry.”

Another tension-filled silence. Aedion was holding a knife…

Rowan kept himself very still, until finally, “That oath meant everything to me. Ren and I used to be at each other’s throats because of it when we were children. His father hated me because I was the one favored to take it.”

A pause was filled with more sizzling from the pan, now with what Rowan was pretty sure were fresh green onions. “There’s nothing that says you can’t take the oath, you know, Maeve has several blood-sworn members in her court.” Aelin said. “You can take it, and so can Ren – only if you want to, but…I won’t be upset if you don’t want to.”

“In Terrasen, there was only one.”

“Things change. New traditions for a new court. You can swear it right now if you wish.”

Against his will, Rowan felt his teeth grit together. This pause felt even longer than the others.

“Not now. Not until I see you crowned. Not until we can be in front of a crowd, in front of the world.”

Rowan couldn’t help but feel a bit relieved. He couldn’t begrudge Aedion the blood-oath, but still. He wanted Aelin to himself, for just a little bit longer.

Aelin dumped the mushrooms in the pan. “You’re even more dramatic than I am.”

Aedion snorted. “Hurry up with the eggs. I’m going to die of starvation.”

“Make the bacon, or you don’t get to eat any.”

Then the two cousins started to laugh, and this time, Rowan really couldn’t help the smile that sprang to his face. Their laugh was one of such old friendship, Rowan knew that he was no one to get between them. Knew that these petty disagreements were nothing to the depth of their relationship. The last two children of Terrasen’s throne. The two survivors.

Rowan breathed, then turned to rise from Aelin’s queenly mattress to see about some breakfast.

···

An hour later, they were all fed and watered and were now standing in a wide clearing among the stacks of crates, the late morning sunlight slanting through the windows near the high ceiling of the warehouse.

After breakfast, Rowan had finally gotten around to fortifying the apartment. Aelin had already done a pretty good job with it, heavy locks on all the windows, two types of barrier at each entrance, a carefully disguised exit down the back stairs hidden behind the kitchen, and a first floor that, for all intents and purposes, appeared to be that of a completely abandoned warehouse. There was no indication at all of what lay above.

From the inside anyways. There were six windows on the first floor, all half-width, and four more in the apartment above. Rowan was itching to scout the vantage points from the surrounding buildings, to check what could be seen from the outside.

But after spending half an hour carefully going over every lock and seal, Aelin had dragged him down to this clearing hidden in the center of the warehouse. And Rowan couldn’t deny that he was intrigued to see how Aelin had held up her training this past month, and to find out whether the northern wolf’s bark was worse than his bite.

Rowan and Aelin started with stretches, and after a few minutes she threw him a sparring stick and they started their routine warm up from those misty mornings in Wendlyn’s mountains, falling back into a pattern as warm and familiar as waking up in a bed suffused in her scent.

Sparring with Aelin was glorious. Even with the time spent holed up on the ocean, her movements were fluid and luscious and deadly. She flew between poses, the sparring stick a deadly extension of her arm.

Watching her move, their eyes locked together – it made him want to knock that sparring stick aside, shove her into a wall and peel off that tight black suit –

Rowan breathed deep, his eyes flickering shut for second. And the momentary distraction allowed Aelin to get behind his guard and rap him on the chest hard, her eyes glinting.

Rowan growled at her.

Aelin had always been a formidable swordsman – even during that time after he’d collected her from Varese, when she was drunk and dirty and so, so broken. However, she was now stuck in her human form.

So after a few minutes of easy sparring, Rowan executed a series of cuts and slashes that pushed her back into a defensive position, then when she was distracted finding her feet, Rowan knocked the stick out of her hands.

Aelin smiled wickedly at him, her eyes promising revenge as she turned to collect her sparring stick. Before she could unleash any of it on him, Rowan turned back towards her cousin, and after assessing his balance, strength and agility, began instructing him in a few complex maneuvers.

The male was tired, and clearly distracted by all that had been unveiled over the past few hours. And he was also in pain. He hid his grimaces as best he could, but every time a movement stretched his left side, his teeth would grit. And no matter how careful he was trying to be, his movements off his left side were slow and strained.

Rowan hid his exasperation best he could, even if he knew that Aelin had noticed the exact same details from across the clearing, and was not pleased with her cousin’s pigheadedness.

After half an hour with Aedion, Aelin stalked over from where she had been exercising and said, “I think that’s enough for today.”

Aedion stiffened, ready to make a rebuttal. Rowan held in his growl, his eyes flicking between the two cousins.

A moment passed in silence, then Aedion’s eyes narrowed, then turned back to Rowan. “I heard a story,” the young wolf drawled, “that you killed an enemy warlord using a table.”

Aelin spoke before he could, “Please,” she scoffed, “Who the hell told you that?”

“Quinn – your uncle’s Captain of the Guard. He was an admirer of Prince Rowan’s. He knew all the stories.”

Aelin’s eyes slid to meet Rowan’s, and he smirked at her, bracing the sparring stick on the floor. Her lips twitched, her eyes twinkling with surprise. “You can’t be serious,” she said. “What – you squashed him to death like a pressed grape?”

Rowan choked. “No, I didn’t squash him like a grape.” He shot her a smile. “I ripped the leg off the table and impaled him with it.”

“Clean through the chest and into the stone wall,” Aedion said.

“Well,” said Aelin, snorting, “I’ll give you points for resourcefulness, at least.”

Aedion rolled his neck. “Let’s get back to it.”

Aelin’s lips pursed, and she shot Rowan a look that said, Don’t you dare kill my cousin. Call it off.

However, Aedion wasn’t so slow-witted to miss the look that passed between them. The general’s jaw tightened even as his fingers tensed around the sparring stick. “I’m fine.”

“A week ago,” Aelin said, “you had one foot in the Afterworld. Your wound is still healing. We’re done for today, and you’re not coming out.”

“I know my limits, and I say I’m fine.” The demi-Fae’s words were tight, terse. Rowan found his lips spreading into a slow, sly grin. Aedion met his eyes, his brow tightening.

If he wanted to play, Rowan would play. The cub needed to be taught a lesson.

Aelin groaned, but kept her distance. Rowan found that he was grateful – if she intervened this time, it would take even longer for this to be resolved, and then who knows when it would finally be settled.

Rowan had nearly a full second’s warning before Aedion attacked, a simple feint to the right and swing low. Rowan dodged efficiently, deflecting and positioning to the offensive. Off-balance, Aedion swung his stick upwards on instinct, deflecting Rowan’s blow. Rowan let the young wolf hit the next blow, his lips tugging upwards almost against his will. This would be even easier than he had expected.

Rowan made to sweep Aedion’s legs out, but the wolf twisted out of the way just in time, stamping hard enough on Rowan’s stick to snap it in two and simultaneously making to swing his stick right into Rowan’s face.

Rowan ducked, grabbing the two halves of the stick in his fists and going low, swinging at the general’s legs. Aedion didn’t see the move coming, and had no time to react before he was flat on his back, gasping for breath and tears winking in the corners of his eyes as pain arced through the partially-healed wound in his side.

Rowan was already in place, one half of the stick pressed into the male’s throat, the other in his abdomen, a snarl echoing in his throat.

Aedion was just blinking beneath him, astounded. Rowan made sure his words were quiet enough that Aelin, with her human ears, couldn’t hear him. “Your queen gave you an order to stop – for your own good. Because she needs you healthy, and because it pains her to see you injured. Do not ignore her command next time.”

The muscles in Aedion’s jaw flickered, eyes blank.

Rowan’s eyes narrowed, fury licking at his bones. He pushed the sticks in a little bit harder. “And,” he added, “if you ever speak to her again the way you did last night, I’ll rip out your tongue and shove it down your throat. Understand?”

The general’s jaw seemed to relax slightly, the anger fading from his eyes. His words were hardly more than a breath, “Understood, Prince.”

Rowan stood and backed away, then whirled around as a bright, “Hello!” sounded from the doors to the warehouse.

A beautiful woman with piercing green eyes and flowing black hair was striding into the warehouse, her steps controlled and powerful, but not in the way of the warrior. More in the way of the wildcat.

This must be Lysandra.

Rowan relaxed slightly. Lysandra shut the rolling door behind her, boxes and bags in her arms. She moved like a cat too – soft and silent on the cobbles. No wonder Aelin was using her to spy on Arobynn for them.

She took two steps into the warehouse, then stopped in her tracks, her eyes meeting Rowan’s. Before they could do any more than look at each other, Aelin had stepped around him and was grabbing bags from Lysandra’s arms and steering her into to the apartment above.

Within half a minute they were both gone, the door behind them shutting with a soft click. Rowan turned back to Aedion, who was easing himself up from his sprawled position on the ground.

“Is that Lysandra?” Rowan asked.

“Not too bad on the eyes, is she?” The wolf’s eyes flashed.

Rowan snorted. “Why is she here?”

Aedion began prodding his side, checking to see if the stitches were still intact. “She probably has information about Arobynn.”

Rowan held in a grimace, shutting out the name of that bastard assassin to keep it from distracting him too much. “Yet she doesn’t want you to hear it?”

“I think she finds everyone but Aelin boring,” Aedion said, an edge in his voice. “Biggest disappointment of my life.”

But Rowan didn’t care about this arrogant male and his conquests. For the first time in a long time, she had found someone. Not a warrior, not a cousin. Someone she could keep for herself. He smiled, just a bit. “I’m glad she found a female friend.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Aedion’s brow furrow, wondering at the change. Rowan let the softness fall from his face, turning his gaze back to the prince. “Aelin’s court will be a new one, different from any other in the world, where the Old Ways are honored again. You’re going to learn them. And I’m going to teach you.”

This was why he was here, he reminded himself. To form the foundation of her court. To make sure it would be strong.

“I know the Old Ways.” Aedion scoffed.

“You’re going to learn them again.”

The general pulled himself off the ground, his shoulders set back as his expression steeled. “I’m the general of the Bane, and a prince of both Ashryver and Galathynius houses. I’m not some untrained foot soldier.”

Rowan gave a sharp nod, a concession. This was a prince – he could not forget. “My cadre, as Aelin likes to call them, was a lethal unit because we stuck together and abided by the same code. Maeve might be a sadist, but she ensured that we all understood and followed it. Aelin would never force us into anything, and our code will be different – better – than Maeve’s. You and I are going to form the backbone of this court. We will shape and decide our own code.”

“What? Obedience and blind loyalty?” Aedion wasn’t taking the olive branch, but Rowan wouldn’t let the sharpness in his tone get to him, not when he was so close.

He felt the weight of his words as he said, “To protect and serve.”

“Aelin?”

Rowan met Aedion’s eyes, and the wolf’s did not quaver. “Aelin. And each other. And Terrasen.”

Aedion held his gaze for another moment before looking away, but Rowan knew that the young demi-Fae understood. That Aedion knew that what they were daring was something that no one had dared for a very long time. If ever. And that their success would require more than just strength or bravery or strategy.

That this precious, fleeting thing could be stronger than iron, than rock, than the very mountains thrust up from the depths of the earth.

But only if they forged it together.

···

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[sloppy-butcher]

I will sacrifice my first born for a part 2 of dare you with joey

well anon, hand it over. give me the baby

edit// this thing is long like godDAMN i need to relax. hope yall enjoy it :)

Part 1: Dare You - Joey x Reader crackfic

Double-Dare You

The Legion (Joey) x Survivor!Reader

The pallet dropped against the concrete wall with a loud whack followed by a disgruntled shout. Joey reeled backward, his head aching from the collision with the wooden object. At the moment of successful contact, you spun around to the killer and passed him the biggest shit-eating grin you could conjure. Joey catches your elation and decides to ignore the pain to instead focus on you. 

“Y’know, I’m still waiting for an answer,” Joey said, his tone casual as if this were a conversation taking place between equals in a normal situation. You rolled your eyes amazed by how stubborn and oblivious the man appeared to be - he would not drop the topic for anything, not even as he chased you with a hunter’s knife poised. “When are you going to take me on that date you promised?” This earned a chuckle from you, fully swinging round to face the masked man with your arms crossed over your chest.

“You’re joking, right?” He tilted his head feigning ignorance. Your smile stretches to an impossible brightness, how exactly this killer always made you feel so giddy and playful was beyond your simple understanding. Perhaps it was because you had never experienced a killer who was so talkative and lively, this being such a unique situation that against your better judgment you decided to humor it and actively encouraged his behavior. It was fun. “And where,” You shake your hands in the air, “would I take you on this hypothetical date?” Joey hummed, standing straight with his knife tapping under his chin in a contemplative manner.

“That should be for you to decide really. Though we could always go check out some cool places. These realms,” he gestures to the weepy forest around you both, “are ten times cooler when they are empty.” You raise a curious eyebrow, demanding an explanation without uttering a word. He sighs and lifts his foot to kick the pallet. “I mean, that cowboy saloon place is pretty awesome on its own. All old-western and shit. But it would be even cooler if it was just us two.” At the sound of the wood splintering, your instinctive reaction was to flee to another pallet leaving the man's comment to fall of deaf ears. Joey followed but stayed far enough behind to not have his skull caved in with another hit. You bring the new pallet down between you two and once again spin around to the killer.

“Tell me again why exactly I have to take you on a date? I don’t remember doing anything wrong.” You spit at him, venom dripping from every syllable of your inherently rhetorical question. Joey smirked under his mask - oh you were a feisty one alright. Cocky and proud even when kneeling at the feet of a predator. Rather than kicking the pallet, Joey let it sit between you two, making it an honorary truce-table. You would not run if he did not chase. And he only wanted to talk. 

“Because you harassed me. Remember?” You shake your head in a mischievous ‘no’ earning another grin from the enthralled boy. God, you were good. Doing absolutely nothing at all but dragging him in all the same. “You smacked my ass,” Joey deadpans, “And you never made up for it.” 

You smile at the reminder of your triumph from a few trials previous. Though you were scared pant-less at the time, looking back now only filled you with the taste of sweet victory. You would not let anyone convince you to do anything like that again, not even Meg with all her stupid, little games even if it did somehow end up with the outcome of befriending a killer. 

“I don’t see why I have to pay anything for that little smack,” You toss your head and throw him a coy eye. You practically see the man shake from restrained laughter and knew that you had him wrapped around your little finger. You could easily manipulate him just as he could easily kill you. You shudder at the glimmer of the knife in his hand but decide to focus on the conversation rather than his purpose being there. “It was a harmless little thing.” You pull your hand up to your mouth to nonchalantly hide your growing grin.

“It was twice.” Joey retorts matter-of-factly. He watches as you release your tense posture, throwing a hand on your hip and rolling your eyes. 

“Oh please, that is nothing really. Besides,” Your gaze falls down to his knife again and you feverishly swallow your mounting fear. “You have done far worse things to me.” At your words and pointed implication, Joey’s confidence plummets to the ocean floor. Of course, you would never trust him willingly, not after all he has done. And though he knew full well that he could just take you if he truly wanted to, Joey denied his animalistic urge in favor of keeping the peace. He wanted to keep your fire - preserve that genuine playfulness that he oh so enjoyed lest he shatters it by forcibly caging you. 

“I know you have no reason to trust me,” Joey’s voice has lost all semblance of the peppy court-fool it was just moments before, catching you off-guard in its sudden change. He lowers his hand that holds his weapon, moving it behind his back so that it was out of your view.  His head drops, the ebony eyes peeking out from underneath his mask glistening with unmistakable remorse. “But, when I say that I don’t want to hurt you. Please know that I mean it.” You wanted to scoff, to call his bluff and his terrible acting skills but something about his tone made you hold back your comments. There was a pure genuineness in his voice that flickered a light of hesitation in your head. Maybe it was your nativity or that stupid part of your brain that always wanted to see the good in people, but you believed him. You believed that he did not want to hurt you. At least not now. 

“What about my friends?” You ask through your dawning affinity, guarding your words with the last ounces of your resistance to him. He was pulling you into him, dragging you down into those deep-as-night eyes. 

“I will let them all go. But only today. Next time I…” Joey turns his head away from you, embarrassed and partly ashamed that he could not even offer you a solid answer. “There are things you don't know. I can only spare you sometimes before It gets angry.” He sighs and his shoulders deflate, making him look pitiful and small. You frown and feel yourself unconsciously step towards him, reaching out to try to comfort the killer. “Please believe me.” 

“I do. I do believe you.” You spoke without thinking, stepping closer to the pallet, and to him. He instantly raises his head at your words and approach, surprised by your forwardness but nonetheless delighted. “For some reason, I do believe you. But I can’t…” You pause, shaking your head free from the intrusive thoughts daring to bubble over, “I can’t be alone with you. Not yet.” Joey understood that completely and a little too eagerly, nodded his head in agreement. 

It wasn’t much but it was a start. And he was beyond happy to be given this opportunity.

“For now, I suppose.” You cringe inwardly as the idea formed in your head and moved into words. “I suppose you can smack my butt if it will even the odds.” Joey nearly fell over at your suggestion. He bit back a laugh and had to spin around so that he could compose himself. You watch as he doubles-over, clutching his stomach while emitting sounds of stifled giggling. After a few minutes, he straightens and faces you again, his expression and tone stone-like. 

“Yes. I think that would suffice.” He narrows his eyes cunningly, “For now.” With your mouth agape in shock, you scoff and throw your arms up.

“Dude! I was joking! I didn’t think you’d actually agree to it?!” You feel your face begin to heat up. The man tilts his head ever-so-slightly and you could physically see his enjoyment growing at the expense of your humility. From the way he was standing so assured in his next decisions, you had the dawning realization that there was no way to talk him out of it now. Sucking back your pride you bite your lip and glare daggers at the man.

“Fine. Just,” You twist your body around, presenting your ass to him. How embarrassing. How humiliating! Every inch of you burned from excruciating pain, birthed from the pure absurdity of the situation as it finally rested upon your shoulders. “Just make it quick!” You practically shout over your shoulder, your face now a burning furnace you were sure was bright enough to light up the night. Joey was overwhelmed by your willingness to oblige and for a second, contemplated if this was even real. Just minutes before he was chasing you, begging you to so much as to stop and talk to him, give him just one single chance to try to reach out. And now, in the most brilliant and wonderful course of events, you had offered yourself to him! His fingers itched, his heart pumped louder than gunshots. 

“Close your eyes.” Joey reactively says without planning or action. He only realizes his command when he notices your confused expression. “Please, trust me.” Your face flickers, shifting between utter bewilderment and denial. Then something clicks and you agree, closing your eyes and squeezing them shut. Joey goes to break the pallet, its job as instigator between debating parties no longer necessary. You flinch at the sound and fight the inherent urge to run from it and the monster behind the noise. Suddenly you feel him closer, the brushing of fabric against your bare arm lets you know that he was standing right beside you.

Ordinarily, killers breathed obnoxiously, panting loud and hard like hungry wild boars with their teeth bared and frothing saliva dripping from their bleeding lips. But as the man neared you, coming closer than you had previously ever allowed him to, he was quiet and gentle as a bee. Buzzing around slow and tentative, asking for you, a sweet flower, to open up and let him rest. He held back that part of him that had scarred you so many times before, confining the violent boar in favor of being human - if only for a moment.

Joey’s heart threatened to pump straight out of his chest, the hammering so boisterous in his ears that all he heard was thumping and all he saw was you. Your lip twitches, your eyes furrowed shut tense as his shadow covers your face. He slowly lifts up the bottom of his fabric mask, careful about his movements so as not to alert you. You were so much like a rabbit, frightened and easily spooked - he could not risk losing you now that he was so close. So close - close enough to…

In the blind obliviousness, you grow impatient, wondering why he had not already taken his chance you return his ass smack tenfold. But as you went to open your mouth to curse his slowness, a pair of lips land ever-so precariously on yours. Light as the cool breeze of a winter’s morning, so soft that you doubted they were even there. It was only when you pushed up into them did you realize their fullness. The man was kissing you - if you could call this weak excuse of a peck a kiss. He was scared to force himself on you, scared to chase you away if he let loose his full eagerness to consume you, and in doing so barely even allowed himself to touch you. You appreciated his controlled reluctance and as your boldness grew, so did your pressure into the embrace. You deepen the kiss and you feel the man shudder.

After a few seconds, the man pulls away gasping, his hot breath cascading across your flushed cheek. You stand there a moment longer with your eyes closed, unsure of what to do after this peculiar sequence of events. You feel the man move his lips once more to your tender face and place one last kiss on the corner of your mouth. 

“The name’s Joey by the way.” He whispers into your skin, his voice a creamy, dark mess. The power you had over him, even in something as simple as a shy kiss, was immeasurable. Joey knew he couldn’t be around you for much longer lest he does something regrettable so begrudgingly he lowered his mask and stepped back. He looked you over one last time before sprinting off into the foggy abscess in that unnatural speed of his. You watch the whiteness consume his form and scream after him, 

“That was not part of the deal!” But Joey was long gone before the first word had even left your mouth. Suddenly you couldn’t wait for that date.

[numbaoneflaya]

You can count on me to pull up with a thousand of questions sbdhdh. A3, A22, C5, D3, F3 for Jilly ; A18, A23, B9, C1, H2 for Nirn ; A5,B9, C8, D1, I5, for Thurwen ; A9, A13, C1, E8, and G6 for Valkya? 😏

A3, A22, C5, D3, F3 for Jilly ;

A3.Do they have any emotional or psychological conditions? Are they aware of it? Do they try to treat it?

Shawty got that stockholm syndrome in a way. She is…. Sometimes aware of it, though she wouldn't call it that any more. Maybe at first in the basement she was more aware, but now that she can come and go she thinks its a thing of the past. tries not to dwell on it. Kind of in a “well its literally not that bad its kind of fun its kind of romantic were just quirky <3” way, will get mad if someone insists she has stockholm or that the relationship is fucked. Will get enraged and upset on Vincent's behalf, probably cry and yell at you.

A22. Is your OC intended to be found generally attractive? Unattractive? Average? Is there a reason why?

I intended her to be fairly average, maybe kind of cute. It's generally the way she dresses/acts in public that draws attention, not her looks. I tend to make most of my ocs on the average scale besides a select few.

C5. Do your OC’s morals and rules of common decency go out the window when it comes to those they don’t like, or when it’s inconvenient? Aka, are their morals situational?

Good question…. Jillys morals are pretty simple- always be kind and nice, murder and hurting other people is bad, and you shouldnt lie. She sticks to those pretty strictly herself despite the situations she gets put in, often to her own detriment. But she doesn't always put a stop to those behaviors from the people she surrounds herself with, so she's sort of accomplice to bad acts of violence just by not snitching. So somewhat situational? She tries not to think about it.

D3. How comfortable are they with the idea of death?

Not comfortable! She hadn't seen a lot of it before her early twenties and was always sort of sheltered. dead fish are flushed down the toilet bcs they go to the ocean to live again, right? Thought cows and such all died of old age peacefully before they were made into burgers until she was like… twelve. 💀Won't kill mice and other critters despite her prey drive bcs she would feel too bad. And this is just for animal death, she's much more uncomfortable with human death. Also a thing she tries to ignore.

F3. Could they ever live in a “tiny home”?

God no. She hates small spaces unless she's hiding in them and tiny homes have no room for all the shit she stashes! No room for zoomies, or climbing on the furniture, or wrestling around on the floor. It would be filled with junk within a week.

A18, A23, B9, C1, H2 for Nirn ;

A18. Do they get jealous easily? Do they feel bad if they do?

He's never had much to be jealous of, as he's never really been over involved in romantic relationships. They were usually mutually beneficial and somewhat clinical in nature. Hes also pretty sure of himself and his value as an asset and lover. If he finds someone who peaks his interest and they become an item though, he might get jealous if he catches them flirting with other people. Hell be peeved at first but know flirtation in business has its value, so to make himself feel better might flirt with someone else while they are nearby. Make a game of it, see who wins.

A23. Does your OC place much importance on their appearance? Do they feel confident in it?

Appearances are crucial to him and spends a lot of time and money making sure he looks his best. He needs to appear above the rabble and impenetrable, dressing well and having immaculate posture and an air of both grace and otherworldliness.

B9. What kind of humor does your OC like the most? Slapstick, ironic, funny sounds, scare pranks, xD sO rAnDoM…

Definitely not one to find fart jokes funny. Very rarely laughs genuinely or full heartedly, he keeps all his expressions of emotion close to his chest. Sharp sardonic wit is appealing to him in the right circumstances, even a jab directed at himself can make him chuckle if it's well formed enough. Irony almost always gets him, even if its dark irony or gallows humor. Bit of a hard nut to crack. Would laugh enough that hed have to cover his mouth with his hand if he were to see Felix fall face first into mud, though. More often than not you can tell he finds something amusing by a gleam in his eyes and a slight squint.

C1. Does your OC have a moral code? If not, how do they base their actions? If so, where does it come from, and how seriously do they take it?

Well he used to have a real moral code :/. Now I mean…. The ends justify the means. By any means necessary. He considers his family's needs first, then the good of the world, then any individual in the world. Has ordered executions of entire families, had babies stolen and sent away, sent armies to certain death knowing full well they would all die, commanded individuals be tortured for information, sacrificed many in what he considers to be a game of chess where he is the player and others are the pawns. He finds senseless violence and savagery to be unforgivable, but if violence has a sense and purpose to employ it, then he will do so.

H2. Is your OC a thoughtful partner, in whatever aspect of that you want to cover?

Nirn tends to be a very thoughtful and attentive person in general, just for the wrong reasons lmaoooo. But with a lover? He's going to be utilizing that to show them how much he cares and using his powers for good. Mention you like a certain fabric while shopping one time and then complain your favorite tunic has a wine stain in it several months later, he's going to be taking your measurements for a new one in your preferred material without a moment's notice. Very keen on picking up moods, expressions and tone. Also has a very good memory. He doesn't really think about it but gifts are how he shows his love. Also a great attentive listener.

A5,B9, C8, D1, I5, for Thurwen ;

A5. Are they good at handling change in their life?

I would say so, yeah. Shes been used to things constantly changing since she was little and has had little to no control on outside influences. Shes also not one to over think about the past and lament, shes more of a one foot in front of the other, the only time is the present kind of gal. Of course large changes like becoming a warden were a bit more severe, but shes mostly able to think in the present as long as she has immediate problems to deal with.

B9.What kind of humor does your OC like the most? Slapstick, ironic, funny sounds, scare pranks, xD sO rAnDoM…

Slapstick is always gonna make her laugh as long as nobody gets seriously hurt, even if its her own ass tripping into a tree. Not a fan of scare pranks, 0/10 recommend trying to scare Thurwen. You will end up with a broken nose at best and an angry elf. Likes puns, but she's the one to groan at them and try and hide the grin spreading across her face. Gallows humor but only if its her in the gallows, otherwise doesn't find it funny at all. If a little kid calls someone a fartcicle she will be tears in the eyes giggling, which is hard when your warden commander and everyone looks toward you to be serious and mature gyshsdhdfsghsd.

C8. Is your OC more practical or ideal morally? I.e., do they hold people to high expectations of behavior even if it’s not realistic for the situation, or do they have a more realistic approach and adapt their morality to be more practical?

She definitely holds herself to moral ideals and is very hard on herself, but has realistic moral expectations for others. She can understand self serving and people only wanting to survive and she will only give people a little bit of shit for it, no one's perfect. But then she expects herself to be perfect and berates herself constantly for not living up to the hero of ferelden warden commander ideals.

D1. How religious is your OC? What do they practice, if anything? If they don’t associate with any religion, what do they think of religion in general?

Atheist ever since her mom died when she was a kid, but now Shes in a weird mixed state ever since the urn of sacred ashes where shes like. fuck the maker, but Andraste is cool I guess. So respects/believes in the power of Andraste while thinking the maker is a piece of shit and the chantry sucks ass. Even she doesnt know what she really believes, but she did see the ghosts of Andrastes disciples and Shartan, used her ashes as healing salve, killed an old god, etc. So shes been in a weird place recently, crisis of faith/non faith pretty continual.

I5. Are they a good cook?

I mean…. She can cook basics. Shes been feeding herself and the alienage kids since she was old enough to walk so she knows how to get protein and make things edible. Does it taste good? Probably not. She didnt see her first spice till she was 17 years old, but she can skin a rabbit in seven seconds.

LA9, A13, C1, E8, and G6 for Valkya? 😏

A9. Does your OC make a lot of excuses? For themselves? Others?

She tries to excuse bad behavior of herself or others a lot, yeah fgdgdsfhdhs. Mostly she doesnt have to make excuses for herself because she can wholeheartedly be like “yeah i fucked up but whatever im sexy and large and awesome and everyone loves me 🙄whatever baby” and when other people fuck up shes pretty sympathetic even though they are not as large nor as sexy. Shes very used to forgiving and excusing herself its totally alien to her when she really fucks up and is suddenly like wait… valkya…. Did bad?? What is this feeling. Shame?? Guilt?? IMPOSSIBLE.

A13. Does your OC have any phobias? If so, where did they come from?

She hates those giant bugs in morrowind and valenwood a whole fucking lot but I wouldnt exactly place it as a phobia. Those huge mosquitoes and haorvers got no respect but she really hates the morrowind bugs ever since they knocked her over and jumped her while she was pants down peeing drunk as hell in the sand :/ never forgave. Never forgot.

C1. Does your OC have a moral code? If not, how do they base their actions? If so, where does it come from, and how seriously do they take it?

She was raised in a healthy household that tought the basics, prety much “harming others needlessly, stealing, torture, rape, dessecrating the dead, being selfish and not doing right by others, etc etc all basic bad things” are her morals. Her morality is basically treat others how you want to be treated. And if they treat you badly, then have fun beating the shit out of them to show everyone else not to fuck with you. Its a pretty nordic morality in that way. Her morality is also since she was ‘blessed’ with being so large and strong, that she has to also look out for the little guy who cant protect themselves. So If someone treats them how valkya wouldn't want to be treated, then beat the shit out of the person harming them to show them the little guys got backup. Her parents raised her to be a hero and thats p much how she sees herself, which has its benefits and its fuckin problems.

E8. What’s one of your OC’s biggest regrets?

Fucking up Dem and Dariens relationship for sure dude :/ valkya always gonna be sulking over that one. She doesnt regret becoming a vestige, even though it would have made her so much happier not to be because it ended up saving so many people and the world. She regrets not spending more time with Naryu, regrets always having other life saving business she had to run off to, regrets not cherishing the time they had together. Regrets not telling Lyris how she feels, either. Regrets not being able to save as many people as she should have, regrets she wasnt stronger in coldharbor and didnt break out herself. But she tries not to think about it <3

G6. Do they have any favorite childhood memories?

When she was seven she once spent two months training to hold her breath underwater, because her cousin always held it longer and won the gold bet. She trained for hours almost drowning in the river until she could comfortably hold it for up to three minutes. During the next holiday when they all got together again the competitions were on and they both went under- her cousin won, holding their breath for four more minutes before they decided to come up. This was the first lesson she learned that shocked her world view- you always need to know your opponents capabilities. (after she lost 26 gold in the bets, her mother later had to inform her that her cousin was an argonian.)

[dear-yandere]

succor.

yandere! jotaro kujo 3. major spoilers for stardust crusaders (part 3). word count: 2,600+. tw: bullying, implied depression, drowning, death, gore, and grief.

art credit: ロク. 

He carries himself with poise, an assurity few could ever possess. He is the personification of perfect — alas, a man who appears perfect, like a statue which leaves many in awe, a statue whose marble insides have begun to slowly erode, a statue who’s already begun falling apart. There exists not a soul who can fix him, no sculptor skilled enough, no human kind enough to fix his flaws before anyone else can catch on; Jotaro Kujo is his own sculptor, and he’s forgotten how to mend his broken pieces.

For as long as he’s known, he’s been a soldier. A boy soldier, who bears the weight of the world atop shoulders of steel, shoulders which shake and tremble when no one is looking. He is a soldier without a commander, a soldier without a purpose, and he was content with that. But he is a soldier who’s fought a battle meant for ten thousand men, a battle which has long ended, a battle which still plagues him; he is a soldier who’s fought god and he is only seventeen.

When did it begin, he wonders? When did his marble bones and stone veins start to crack? Was it that day? Becaues he remembers being bullied. He remembers taking each insult, like poison-laced daggers, and thinking nothing of it. He remembers the wrinkles, the eye bags, the grey hairs which had started to pepper his mother’s face at around the same time. He remembers the questions, the sobbing, her desperate pleas, her hesitant knocks on his bedroom door. He remembers her somehow finding out, remembers her standing up for him, one day, in the school yards. And he remembers his bullies trying to hurt her, too.

He remembers nearly killing them.

It was like the flip of a switch, how quickly he changed. Mom became mother, bitch, nuisance. She can’t understand how he felt in those moments — she couldn’t — because until the day he dies, he won’t let her. Keep her at arm’s length, don’t let her in. No one can know, no one can get close — they’ll just get hurt, too. That’s the funny thing about love: it hurts. To feel loved is wonderful, to be loved is tragic, damning, dangerous. He is a catalyst for disaster, destruction, danger, and everything in between.

Death loves him, and love has never felt so lonely.

He lost a friend that day. Metal had bent around his body like silken sheets, water had sod his clothing without care; if his body hadn’t already run cold, the water would’ve made him sick. He would’ve smiled and laughed it off with his dear friend, would’ve said his injuries are no big deal. He can still see, can still move, can still dream. 

If he’d lived.

He lost a friend that day, the only one he’d ever had.

And then there is you.

You are no different from the rest. Just another body to protect, another set of eyes he must keep from prying. Death loves him, and he’d been foolish enough to fall in love; funny how easily it happened, really. Because when you look at him, he feels as if he’s baring his all. All his insecurities and worries, all the times he’s wanted to break down and cry. It’s a feeling he hates, detests, but it’s something new, something unexpected, something needed. You are not those women who look at him with indignant curiosity. You are not his mother who looks at him with worry. You are not his grandfather nor his dead best friend; you are you, and somehow, you are everything he’s needed.

Love is a funny thing, he recalls, and that thought is enough to clear the darkness around him. It’s calming, at first. The nightmare is over and he must be waking up. Your soothing voice will greet him, as it always does; you’ll hug him, cradle him like a child, and he won’t push you away. But you don’t. You shine, so terribly bright that he has to look away for a moment. There’s warmth, comfort, safety in your direction, but he doesn’t walk forward. He doesn’t deserve it.

Not him. Not the man who let his friends die.

Jotaro, a dark, playful voice begins, echoing from the depths of nowhere. It’s familiar; far too knowing, far too cunning, far too demonic. Jotaro feels his mind start to unravel like loose threads, and the voice feeds off this, like a parasite.  If you love your friends and family so much, why do you never tell them? 

“What do you want?” Jotaro barks at nothing and turns toward the dark, turns away from you. Secretly, Jotaro has always been scared of the dark, but right now it was oddly welcoming. The dull beat of that voice, distorted and tinny, still seemed clear, pristine, ethereal. As if the voice had hands which he could not see, they wrapped around his neck like a noose and pulled. Gravity itself seemed to pull at his neck, pushing him further and further into the unforgiving abyss of the darkness as if swallowing him whole. 

Why is he here?

Just as his back hits the waters, the sudden impact knocks the oxygen out of his lungs within a second, before he’s plunged right beneath the surface. His eyes are open, even as salt-water pierced and burned; he was certain before, but this is too real to be a dream. It it weren’t for the fact that he could’ve perished any moment now, the sight before him would’ve actually been beautiful. Nothing but a color palette of deep sea blue clouded his peripheral vision with colors that were excruciatingly breath-taking in real life. 

But he isn’t deceived.

I want to wrap my brain around that head of yours, Jotaro. So, enlighten me... The disembodied voice mocks, feeling like blood rushing against his the insides of his head. It’s closer this time, over his shoulder, next to his ear, and there’s a familiarity to its tone — a familiarity he doesn’t want to acknowledge just yet. Surely telling them you care is easier than breaking your body over and over again.

Jotaro chews on the question with a hint of unmistakable disgust before spiting it out. He hears the voice laugh that mocking song once again, and the light shining from above almost feels like they’re mocking his every movement, too. They watch his arm shoot upwards, silently and slowly for their help — and they laughed. The gears in his brain start turning, willing his limbs to work as legs weakly kicked up in desperate search for air. Realization soon beats itself into his slowly-drowning lungs, and he’s left to face questions that no one but he knows the answers to.

How did he get here? Is he awake? Is he alive?

Answer me, little mortal. We haven’t got all night. The voice goads, and it feels like sharp needles have stuffed themselves into the canals of his ears. Jotaro hisses, and the voice seems content with the response, at the least. Or, perhaps you’d prefer to drown? What a peculiar way for a marine biologist to go, but humans never cease to amaze me.

Jotaro struggles to answer the voice which claims to be inhuman, but dark waters only drain into his mouth like rapids. Time wasn’t even on his mind at this point, but he couldn’t help but wonder how long he’s been underwater. The ocean seemed to pin his legs and arms into icicles, keeping them from thrashing everywhere. Soon, his attempts on fighting for oxygen were getting much more pathetic — much weaker with each kick.

‘Is this how I die?’ He thinks, chuckling at the irony. The feeling of agreeing with the voice is bitter, but its words are not wrong. To think he’d die in the embrace of something he’s spent his life researching. And even so, he wastes no time in reaching a conclusion: ‘Still not a bad way to go.’ 

Not that he'd been holding onto hope in the first place, but witnessing the light stray further from his grasp was anything but welcoming. It’s clear that his mind and body were slowly starting to lose motivation in fighting against fate. His fate.

And right now, he’s drawing nearer to the finish line.

His limbs had eventually stopped responding and allowed gravity to drag his body into the never ending abyss he’d always marveled at when he’d been alive. And despite condemning himself to his fate, the hopelessness seethed in gradually. Human nature, he concluded; to want what you cannot have is human nature. He knows that better than most.

Once his air supply ran tight, his mouth instinctively opened up once again, allowing water to flow in through his nostrils and throat. Every 'breath’ made him choke on the saltiness of the ocean waters, lungs struggling to hang on as the water slowly crushed its cage from inside and out. Barely even able to hear his own thoughts, he assumed his eardrums burst from the insane depths he was being pulled into. His eyelids grew heavy like boulders and finally drooped; he had already succumbed to the thought of death — he couldn’t even cry in anguish or relief, but perhaps the downpour above the waters was crying for him instead. The thought was comforting, to know that someone, some thing would mourn his death.

His back hits the ocean floor like a sunken ship, and he believes he’s dead until the voice speaks again: Have you had enough time to think, little mortal? Its words are scathing, and by far the last thing he wants to hear on his death bed, but with it, came air. It seemed an impossible feat at the bottom of an ocean no human has visited before, but the air is crisp and fresh. Jotaro drinks it up, gulping it down in excess, reveling at how it fills his lungs with life. The water he’d inhaled and drunk doesn’t even seem to exist, at the moment, but he hasn’t the state of mind to dwell on that.

“Where am I?” He chokes out, still tasting the bitter tang of salt against the back of his throat. The voice seems to echo around him, and he finally realizes that he is still on the ocean floor. Sea creatures he’s never seen flit around him, and despite the stark absence of any light, he can see them clear as day.

Only you know that. The voices hums, creating a vibrato in the seawaters, a sound that seems to manifest into arms and once again coil around Jotaro’s neck, like a noose. He wants to scream and thrash and fight, but the comforting presence of Star Platinum within his core is... vacant. 

I shall repeat myself. If you love your friends and family so much, why do you never tell them? The question seems out of place at the bottom of an ocean filled with light and air, but the entity leaves no room for Jotaro to dwell. The heavy stench of iron is immediately recognizable, and Jotaro realizes there’s a gash in his chest. Pale fingers, topped with blackened fingernails which have grown awfully too long, held his intestines away from his torso, the flesh coiled tightly around the hands of a man he once knew.

A man who should be dead.

And yet, here he is. And yet, there is no pain.

“Because...” The words slip past his lips before he knows how to finish. Because what? Because he’s an asshole who can’t put his feelings into words? Because he’s a fool who deserves to suffer alone? Because...

“Because I’m afraid.”

The voice cackles, creating distortions in the sand bed and deep sea water, and yet he could recognize it as clear as day. DIO.

Oh? Is that so? DIO runs a tongue over his lips, deciding to humor his little plaything. Then, hypothetically, if you do tell them you love them, what are you so afraid will happen?

Jotaro doesn’t respond.

I’m waiting.

“...I don’t know.”

Liar. DIO bites and lightly pressing a claw-like fingernail into Jotaro’s jugular. It’s not polite to lie.

“I...” The pool of blood at his feet is disorienting, vivid and real despite the darkness around him. “It’s not that I don’t want to trust them, I...” He reaches out to cup the hand still jutting from his stomach. How odd it is to see such a horrific sight and feel no pain; and it all clicks into place. Jotaro chokes up for a brief moment, hoping a reply will make this all end. “...It’s dangerous to show you care. If they knew, and if my enemies knew how important they are to me, then...”

This isn’t real. None of this is real. How many times has he had this nightmare? And how many times has he imagined just that — the corpses of his loved ones plastered along the streets? The screams that won’t stop? The look of fear and hope on their faces?

That hasn’t happened, yet, and yet he faults himself: how can he be so weak?

There we go. DIO clicks his tongue and gently strokes his great grand-nephew’s hairs — something he no doubt imagines to be an affectionate pat. Not so hard, is it? Jotaro nods, too weak to stand up for himself. This nightmare never ends. You’re afraid of being too vulnerable. DIO coos and twists his blood-covered arm, deepending Jotaro’s unreal wound. You’re afraid of being too... weak.

The ghost’s words always sting, but this nightmare has become so commonplace, so normal — as easy as breathing, despite the waters around him — that Jotaro hasn’t the strength to feel anger. It’s not like DIO is wrong. He is afraid, he is weak, and above all, he’s afaraid of being weak.

But, how curious it is, little mortal. Hasn’t anyone ever told you— the voice begins to chastise, but is cut off; its words don’t reach his ears. Rather, there’s a soothing scent, with familiar aromas he can’t quite place. But the serenity is short lived. The air Jotaro seemed to be breathing dissipates, and he’s drowning again. His throat burns as if a thousand of needles were piercing it all at the same time, chest clenching itself suffocatingly tight; it’s hell all over again. He couldn’t help but feel pathetic for not acting sooner, especially when the exit was right in front of him, even if it wasn’t anywhere near his reach. Now that chance was thrown carelessly out the window, with no means on returning back to his grasp— 

And his sinks.

As he struggled to keep himself afloat and conscious, black spots started to paint his vision one by one, and that’s when time was obviously running out. His eyelids give up —

And then he wakes up.

There’s a gentle, shaking motion, like a boat — as if he’s being cradled and soothed like he had been as a child. He can’t place it immediately, but you’re whispering soft little assurances into his ear, brushing strands of ebony hair which had plastered itself to wet skin. He realizes that the sweet scent from before is you. He can’t discern your words, not fully, not over the sound of blood rushing to his ears. If your arms weren’t wrapped around him a like a safety net, he’d still think he’s drowning, dying; but, the glimpses of words he’d catch every so often were enough to comfort him. You assure him that he’s still very much alive, that he’s awake, that nothing can hurt him, that it was all a nightmare.

It was just a nightmare.

Hasn’t anyone ever told you? The undead voice chimes, but your voice, clear as day, replaces its mocking tone, and Jotaro melts. He gazes upwards, into your eyes which hold the moon and all its stars and he suddenly remembers that wishes are made upon them.

“It’s okay to be weak, Jotaro.”

inspired by this.

[jonghoshoe]

Dear Diary: 2016.07.29

Summary: Enough of the do-overs, Hongjoong just wants to rest. It had started with a simple wish to save his crew members, now it felt like purgatory.

Word count: 1k+

Contains: Angst, past lives, depression, depiction of death and injury, guilt, mistrust, vague black fedora man and co.

Notes: My dumb fucking goblin brain wouldn't let me rest until I finally wrote this and its unbetad because its three in the morning but hERE U GO.

@mingi-ivity 👉👈

-

‘’The memories of short happiness’’

It had been fun at first, they were just some dumb teens having fun, skipping school on occasion when things got a bit tough.

It was a good find, really. The old abandoned warehouse had been seemingly forgotten by everybody and just sat there, collecting rust and dust, what better a place for a bunch of rowdy teenagers to hang out?

It was a great spot, spacious enough for the eight young adults, and within walking distance from all of their homes, a great place to unwind or practice. They’d all chipped in to furnish it, making it a very untidy home-away-from-home for them all. And the only dance room they could afford. 

Then the dreams began.

Hongjoong should have expected it, really. It’d happened every time so far. They get a do-over, remember the past and in some way or another end up back to square one.

It couldn’t have been easy for them, it never was. Dreams of pirates on the high seas, meeting their gruesome ends at the hands of their foes, the sea, the noose or even each other. And the mistrust of the dystopia they’d once lived in, the divide brewed on purpose by forces Hongjoong is still yet to understand, the strange dopplegangers of all their friends who caused the unrest, doing things they would have never done to cause what seemed like nothing but chaos amongst them. 

They all resembled the man in the black fedora.

They’d met them, once. In a time even Hongjoong can’t quite remember, it hadn’t ended well. And he can’t quite tell if that had been the first time they’d died or not. 

There was only one constant throughout every life they had. And it was the damned hourglass.

It wasn’t always the same, sometimes smaller, sometimes larger, but it was always there.

He can still remember the first time he’d been given it. When the man in the fedora had appeared before him in his prison cell, Hongjoong had swore he’d gone mad, maybe the poor treatment of prisoners at the time had caused his mental state to deteriorate, the masked man all but an illusion of his dying mind.

He’d still taken his chance when offered a way out, a way to escape all of this, a way to save all of his friends, even those already dead.

Of course he’d taken it. He was their captain, their leader. He was supposed to take care of them, lead them. They were meant to find glory at the bottom of a treasure chest, not to be disgraced corpses laying to rot on the ocean floor.

That was the first time he’d witnessed it, the hourglass in his hands. The sand slowly rising to the top, consciousness fading with it. 

‘’And dreams broken into pieces’’

Hongjoong had tried to brush the dreams off to everyone, say it was some weird natural phenomena that just couldn’t be explained. After all, it wasn’t like any of them had reason to believe they were past lives.

At least not until they were seeing them while awake.

It started small. Glimpses of the man in the black fedora, appearing in the corners of their vision. It slowly grew worse though.

At the start of the year it was fleeting glances, by winter they could stare their reflections in the mirror, and the reflection never spoke, never reacted. Seemingly only served to taunt them.

Jongho had been the first to leave, an altercation with Mingi over something he’d done in their dreams had been a snapping point. He no longer trusted him, couldn’t even trust it really was him.

They’d all left one by one, Yunho followed after Jongho, Who’d been followed by Mingi. 

San had left after an incident while practicing. His masked double staring from the mirror had ended in a bloody fist and shards on the floor. 

Wooyoung decided he wanted to pursue better dancing. Their small group weren’t all confident enough to perform outside yet, apparently he was. 

Nobody bothered to say they knew his real reason for leaving, the bags under his eyes gave enough away, and while in the past it was others who hadn’t trusted him, it was clear he didn’t want to wait for the inevitable.

Yeosang left after his father had spoken to him about how he thought the group was impacting his studies, and his classical music had gotten less attention since the focus had turned to dancing. They all understood, he’d told them of his limited freedom, and while they hoped he’d be able to keep up the double life until they were adults, that was just not the case.

Seonghwa had been the last to go, of course. The man had always remained loyal through every life and every misfortune. But when he began to feel trapped as his dreams got more vivid and the figures were more present. He began to feel as if his sanity was crumbling.

He was the only other person Hongjoong had encouraged to leave, he and San had been the only ones to act out violently at their reflections.

At least, the only ones Hongjoong knew of.

Maybe distancing themselves from each other would be for the best.

-

It was selfish, he knew. 

He should have respected their wishes, should have left things as they were. Should have left everyone alone to live in peace, even if that meant peace without each other.

But they were his everything, they had been forever. Hongjoong can’t remember a single lifetime he’d had without the seven men, the concept itself terrified him. 

But he didn’t want this anymore. Nothing had gotten better since everyone split up.

Hongjoong couldn’t help but think he was at fault.

He’d never told them about the hourglass, doubted any of them even noticed it from the past, and so it sat tauntingly, a reminder of all his mistakes, a reminder of all his friends had gone through, a reminder of his selfishness in not just letting them go.

With shaking hands, he lifted it up. He would not allow things to continue like this, he could not allow his friends to suffer for his own selfish act of impulse.

He awoke to the sound of the glass smashing.

‘’Can I find it again?’’

There he was again, the goddamned man in the black fedora. 

Hongjoong was tired, he was tired of all of this. He just wanted it all to end yet here the man was, placing the hourglass before him yet again before he vanished with a wink.

Despite his fatigue, Hongjoong decided not to go back to sleep, instead opting to perhaps shower, maybe eat something. He can’t remember the last time he’d done either of those things.

As he sits up, neck cracking back into place from his uncomfortable position sleeping on the couch, Hongjoong notices a note beside the hourglass, that hadn’t been there before.

‘’Well done, Captain. 

You’ve finally learned your lesson.

Last chance, don’t lose your crew again.’’

The calendar reads 

2016.07.29

And Hongjoong picks up his pen.

[illshowyourhurricanes]

Flash: Zoom (Part one)

Sometimes, there’s this thing that happens and a request grows a mind of it’s own, and there’s nothing you can do to stop it. This is what happened here, and the culprit is @something-tofightfor, who snatched up this image prompt and made a request before anyone else had the chance:

This one is something a little differently than I’ve done before, and with that being said, it’s quite the ride, but a fun one! Here, we see Billy as a Marine, and over a decade later, as a TBI patient. Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy-- there’s a lot more to come in this one!

Image prompt 7: Billy Russo x reader

Rating: R for language; possible trigger warning in mentions of crime and mental health

Word count: 3530

Tag list: @obscurilicious @the-blind-assassin-12 @something-tofightfor @logan-deloss @lexxierave @madamrogers @yannii04 @gollyderek @carlaangel86 @maydayfigment @vetseras @thisisparadisemylove @malionnes @thesandbeneathmytoes @crushed-pink-petals-writes​ @delos-destinations @luminex3 @fireeyes-on-teller-dixon-grimes @tenhargreeves @witchygagirl @fific7

As always, if you’d like to be added to or removed from my tag list, just shoot me an ask or DM!

Billy smiled like he’d never seen the atrocities of war. He grinned, and he showcased perfectly straight, unnaturally white teeth. His expression always reached his eyes, dark eyelashes framing his lids and accentuating the slight upturning of the corner of each, the left and the right. His jaw, strong and angular, could cut glass. Billy Russo was so organically gorgeous, so naturally photogenic, it was frustrating. 

“People spend all of their money and years of their lives to maybe get photographed for a damn JC Penney catalog, yet here you are putting zero effort forth and looking like this.” You stopped fanning the instant Polaroid, took one more look, and rolled your eyes, offering the photograph to Billy. “Take a look, George Clooney.”

Billy smirked and plucked the photo from your fingers, giving it a quick glance before handing it back. “Imagine how much better they’d come out if you let me buy you a real camera. What’s your brand, Y/N? Nikon? Canon?” Billy turned toward you, his palms skimming down the length of your arms. “You want somethin’ digital?” 

You cocked your head at Billy. His hands had dropped to your hips. “Polaroid. Classic. I’m all about instant gratification, Russo.”

Billy laughed in a deep timbre, pulling you closer and into a lingering hug. “One day,” he spoke into your hair. “When you grow into having patience… patience waiting for me until that next time I come home… I’m buying you that camera.” His New York accent was coming through strong, and that tended to happen when Billy really believed in something. You tightened your arms that were circled around his middle and pressed your cheek to Billy’s chest, listening for his heartbeat. 

As you listened to that rhythm, your face fell and your posture deflated with your exhale. You slumped your shoulders and your arms dropped from Billy’s midsection, but you continued to linger in his arms. He always made sure to speak as if coming back was a guarantee; as if fighting on the front lines in Kandahar was just a normal trip overseas. You swallowed past a lump that had formed in your throat. You wouldn’t succumb to it in front of Billy. Not yet. 

He was attuned to your posture, however small the shift in the way you carried yourself may be. Billy was attentive— he knew things about you, little nuances, unconscious mannerisms or habits, why you hated steak fries but loved waffle fries. There was a file in his brain, one specifically dedicated to you. He cared about you, your well-being and your happiness… your life. And he was a part of it, an essential part, whether he knew it or not. When he was gone, across oceans and continents and hemispheres, he took that essential part of your life with him. 

It wasn’t lost on you that you were long past the falling head-over-heels, missing meals because your thoughts were all- consuming, dreamy-eyed and irrevocably smitten phase of what you had with Billy. You cared about him a lot, maybe more than he cared about you. The two of you had never exchanged “I love you”s; it was very rare and circumstantial the handful of times you or Billy talked about the future. And he’d made nods toward that precarious, never guaranteed place twice in just the last 10 minutes. 

Lifting your head, you looked up at him, that woozy feeling of being drunk with one look into his darkened eyes very akin to that intoxicating feeling that came with love. “I’m holding you to that, Lieutenant.” 

                                                     *****     *****

You’d snagged a job with a popular psychiatric publication, and you chalked it all up to luck. Between your blog, business cards, spending all of your free time (and money) advertising, and networking with anyone who’d pay the smallest bit of attention, your name had been mentioned to a person with serious media connections. A random, brief phone call during a leisurely shoot one afternoon in the park resulted in a request for a viewing of your portfolio. Deemed “supremely impressive”, you were hired for a very specific field job.

That was how you ended up at Sacred Saints Hospital, deep in the heart of New York City.

New York was home, yet you’d been away for a good amount of time, traveling to build up your portfolio. The health facility you were to feature in the job you’d be hired for was a well-known facility. Sacred Saints was expansive, offering physical health services—surgery and recovery, intensive care, extensive stay— as well as mental health services and rehabilitation. Your goal for the piece was to photograph a host of mental health-centered techniques and options while still presenting patients as “normal” human beings, human beings that were not untouchable and should not be stigmatized. 

The challenge was going to be finding a balance between clear, clinical photos and those of therapy at work versus the personal aspect of mental health care. Whatever got written wasn’t up to you, but one of your niches was getting shots of moments that captured emotion: someone throwing their head back in laughter, a person staring blankly, eyes full with tears of grief. You could only hope those shots would provoke receptive emotions in their viewers. Photography was deeply personal work when allowed to be. It was also a matter of legality in many situations, and this was one of them. 

You needed clearance. The publication had kicked things off by securing permissions from the hospital-- you’d been issued a temporary badge for security issues, identification and such, and being cleared to enter the wards. The rest of what was required was consent from patients being photographed. The latter was much trickier given certain mental disabilities and the quick unpredictability that came with some personality disorders and brain injuries, but it was necessary, no exception. Day 1 was mostly dedicated to obtaining patient consent. 

You treaded lightly. These people were still mothers, sons, sisters, uncles, still human… still people. They had the right of integrity, and you weren’t there to take that from them; you were there to bring awareness to the public, to remind everyone on the outside that the people inside of this facility were no different than those that read the magazine… that humanity is something every person deserves and should be given. 

You were satisfied with your work for the afternoon, which had been surprisingly productive. A small stack of patient consent forms had been signed, and if you could get one to two more, you could start with your favorite part of the job-- the actual photography-- the next day. 

Not merely content but happy, you walked along the tile floor of the main corridor with your camera hanging around your neck. The glint of artificial light reflecting off something shiny grabbed your attention; it was a badge on a policeman’s uniform, just above his left chest pocket. You felt a sudden surge of adrenaline. Another deputy appeared from the threshold of what appeared to be the same room and your footsteps quickened, your shoulders and head held higher as you approached them. As far as you’d seen, there were no other rooms guarded by any sort of law enforcement official on the ward. Your mouth was dry in anticipation; you knew you had to get into that room, to do all you could to coerce the patient to be photographed. It was blatantly obvious they had something no one else at Sacred Saints did, and that something needed to be captured on film. With a professional nod and a smile, you greeted the policemen, showing them your temporary badge of secured access and offering a short summary of what your goal was. 

“I did notice you’re the only two officials on the ward,” you added, coming toward the end of your hopefully successful allowed entry of the room to your right. You’d only gotten one quick glance through the square-paned window set in the patient’s door and the only thing you could make out was dark hair, cropped close to the skull. 

One of the deputies, a short and stocky male with a no-nonsense expression, eyed you with one raised brow. “We ain’t here for fun, lady. He’s convicted of multiple felonies, including several counts of murder for starters. This ain’t the circus… though the asshole looks like a sideshow freak.” He elbowed his partner in a jovial manner, the two of them snickering.

You narrowed your eyes at both officials, a total lack of any sort of amusement apparent on your face. You were seriously doubting this level of holding guard was necessary, as if these two clowns were serving a purpose standing outside of this person’s room dehumanizing him to a stranger. 

“I understand he’s a felon, officer, but the two of you seem like competent individuals.” Taking a long stride to peek more closely into the patient’s room, the taller of the guards stepped in front of you. Holding up your hand, you continued to speak. “It seems he’s restrained to the bed, his arms and legs are strapped like he’s in a straight-jacket. What harm can he possibly do in such a position?” 

The steeled look you’d been given by the cop attempting to block you from entering softened marginally as you stated the obvious. The patient couldn’t move from the bed, convicted felon or not. He was utterly powerless.

“You ain’t gonna get nothin’, lady,” the first man you’d encountered piped up. “He claims he got no clue why he’s in here, don’t remember, nothin’.” This policeman’s thick Brooklyn accent gave you some sort of uneasy deja vu, but you couldn’t put together the pieces, what it was a reminder of. 

“I just want to ask if I can take his picture. No coercion, a simple yes or no question. It won’t take longer than five minutes, if that long, and you can see the entire interaction if you open those blinds.” There were windows the length of the room on either side, though the view was obstructed by cheap, plastic blinds, drawn so no outside view was available.

Both officers looked extremely bored, ready for you to get out of their hair and scamper away in defeat. You weren’t giving in, and you stood even with them, brows raised just a fraction in anticipation. The cops shared an exasperated glance, and the one standing in your way moved to the side. “We can see all we need through the door, ma’am.” 

Of course you can, you thought to yourself bitterly. This man doesn’t have the freedom to move anything more than his head.

“You’re wastin’ your time even askin’.” You turned your head to look blankly to the cop from Brooklyn, his increasingly stupid, know-it-all commentary really starting to irk you. 

“It’s my time to waste, officer.” You managed to plaster a forced smile on your face, taking another step toward the door. “I’ll take it from here, thank you.” You spoke to the less obnoxious deputy only. Your hand already on the doorknob, you stepped inside the room within half a second, closing the door with a soft click behind you.

                                                   *****       *****

He hated being strapped to this goddamn bed. He hated that his goddamn face hurt. He hated that he couldn’t fucking sleep because of those fucking dreams, and he hated every goddamn thing about this fucking place. The cops guarding his room twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week; the nurses who tiptoed around his room, terrified; that stupid bitch of a doctor who wanted him to finger-paint like he was in kindergarten; that woman who was always at the foot of his bed, just standing there and staring with a self-righteous smirk of contempt and satisfaction. All of it was a living hell, but he hated nothing more than to be strapped to this goddamn bed.

He could hear voices outside his room; the useless cops, no doubt, and also the voice of a female. Everything was muted, words muffled; he couldn't hear actual words, but he could hear sound and tone. Who was the woman this time? Was it Dr. Dumont? The mystery woman who watched him sleep? A nurse, perhaps? Whoever it was, Billy didn’t want to be bothered or provoked… but maybe whoever it was would unstrap him. He could ask Dr. Dumont, or scare a nurse into asking for him. God, he wanted to walk, he wanted to go to the fucking gym, he wanted to look outside. Anything but these same four, drab walls, the smells and sights and sounds of Sacred Saints hospital.

With a click of his door opening, in walked a woman he’d not seen before. Who is this? Billy was in thought immediately, but the question he’d asked himself  didn’t unnerve him that much anymore. People were always in and out; some repeat offenders, some he’d never seen before and would probably never see again, if he had any luck in his new joke of a life. But the one person that should have been there, that was never there, was Frank-- his best friend, his brother, the only family he’d ever had. Where is Frank? 

Nobody ever answered him. He just continued to wonder, to ask, to hope. Desperately, he attempted to push the question from his mind, peering at the woman who had just entered his room. At least she ain’t a repeat offender. 

He’d never seen her before, and through his suspicion and wariness, he didn’t fail to notice that that she was extremely attractive. In another life, he’d stride over to her, get her number, and her legs would be wrapped around him that same night. She’d be writing beneath him, screaming his name. In another life, Billy, he thought bitterly. In another life.

                                                   *****        *****

There was already a small pit of sympathy that had settled deep down in your chest. This man had obviously done some terrible things, but who knew what had been haunting his mind then, what was haunting it now. There were no excuses that needed to be made for him, but to be talked about and ridiculed by men of the law that stood just outside his door… that would be dehumanizing for anyone. 

As you opened the door cautiously, stepping inside in the same fashion, you kept a shadow of a smile on your face and somehow kept it from faltering. Not because he was confined, strapped to his bed— you'd seen that through that small excuse of a window paned with plastic in his door— but because there wasn’t a man looking at you as you’d expected; it was a phantom.

A stark white, generic plastic mask was pulled down over his face, and all you could see that reminded you that this was indeed a human being were his short spikes of black hair. And as you got closer, you felt your heart quicken at the stark contrast of inky black and blinding white between eyes and mask. 

You kept your wits about you, but couldn’t help but think how badly you wanted those cops to be wrong, how badly you wanted and needed a photo of this man— how this was what you felt deep in your soul that you were trying to convey. This opportunity was fated; nothing this perfect happened by chance.

Just as you spoke a hello, a loud rapping at the door interrupted your pending introduction and in walked an older woman, wearing scrubs, clogs on her feet that squeaked over the flooring with each step. She held a small paper medicine cup in one hand, a drink of water in the other. She set both down on a bedside table. 

“Time to get you out of this.” She reached out and roughly tugged at the restraints, a deafening sound of the pulling back of more Velcro than you’d ever seen in your lifetime. The man in the bed pushed himself up, still not saying a word as he was given medication. “The Tylenol you requested.” With a turning of his head, the man lifted his mask just enough for a quick swallowing of the pills, still revealing nothing. As he turned back to face you, he rolled his neck to the right, then the left. You briefly wondered what the mask meant to the patient as the nurse took his trash. Nodding at you briskly, she quickly left the room, leaving the two of you alone. 

The stranger in front of you was tall, the length of the bed he lay in, and rail thin— skeletal, even. There was nothing imposing about him, no danger or peril in the air. From the little you’d seen, you couldn’t imagine this man as being dangerous at all, much less a felon, a murderer. But he was quiet— so quiet. Not one utterance, one word, one sound since you’d entered the room. You wondered if this was a tactic, a technique, or a result of his TBI. 

Greeting him again, you got down to business by introducing yourself, explaining why you were there. “I’m Y/N, and I’m a photographer. I was assigned to take photographs for a periodical, and wanted to ask if you’d mind if I took a few pictures.” You spoke in a professional manner, kept your voice amicable, and spoke at a volume just shy of what you considered “normal”. You felt the need to keep the patient placated, at ease, and you wanted the cops to hear nothing you said.

“I have a release form, I’d just need your name and signature, and if you choose, your photo won’t have to be captioned and your name never mentioned. I only need the information for your release. Nothing more.” You gestured to the clipboard you held, the thin stack of release forms secured there, and tried not to look as hopeful as you felt. 

This could be it— the photo, the one that would give you more exposure, and more importantly, the one that would evoke emotion and draw readers in. The humanity and recognition for these patients that you were initially working to capture could very well be debunked by this one photo of a man who was desperately trying to shroud his humanness. Then again, the obvious contrast could be striking. That, however, was ultimately left up to the writer.

Your attention was captured as the man in the bed slowly tilted his head to the side, regarding you through the cut-out eye holes of the plastic mask. The color of his eyes were jarring, almost black, and they bored into you with a type of intensity you’d never encountered before. Your pulse quickened and you could feel the pounding of your heart against your chest. He’s convicted of multiple felonies, including several murders for starters. You remembered the policeman with the Brooklyn accent, his warning, and just as you felt a cold, creeping fear crawling up your spine, you remembered the rest of what had been said: This ain’t the circus, even though the asshole looks like a circus freak.  Your fear twisted into determination, and you didn’t shy away from his stare; in fact, your posture shifted as you stood up straighter, never looking away from this masked man. 

“You got a pen?” The voice was muffled by the barrier of his mask, the tone was deep and rough from disuse. He also had somewhat of a Brooklyn accent and his voice sounded vaguely familiar… you rationalized that you didn’t know this person, and perhaps the voice just reminded you of that arrogant prick of a cop you’d had the pleasure of meeting just outside. In response to his question, however, your triumph skyrocketed. You knew your emphatic nod was eager. 

“Yes, right here.” You calmly took the few steps to his bedside, keeping in mind to not ambush a TBI patient with sudden movement. Holding out the clipboard, you referenced points of the release to be filled in with the pen he’d asked for. “All I need is your name, printed here, today’s date, and your signature here. This second box can be checked, stating you do not want to be identified as the subject of this photo at any time.” 

He took the pen and clipboard and you began to toy with your camera, adjusting the focus, the drive mode, and the aperture. Your fingers were quick, working deftly, and you peeked once through the viewfinder for verification. In the silence of the room, you heard the faint sound of pen scratching over paper, and then, the clipboard was raised, pen laid on top. Holding back a beaming smile was difficult, but you managed as you were given back the clipboard, this time with a signed release. 

“Thank you, Mr—“ You glanced down at the information he’d given you, and your heart seized in your chest. William Russo. It was there in clear print, block letters you recognized from your past, a signature so familiar you’d know it  anywhere... the certain curving of the R and perfect circle of the O. Your stomach lurched and a wave of nausea washed over you, and then, your voice was stolen and replaced with his own as he finished for you. 

“Russo.”

[starlightinhumanform]

Breaking Point

Fandom: Sanders Sides

Ships: Loceit (could be interpreted as platonic or romantic)

Summary: Sometimes being a light side just does’t cut it. After a particularly aggravating argument, Logan begins… changing. (Logan centric angst fic with guest appearances of most of the others,,,, but mostly Janus).

Warnings: Negativity/Coldness/Miscommunications Throughout, Mild Language Throughout, Some Mentions of Injury/Illness Used as Metaphors

Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort

A/N: This was written for the wonderful Spring Fling event here on tumblr! It was so much fun and I can’t wait to participate again! I know I’ve been very inactive lately and I’m very sorry for that (mental illness can be a real kicker lmao), but I’m trying to get back into my groove of writing and posting!! Stay safe and healthy. I love you all 🖤✨

Ao3 Link   Fic Masterpost    Fic Request Info

Logan was not a stranger to emotion. Despite popular belief, he experienced them like any other side. The difference was his ability to tamp them down, keep them from clouding his logic; it was an ability he prided himself on. Sure, sometimes his anger got the better of him when the others were being far too ridiculous. But for the most part, he was clean, calculated, cool.

Right now, though, his head was pounding. Virgil was shouting hoarsely and Roman was yelling back even louder. Patton just whimpered, trying to get the two to stop fighting but failing miserably as he flinched back from both of their raised voices. Thomas stood in the middle of it all with glazed eyes.

And Logan, what was he doing? Standing to the side. Being completely useless, it seemed. He pressed his fingers against his temples and tried to massage away the pain. His efforts once again failed and he turned his attention back to the situation.

Thomas had to choose whether or not to go to a Broadway audition and wanted to consult with his sides to get their opinions on the opportunity. Unfortunately his plan had backfired and now the choice was even less clear. It was a debate, they were trying to make a decision— Logan should have been leading the entire thing. Instead, he had been shoved to the side as Virgil and Roman turned the discussion into a fight.

“It’s too big of a risk! If Thomas fails at this, he may never audition again. Think about how that would hurt Patton. Think about how it could ruin his whole career,” Virgil hissed.

Roman answered too clearly, over-pronouncing his words as he spat them out like they tasted as bitter as his tone, “You’re suffocating me. You’re keeping Thomas from achieving his dreams. Your worries are simply too much. If anything is going to ruin his career, it’s going to be you.”

Virgil raised his eyebrows and gave a cold laugh, “Oh, I’m sorry? I thought we agreed it was my job to protect Thomas? So why don’t you just back the hell up and remember your place.”

“My place? And where exactly would that be?”

“Safety comes before your stupid fantasies.”

“This isn’t even about safety! This is about you being a coward!”

The room went quiet. Quiet, not calm. It was like the moments of silent after a lightning strike when everyone holds their breath, waiting for the roar of thunder. Logan needed to interject before things got even worse and this was his best opportunity to do so.

He cleared his throat, “If you two would like to pause this illogical arguing for a moment, I would like to make a few points.”

All eyes turned on him. He was nearly taken aback by the amount of anger in both Virgil and Roman’s gazes, suddenly turned on him instead of each other. It burned against his skin as they both glared at him. Patton tried to give him a smile but it was far weaker than usual. Thomas’ eyes were the worst— dazed from all the yelling, confused and torn apart from his aspects disagreeing so violently. Logan felt like he had failed; failed them all, but especially Thomas. It was his job to keep order, to weigh the pros and cons, to unravel problems, to make things clear. And when the others needed him the most, he had let it all fall into the hands’ of chaos.

“I just think there are better ways to make this decision. You two have been yelling each other for over half an hour and it’s gotten nowhere.”

“Yeah, because he refuses to admit that he’s wrong!” Roman interrupted.

Logan gritted his teeth, “Please try to restrain yourself from talking over me.”

Virgil was the one to break in this time, “Logan, maybe this isn’t the type of argument that you belong in.”

“Not the- not the type of argument I belong in?” Logan could almost laugh, “This is the exact sort of discussion I need to be included in because otherwise we end up in a mess like this!”

“Logan,” Virgil growled, “I don’t think you’re understanding what’s going on here. This is an issue me and Roman need to settle. No matter what that means.”

“No matter what that means?? Are you even listening to yourself? That’s the sort of talking that causes disaster!”

“No, Virgil’s right about one thing,” Logan turned his attention to Roman as he was interrupted once again, “This is between the two of us. Don’t get yourself involved.”

“If I don’t get involved, you’re going to tear Thomas apart trying to get your ways!” Logan could feel his temper slipping away from him just as his control of the situation was slipping through his fingers. These idiots had their heads so far up their asses, they couldn’t even see the damage they were doing to everyone else.

“Logan!” Roman snapped his name to get his attention, “Maybe you should just go.”

He scoffed, “Go? You really think you can solve this problem by yourselves?”

“Go.”

Logan glanced at the stairwell where Virgil had snarled a singular syllable at him, “Excuse me?”

“He said to go,” Roman was glaring at him, “And, in this case, I agree with him.”

Logan’s mouth fell open. It was ridiculous. They needed him, but apparently they just couldn’t see it. They needed him, but they didn’t want him. He shook his head. A laugh was rising up his throat but he couldn’t figure out what was so funny.

He looked around the room, “You really want me to go? Fine then.”

Thomas and Patton both seemed distressed but said nothing to stop him. Roman and Virgil didn’t have to say anything; the anger boiling behind both of their stares communicated plenty.

And that was all he needed. Logan sunk out of the room without another word.

He reached the mindspace in a matter of seconds, appearing in the dining room. The laugh that had been trapped in his throat bubbled over and crashed to the floor as it morphed into a cry. He clapped a hand over his mouth as giggles mixed with sobs and spilled past his fingers, filling the quiet room with hiccuping whimpers. It was just too much for him to wrap his mind around. His beautiful, perfect mind. And somehow they had managed to reduced it to this— a wreck, an absolute mess, emotions crashing into each other and spilling over onto his face so he could do little more than grip the back of a chair until his knuckles were white and he couldn’t even see through the ocean in his eyes.

His skin felt hot as the tears rolled over his cheekbones and directly onto the floor. He was not a stranger to emotion, but this— whatever the hell “this” was— felt brand new. New like new boots, the type that leave your skin blistered and red and raw. His body was shaking and his stomach turned and he was sure that if he sobbed any harder he might start retching.

He felt so vulnerable; he was a scar that had been scratched at so many times it had finally ripped open and started bleeding again.

Logan was angry. Angrier than he had been in years. He just wanted to help. Why couldn’t they see that? Why wouldn’t they let him help? But more importantly, why couldn’t he help? Was he useless? Was he a tool that had no purpose, tossed aside by the others like a spare screw that didn’t fit anywhere?

“Logan?”

His head shot up, back straightening and squaring up in under a second. Janus was standing on the other side of the room like he had frozen in the middle of his movements. His eyebrows were woven together in what seemed like concern.

“You don’t look ok?” His expression was a painting of confusion.

Logan rubbed at his eyes from beneath his glasses, “I- I assure you, I’m perfectly fine.”

Janus just laughed, silky and self-satisfied as always but maybe a little softer than usual, “Lying’s kind of my thing, remember, Logan? You look... great.”

Logan let his head hang, not even trying to keep up appearances now that Janus had called him out. He glared at the other side from over the rim of his glasses, “Can I help you? Or are you done ridiculing me?”

Janus took a couple hesitant steps forward, tilting his head to the side like he was absolutely fascinated by Logan. He began speaking slowly but it was obvious from his intense stare that his focus was very far from the words leaving his mouth, “Ridiculing? Oh dear, no, that was not my intention. What’s the matter? Something must be incredibly wrong to have put you in such a state.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Logan snarled, “Am I not allowed to act as irrationally as the rest of you? Is sanity expected only of me? Maybe I’m tired of it! Do you understand how exhausting it is to carry the weight of responsibility with no one to lend a hand? In fact you all fight against me, pushing me downhill and spiraling Thomas further and further away from stability. Well, maybe I’m tired of it. Maybe I’m so damn tired of yelling until my voice is hoarse, just because I’m trying to look out for the well being of everyone else only to be discounted because ‘it’s not fun’ or because I couldn’t possibly understand, being the cold and unfeeling robot that I am. I am sick of it!”

“Logan, I’m going to need you to calm down.”

Logan blinked back into the present.

Janus was standing in front of him, hands raised to hold Logan’s face. Logan was startled to find his cheeks damp once again with tears beneath Janus’ quivering fingers. Janus was staring at him with a combination of fascination and terror.

“Logan do you know what’s happening?” Janus’ voice shook nearly as hard as his hands as he drew them back to his chest.

Logan could feel his forehead crease as he stared back at Janus, “What do you mean?”

Janus laughed but it had lost its honeyed qualities; just a humorless, sharp exhale, “Look around you.”

He raised his head at Janus’ cue, taking in the room around him. A glass that had left on the table was now broken into pieces. The glass of picture frames hung on the wall now lay shattered on the carpet. Items scattered on shelfs throughout had tipped over or rolled onto the floor.

Logan’s mouth fell open, “Did I— How— What— Did I do that?”

Janus nodded his head slowly like he wasn’t sure to believe it either, “The whole mindspace started shaking.”

“What does this mean?” Logan reached out slowly to pick up a shard of the glass. His hands trembled as he studied the piece, turning it between his fingers as if he could find an answer in its angular edges.

“Well, sometimes when a dark side is distressed enough, they can negatively affect the environment around them,” Janus had been speaking in slow, almost broken segments as if he had been constructing the sentence word by word, choosing carefully and cautiously. Now, though, he started rushing his words out like they burned his tongue, “You know, like the screaming thing Remus does or when Virgil makes the whole room go dark, that sort of thing.”

“Wait. Janus, you said ‘dark side.’ And don’t try to lie to me, I have a perfect memory and I know what you said.”

Janus winced and tried for a smile, “Yes, well...”

Logan arched one of his eyebrows, “You are aware that I’m not a dark side, yes? And unlike Virgil, I was never once in my existence a dark side.”

“No, no I know that,” He clasped and unclasped his hands together serval times as if the awkward movement could fill the even more awkward silence, “I’m implying that you might be becoming one?”

“Oh, please,” Logan scoffed, “Is that even possible? And how have I even done anything to deserve the title of being ‘dark’?”

Janus mirrored Logan’s raised brow, “Oh, and I’ve earned such a label? The point is, you’re starting to act more and more like us. Whether or not any of us are actually deserve that title is a debate for another day.”

Logan studied the face in front of him. Janus was a master of deception— of course he was— but in this moment he seemed completely open, completely genuine. And if Janus was being honest... well, that could be a bad thing.

He opened his mouth to speak but the words were slow to come to his tongue, “So, assuming this hypothetical you’ve proposed, how could this happen? How is such a shift even a possibility?”

Janus gave another humorless laugh but at least he didn’t sound terrified this time, “I really don’t have the answer to that one.”

Logan stared done at the floor, eyes roaming the pattern of the carpet but his mind incredibly far away. Was that possible? Could a side go “bad”? More importantly, could he go bad? Was he bad? Had he failed Thomas so much, hurt the others so much, provided so little use yet so much ill-will that—

“If anyone has the answers, it’s going to be you.”

Janus’ voice broke through Logan’s thoughts, “What?”

Janus pulled out two chairs from underneath the table and faced them towards each other. He took a seat in one and pointed at the other, “Something is obviously wrong. Tell me what’s going on.”

Logan stumbled into the chair, stunned by the commanding note in Janus’ tone. He sat down and stared blankly across at the other side, unsure of where to even start. He pursed his lips for a moment, “Why does it matter?”

“Because you knocked my favourite mug off of its shelf and I need answers,” Janus rolled his eyes, “If what I think is happening is happening, that’s a huge change that could affect everyone— including Thomas. Now stop avoiding the question.”

Logan glared down at his hands gripping each other in his lap. His vocabulary had abandoned him. This simply was not a familiar situation to him. He shared facts, advice, outside information; but feelings, his subjective truth? That stayed locked away.

“Let’s start with why you’re crying, ok?” Janus’ voice was gentle but his question was still very clearly an instruction.

Logan jerked his head up as he realized there were tears running down his face. Again. He cursed under his breath as he rubbed them away, “I don’t even know. I guess I’m just not used to doing this, this sharing of emotions.”

Janus nodded, “And why aren’t you with the others? It sounds like there’s quite an argument going on up there. You usually jump right into the fray.”

“I don’t know,” Logan pinched his nose and tried to ignore the burning ache in his chest. It was strange, the emotion so raw and intense that it had the effect of a physical wound. It was like the tissue of his rib cage was being torn apart, “I tried to join in, to try and add at least a little reason to the discussion... but they refused to listen.”

“Logan, have they ever listened you about anything?”

He let his head fall back down to avoid looking at Janus, “Not really. I can’t help but think I’ve failed Thomas.”

Janus placed his hand on Logan’s shoulder, “No, no that’s not what I meant. I just wanted to know if the others took your advice.”

Logan raised his gaze to make eye contact with Janus, “Well, sometimes.”

“But do you have to work to get them to even hear you?”

Logan laughed, “Oh, yeah.”

“And to they ever listen to you about you? Do they even ask?”

“Why would they?” Logan paused, “Wait, should they?”

Janus stared at him like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing, pity swimming in his eyes, “I think I see the problem. I think your negative interactions with the others is causing you to turn into a dark side. It’s almost like a defense mechanism or something.”

“But my interactions with the others haven’t been negative. They can be frustrating, yes, but they’re the closest things to friends that I would ever have. At the very least, they are my companions. Right?”

Janus grimaced, “From what you were saying about ten seconds ago, their treatment of you hasn’t exactly been positive. I’m not say they’re not your friends, just that... maybe they don’t act like it as much as they should. They don’t seem value you or what you have to say.”

“But I need them to,” Logan spoke slowly, deep in thought, “How else am I supposed to help Thomas, to fulfill my purpose?”

Janus said nothing and Logan continued he train of thought, “I guess it makes perfect sense for me to do what’s necessary to be heard. I can’t protect Thomas from their violent irrationality if they don’t listen to me. I guess this is just the natural course of action.”

Janus seemed hesitant as he nodded, “I mean... yes, I guess so.”

“Besides—,” Logan shrugged, “—maybe being a dark side isn’t so bad.”

“What do you mean?”

Logan smirked, “Sometimes you need to raise your voice to be heard; if I need to scare the others a little to cut through the chaos, then so be it. And it seems that I’ve been given the perfect tool to do so.”

“Logan, I don’t know if that’s such a good idea... ”

But Janus’ voice was already fading away as Logan rose back into the argument. He had been ignored for the last time. Never again would he be brushed to the side for being the cold outcast. They would listen to him— whether they liked it or not.

Logan was not a stranger to emotion. And right now, he was smiling. Grinning, in fact— ear to ear, power flickering in his eyes. He was the voice of reason and no longer would he be an accessory to their foolishness.

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~ @phan-fander @abi-beehive @fandomfan315 @cas-is-a-hunter @reggieleigh07 @endless-rain-of-words @vicdehart @im-actually-ok @softnic @catolicabuena @icequeenoriginal ~

[eldonash]

Losing Balance - Fran&Orobas

Happens during and after this. Also Featuring Carrington @carringtonblackwood; @caraitaliadolcemeta Possible TW: Death, dismemberment

Summary: Orobas and Francesca have spent all week looking for Carrington. At the far edges of their emotions, Orobas is lost to anger, and Fran is lost to desperation. The two, usually clear-minded and violent killers, fall into an argument as they are unable to process the hopelessness nor help each other now that it’s gotten this far. Somehow, they find Carrington among the wreckage. 

Fifteen minutes. Francesca had been waiting for fifteen minutes, and if she did any more back-and-forth pacing, there would probably be a hole in the cemented floor right under her feet. Could fifteen minutes make a difference when he had been missing for days now? Fifteen minutes wouldn’t make a difference. Could they? Maybe she should start looking instead of keep waiting for Orobas. He’d probably throw those empty threats at her anyway.

Taking out her phone - with no messages from him, by the way - she shared her live location with the vampire. He could come to her wherever she was at Amity Road whenever he decided to show up. Because sure, Carrington was dead anyway, right? “He fucking isn’t. Lui non è morto!” Francesca exclaimed to herself, getting more and more nervous with the waiting and the wondering and the possibilities. And as a sudden presence made itself known behind her, she spun on her heels, startled, too much in her own head. “Cazzo, Orobas!”

Orobas didn’t feel exhaustion often. It usually happened when he’d battle through crowds of people in the past, to the point Haxian had to drag and carry him out almost limp over the hours of fighting. Now, it wasn’t just a physical exhaustion eating away at his resolve and his temper which was a low simmering frustration like it was warming a blast furnace. It was emotional and Orobas had no fucking idea what that meant. He was covered in blood when she turned around, it splattered up over his face in tiny dots, his shirt half on where a large burn had singed part of his chest and up around his shoulder. The stunning ivory handled knife was in his hand, dripping on the ground and though he was infuriated about everything-- he held no emotion on his face, just this distant stare like he wasn’t all present. He isn’t even sure how on instinct he found her. When she said his name, he glanced up with red eyes, and it took every ounce of his control to not cut her throat open immediately. He couldn’t exactly speak right away, his mind was racing, and he was leaving a trail of blood near Amity Road. “Fran-- cesca,” he mouth was crowded with fangs, and his voice struggle to now sounds demented. “I’m-- on the edge. I’m-- on a dangerous, dangerous edge. If I don’t find him--” 

It was like taking a trip to the past. Back in the eighteen hundreds, she had seen him like that numerous times. Although, for whatever reason, life drew them apart and the sprees weren’t shared anymore, that image would never leave her. Francesca blinked multiple times, trying to make sense of the figure in the of her. Why. “Why did you come?! You’re in no bloody shape of doing anything, I -” Whatever distance there was between them, she ended it in a second, rushing to him to stand in front of him, close enough to delicately pull his shirt and examine the injuries on his skin. “You’ve been walking in the sun…?!” She concluded, taking a moment to stare him in the eye. She was angry, worried. “Why the fuck would you do that?!” Careless to his previous threat less than an hour earlier, her voice was higher than usual, angrier than it normally would be. If he weren’t that terribly hurt, no doubt Fran would’ve shoved him. Both of her hands rested on each side of his face, her hazel, caring eyes gazing in his, trying to have him focus on her. 

“I don’t know why!” He roared at her, the sunken features of his face contorted in a rare show of rage, and his body almost dissipated into a swarm of bats, the sound of fluttering wings echoed in threat around them. Like the shadows of the night wanted to pool around him. Orobas age showed right now, though a ninty or so years off of elder, he could appear so far from human-- sometimes far from vampire when he was at this dangerous point.

“Look at me. You can’t do anything like that. Let’s go home, take care of you - you’ll feed, you’ll heal and we’ll come back. This isn’t a suicide mission. I can’t fucking lose the both of you. Do you understand me?!” That look, bloody and distant, bored and evil. Orobas was certainly moving on his instinct, slaying and hurting whatever came his way. She knew what he was thinking - he was controlling his urge to hurt her too. But she ignored his blade. She ignored his impulses and focused on taking care of him. How could she love a man who had to control himself not to kill her? That was a query hard to answer, yet she was still there for him if he needed her.

His hand lifted and in a frightening disjointed amount of speed, it pressed harshly into her cheeks, covering her mouth from speaking more soft caring words when his emotions felt like a hard strum of a string instrument in the back on his mind. A snarl burned all his eyes to red, the whites dissolving into crimson, unblinking and staring inches from her face. He stepped closer, staring keenly at her face. And then walked passed her, releasing his hold and stepping a few more steps. “Why? I don’t want this anymore. I want to find him tonight. I don’t care the cost.”

She cared. She cared more than she dared to say it aloud. But having his hand grip her face and control her movement, keeping her steady, like a rag doll, that wasn’t alright. No doubt Francesca respected him. He was double her age, about to become an elder and more often than not was caught with a deadly gaze in his handsome eyes. Only someone daft wouldn’t respect that. But she didn’t exactly fear him, for whatever reason. Maybe she should.

Growling quietly when she was released, the brunette exhaled loudly through her nostrils, angry. Angry that he was letting himself get to that point, angry that, through the years, more often than not, took his frustrations out on her. What the fuck was she? “Really? Isn’t it obvious?! You’re severely hurt, you probably haven’t had a shut-eye in days, all that blood there is probably splattered on walls instead of in your lips - how the fuck do you think you got like that?” Keeping her distance this time, Francesca was done being loving. It didn’t make a difference, anyway. “Now, I’m not bloody helping you like that. I’m not going to be an accomplice to your exhaustion just because you got to do every fucking thing your way. You’re always like this, you act like you don’t give a shite, you never call, you let people get out of your life and suddenly you’re putting yourself in harms way to protect them! Do you fucking believe Carrington would want to see you like that? Madonna, look at yourself. You’re more bat than vampire.” Scoffing, she turned around nervously, so angered to the point she didn’t want to look at him. There was more to just worrying for Carrington’s safety in that speech. There was anger about a lot of things. Like he’d often get to where they were now, as if on purpose, as some kind of masochist cleanse? He was hot and cold with her, he treated her bad then good, then carry on acting like nothing. She was fed up with everything, from Carrington’s disappearance to Orobas ways of treating her. “Merda, I’m so done.”

Her words barely got through to him, distorted, echoing. The beastal part of him starved-- hallowing his face, skin paper thin and barely draped over his cheekbones. He knew she was correct in the why he was appearing like this. He hadn’t eaten well as said, he always hacked his victims up over drinking. Francesca knew him for too long. His mind swam in red, like a lapping ocean against his sight, even as he looked out, everything dimmed in darkness less the pulse point of blood vibrated through the air to lure him. Lust suddenly cut into him like a jagged crystal, a hard lump that settled in his throat, a deep thirst he’s not experienced since Haxian locked him in a coffin for ten years. His jaw clenched, teeth sharp, and as she kept telling him off he felt a screech confirming his transformation barely stop from coming out of his mouth. His back to her the entire time, he tilted his head back, looking at her when she spoke the last words. He felt the need to say he ‘wasn’t like this all the time’ when it wasn’t true. He’s done this in the past centuries-- and it never worked out for him. They are all dead less Harsh and Francesca… and now Carrington, who else in the future? When you have lived this long you fell on repeat. A circle of shit that proved it was your core personality over and over. He just looked at her. Barely seeing, barely even knowing it was her. 

“Francesca,” the name came out as it always did, though far from being in control it came out dark, demented like someone else was speaking. He turned to walk back towards her. 

“You of all people know this is me. Mhm? The real me--” his head tilted again, the bones creaking. “I believe I’ve figure it out. For once, I am ready to have a family. I want-- us together and I will do anything, absolutely anything, to have my way. You think all this for Carrington is taking it too far--” he leaned forward, a crooked sharp, monstrous fanged smile. “I’d create an army of spawn to find you if you were in this situation. I’d find the person who hurt you and kill every member of their bloodline-- I will take it too far, because this is what I am becoming. You can handle it and me right now. You are probably the only one in this moment who can. So help me, mhm?”

“Non - non fare così, non ‘Francesca’ mi,” she spoke under her breath in complaint, denying him the right to call out to her. This time she was the one who kept her back turned at him. It was always the same script. He’d call her, call out her name and, somehow, she’d listen. This time, however, she forcefully ignored it, which took her all her strength, to a point where she didn’t notice the change in his voice. Whatever was happening right now, she couldn’t deal with it. Why couldn’t he act rational now, like he always did? Why let himself get to this point now?

As the bones cracked behind her, so close that they snapped in her ears, the woman turned to look at him. She couldn’t recognize him. Why? She questioned herself once more. Francesca shook her head in denial. “You’re going to kill yourself.” Hands turned into fists, arms flat to her sides. That anger grew hotter, boiling inside. She didn’t want to truly burst, not now, not when Orobas was this mess; this handsomely frightening mess. “Yes! Yes, I do think it’s too far! I told you - I’m not willing to lose you. Or him. Much less the both of you, one after the other.” Sappy words, he was just trying to calm her down and have her listen to him, get on board with his plan. But she disagreed with his plan when that could get him killed because he was acting sloppy. “You don’t know what you’re saying. Haxian doesn’t let you stick around long enough to have a family. You’ll leave again.” Her words were cruel, but they reflected her fears. She knew he had always been absent, distant, and now he was with somebody else. She’s smelled her on his belongings a few times when dropping by Bloodhaven. She was willing to accept all that, bury her anger again, as long as he stopped being careless. 

Everything spoken burned through his skull, not understanding why she couldn’t just say okay and do what they always did. “This time I’m not,” he growled, not wanting to believe it. It had been him holding her back from moments like this, toying with her thirst like pulling on pigtails until he had to save them from the mess. Now, it was justified to himself, at least, that was all the emotion is could strongly hold onto right now. The jab at Haxian, at his maker was sharp and she knew it. Orobas didn’t have a choice in that, and worse-- he’s always listen to Haxian no matter what. Rarely has he said no, and even then when comparing someone, anyone else to his maker-- Haxian would always come on top. Too much time together, too much of their conscious bled as one unit. Even now, he could feel him in his mind, urging him to kill more, because Haxian would always have his back no matter how far he took it.

“Ok. I’ll help.” Her response was cold, yet decisive. “Follow me.” And she disappeared, leading the way to a dark alley. From there, in the shadows, the vampire spotted a man standing by his threshold, about to enter his home. Fran appeared right next to him, dragging Orobas along. “Evening,” she greeted the human. A healthy, perhaps a bit tired, adult human. He looked at her, surprised. “It’s a bit chilly outside. I could really use a warm place to wait for my cab. Could you please invite me in?” Eyes locked with hers, the man nodded, saying the words: please, come in, wait inside. Fran passed through the frame along with the man. “Are you alone?” He nodded. “Good. Would you mind inviting my mate inside too? You understand - a woman in a man’s home, all by herself, can be dangerous.” Come in and be with your friend, he said to the vampire standing outside. Francesca broke eye contact with the human, waiting on Orobas. “Eat,” she told him sternly. She was only helping any further if he got himself better. There was no arguing there.

When she kept on urging him to eat Orobas felt conflicted and angry, but when he followed and the man allowed him entrance, he paused on the stoop. The moment the man locked eyes with him fear surfaced, the flush of color raced away from his face, and his pulse ticked faster and faster. Orobas watched the bob of his throat as nerves made him swallow the spit in his mouth, the tendons and muscles ready to scream, and the monster there smirked and in a burst of speed broke the fragile body against the far wall. Suspended in the air, their spine snapped instantly, and all their ribs shattered from the impact. Blood gushed from their mouth as they exhaled the forced shove of air from their punctured lungs and began to gag on it. Their scream muffed in a gurgling sound as Orobas looked them in the eye, there was a second where it appeared like he still wouldn’t feed. The pulse weakening as the limp body was only held up by his hand, but he conceded, the scent too much and bit into their neck, teeth like serrated blades punctured the artery and Orobas drank deeply. Consuming the rest of their blood until the artery deflated from the lack of liquid. He let go, the body crumbling at his feet, the broken drywall bloody from the impact. Orobas let it heal him, and made to unbutton his shirt, tossing the ruined item on the floor. 

His red eyes looked over at her, the blood not enough to quell his dangerous mood, but he looked better. He took a jacket from the human off the wall and pulled it on his shoulders. 

It was unfair that he didn’t even take a moment to compel the man out of his terror. Watching the human stare, completely frozen and horror-stuck, was pitiful. Yet it was understandable. If the circumstances were different… Well, if they were different, nothing would’ve changed. Because that’s how things always played out when the two got together, apparently. There was suffering in every aspect - physical from others and emotional from unresolved feelings from them. Francesca always would put up a fight, treated him coldly, just as much as he’d keep his hot-and-cold thing. They always hurt, cut open, gutted and killed together. It’s always been like this, as if he still could awaken the animalistic side of hers that’s been implanted in her so many years ago by her sire.

The chandelier of the living room shook above their heads as the man’s body crashed against the wall. Still standing on the side, the Italian intently watched, slightly apprehensive that Orobas simply wouldn’t do what she told him to do. It was common sense that he had to feed sooner than later, she couldn’t understand why he was putting up a fight. Was it only because she was the one forcing him to do so, instead of it being by his own will? Nonetheless, he heard her. The temptation was probably too strong for him to resist and persist with his stubbornness. When fangs ripped open the human’s throat, Fran decided to take a seat in an armchair and start thinking what the bloody hell they could do next. Run up and down the bloody place looking for a lead? Find vampires and torture them, wish they knew anything about Carrington and make more enemies in the process?

She realized Orobas had been looking at her, the man now flat on the ground like a sack of potatoes, in a pool of his own blood. Fran stood from her seat, noticing through the layer of blood how there were no more sunburns over his skin. “You’re looking terrible in that jacket.” It was her way of complimenting him, actually, because she was still quite angry - maybe she’d be constantly pissed off for five decades or so. Sadly, he could never look terrible in her eyes in any way. And it only got her all the more annoyed. “Certo. E che facciamo adesso? How can I help?” Finally, she yelled to him. At least he wasn’t that hurt anymore, in spite of the obvious mental exhaustion.

“Should I forgo everything then?” He teased while she yelled at him, unzipping it and depositing it on the ground to walk around the house and find a bedroom. The man lived a boring life, a soul easily forgotten if the lack of pictures of family was to go by. Though of course, he didn’t have any photos of his friends either-- should he? Did their kind do that sorta thing? Haxian and him aren’t in one photo together, no need to pull such old memories when the future was right there. 

He couldn’t possibly be teasing her right now. Hazel eyes squinted at him in response, not really taking the time to lash back at him. But as she carried on with genuine questions to pressing matters, he simply turned him back on her and walked further into the house! Orobas wasn’t taking the piss, after all, he was truly going after the man’s closet to try and find something more fitting to his personality. Why not take a shower while at it? She thought. Maybe put some of his cologne. Mentally drained, Francesca fell in the sofa and rubbed her face, the portrait of frustration. Both of her hands were placed on her stomach as her questioning eyes stared at the ceiling. A crack opened there too when the man’s body hit the drywall. She didn’t know what to do.

A pang of something frustrating surfaced as he found a dress shirt in their closet, and he washed his hands and face in the bathroom. Ignoring her wasn’t entirely on purpose, though on brand for Orobas when she raised her voice at him. He was thinking of a better plan than interrogating people and trying to find out who knew what. There was a bad feeling in his gut that someone knew something, but was keeping quiet for the fear of the label of rat being put on their back. Droplets of water clung to his face, still exhausted, thin and gray. Eyes a deep crimson, he licked his lips, the taste of blood still present and his stomach coiled in thirst for more. Walking out of the bedroom, he gave her a look as if to ask, ‘is this better?’, but was already buttoning up the dress shirt and made to sit with her on the couch. 

“Someone said they could do a locating spell, but it’s going to be too late. I just can’t believe it will work without people bargaining for stuff while we won’t have time,” he scratched at his fang with a nail, lounging back improperly and stared at the mangled corpse. “The person I killed before I got you, said they saw someone on the beach with a truck and swore they took someone from the water. Maybe it’s him, maybe it's just another human corpse. He has to be on Amity Road. I think, the best course is to find the truck. Black, overly large with equipment in the back.” 

Orobas’ return caught her by surprise. When she heard the water running, Fran truly thought he was washing off all the blood. Which wouldn’t have been a bad idea, it just sounded wrong taking a shower when all she could think of was Carrington. When he sat next to her, her expressive eyes were nearly overflowing with water. She quickly sat up and rubbed them, humming in agreement in a weakened voice to the silent question he threw her way. Not really though, he still looked terrible and she still preferred him in his own clothes, but - Francesca cleared her throat, inhaling quietly. The last thing she wanted was for the vampire to notice she was crying right there. The woman who had been quietly waiting for him to finish draining a man from his blood was now crying in his sofa. It was pathetic. She felt pathetic. Yet she couldn’t help it. Fran without her emotions just wasn’t Fran.

“Fine,” almost promptly, the brunette stood up to her feed, running her hand through her dark hair, clearly distraught. Fran, who’s never been patient, now just seemed restless, unable to stay still for too long. “Let’s move then.” 

Orobas sensed the emotion in her easily. Attuned to suffering within people. He stood up and grabbed her hand, and made to look her in the eyes. People crying was Orobas’ greatest weakness. Not in wanting to console them, but to savor it. When someone got to that point of emotion, where it swelled their eyes, and fell in tracks down their cheeks-- it was truly beautiful and distracting. Orobas’ gaze was predatory, but for once he didn’t lash out and make her feel ridiculous, didn’t say something to have her anger rise and to lash out at him. Though he quite enjoyed that too, he felt the heaviness in his chest over the situation. Carrington was making both these ruthless monsters emotional to the point of confusing. He pressed and kiss to her cheek, and walked past her and towards the door. 

“Let’s move then--” 

Orobas darted for a good part of the night, around Amity Road looking for the truck that was scene. It was the only lead they had, and for tonight, it could be the only one they should follow so it didn’t get distracting. He battled the desires for mayhem. His anger at its peak, his concern a confusing anxiety driven reaction, but as they looked, he was thankful he had Fran with him tonight. So they could keep one another in check. As the sun was only two hours away, he finally found it in a parking lot. Looking around nothing really moved, the place quiet as it should be this early in the day. No. “Francesca--” in a dissipation of speed to ran towards him. 

Carrington wasn’t quite sure how long he had been walking. The road seemed to lead nowhere, even though he knew where he was. Didn’t he? Amity Road. Wasn’t it? Had he passed that street already? Was that the same car parked there on the corner? Carrington swiped a hand over his eyes. Surely he wasn’t walking in circles. 

He looked up at the sky. What time was it? How long until the sun came up? He’d need to either find his way home or find shelter. It wouldn’t do to have survived the hell of the last week (or was it longer?) only to perish at sunrise because he couldn’t find his bloody way home. His watch and his phone weren’t working, and there were no clocks or signs to let him know the time. Only sallow, greasy light from the streetlamps, the smell of wet and rot, and the feeling of simply wanting to sit down… just for a moment. To rest. Perhaps he would. 

Carrington stumbled… and fell to the sidewalk. And this time he didn’t get back up. Christ, he was so tired. Lying down wouldn’t do any harm. He would rest. Just for a moment…

That complicity gesture forced her to swallow the lump of sadness that gathered in her throat. Discarding those overwhelming emotions was the only way to focus on what was important: the task ahead. They had to find Carrington, or at least a second lead that got them anywhere closer to finding him. Anything but remaining where they were now.

Whist one would look in the right, the other would sweep the left, going through block by block following the same pattern, covering the area as quick as possible; not exactly together as in side by side, but hardly apart, for with a whisper and the blink of an eye Fran would be standing standing beside him. But nor their speed nor their insistence seemed to matter when that bloody truck was nowhere to be found. Maybe they’d given him a wrong lead just so Orobas would get off their back, somehow believing they wouldn’t end up dead in a ditch after Orobas was done with them after that lie.

Exhausted, Fran was about to give up. She was hungry, the sun would come up in a few moments and they couldn’t find a vehicle that was probably nonexistent or maybe was some type of invisible-kombi from the high-on-drugs-and-seeing-things-that-don’t-exist fae world. 

Turning her back to the vampire, she sighed loudly, a hand on her hip and another on her face. That’s when she heard the quiet call and immediately ran to Oroba’s side. That’s when she saw him. Or was it some drunk, homeless man? He smelled different. Past the dirt, the worn-out clothes and lack of his typical aftershave. Did he drink from someone on drugs? Why was he lying there?! Was he... dead? “... is it… him…?” After a couple of second of uncontrollable first-shock and strong fear, Francesca threw herself to the ground, kneeling and, as carefully as her disperair allowed her, rolled him over. Her hand delicately touched his face. “Carring? You’re fine. You’re fine, we got you,” she tried to sound as confident as possible, but without even noticing, Fran was already silently crying. For a second she looked back at Orobas, wanting to tell him thanks for not giving up on him, for finding the lead to him, for finding him, for getting to that point for him - but no words came out.

Orobas didn’t want to see her despair right now, and her tears-- ever delightful and distracting, almost had him letting them have their moment, but they were all cutting it close, and in the morning-- someone would likely call the police on their bodies. When she looked up at him as he stood there, Carrington starved, wearing clothes not atypical, and his general state in her arms, he grew impossibly mad. It was wildfire, and his gaze didn’t hide it. The frustration of it all almost consuming, because he didn’t know the why, and he wasn’t sure Carrington would even explain. He knew he probably wouldn’t-- if this situation was reversed. His fists curled inward, and Orobas had to calm down or he’d walk away from this. Haxian-- we found him. He felt his master close, not intruding on their hunt, nor helping, but was in their car waiting patiently to be sure they didn’t get caught in the sun. I’m coming. He crouched down, running the edges of his fingertips over Francesca's cheeks, and once more looked at Carrington.

 “Come--” Haxian pulled up fast to the parking lot and the group sped off towards Bloodhaven.

[bombshellsandbluebells]

The 100 Fic: On My Way Amongst the Stars

Summary: Otan used to say they were from everywhere. But Emori knows that's wrong. They don't belong everywhere; they belong nowhere.

Or: Emori struggles to find a place in the world, meets a boy who says he's from the Sky, and eventually visits it herself. Emori character study.

Relationships: Memori, Emori & Otan

Read on ao3

I finished one of those wips

“God will mercifully guide me on my way amongst the stars.” -The Old Astronomer (To His Pupil) by Sarah Williams

Otan used to say they were from everywhere.

He said it when the desert nights were long and cold and they were without shelter, lying curled together to stay warm. He whispered it as they left towns after trading, suspicious eyes pressing heavy on their backs until they were out of sight.

The reason they couldn’t root themselves in any one place, he’d insisted, was because they belonged to too many. They had bits of the boat people in them because they knew the smell of the sea and the bitter taste of salt water. But they also knew the sharp burn of the desert sun and the icy bite of mountain air.

Emori never knew if Otan truly believed his lie or if he said it only for her sake, but she had never been able to believe it. She remembered too well the hot flashes of shame and fear when her hand was exposed, or the bitter envy that grew like an thick, knotted weed in her stomach when she watched young children playing freely without care in the villages they passed through.

They don’t belong everywhere, Emori knows. They belong nowhere.

But Otan was right about one thing – they have been everywhere. In her earliest memories, she is small and young, draped on Otan’s back, her hands wrapped securely around his neck, as they move from forest to forest and village to village – in each place catching only the slightest glimpse into lives they could never have.

Most people, she knows, never leave the clans they’re born in – never even travel beyond their borders. There are people of the southern forests who have never seen snow or desert sand, and people from the desert who have never seen the ocean shore.

But it’s easy to travel when you’re unrooted.

She’s seen the lake people, located to the west on the lake shore, who build their houses on poles to escape the mud. Their boats are larger than her and Otan’s and run on louder, angrier motors. They traded old machinery there once for a fishing net and later had taught themselves to use it. Otan had ended up more tangled than the fish he was trying to catch, and Emori had laughed at him, loud and joyous.

“I will be forced to eat you for dinner,” she’d teased, then screamed with laugher when he pushed her overboard.

Soon they added fish to their usual diet, learned how to clean them and repurpose the scales and bones into jewelry they could sell in landlocked clans. Emori made herself a few pieces as well, sometimes hanging them from her ear or asking Otan to braid them into her hair, other times weaving them into her clothing. She doesn’t hold onto many personal belongings beyond necessities – the more you have to carry, the slower you move, and the slower you move, the faster death catches up with you – but sometimes it’s nice to own something just for the sake of owning it – just because it’s pleasant to look at and it makes her happy.

One winter, they traveled through Azgeda territory and saw snow for the very first time. Struck mute with wonder, Emori had cupped it in her hand and shivered at the sting of it. When Otan wasn’t looking, she’d snuck up behind him and shoved it against his exposed forehead, ducking away as quickly as a hare before he could retaliate.

Emori knows Sangedakru, too – the people that make the desert their home, as few of them as there are. There is a trading post and a small camp on the northern edge of the Dead Zone that deals in food and water instead of tech. Supplies that help them survive their harsh environment have great value there, and occasionally they give her pieces of tech they’d found in the desert in exchange for the meat and edible plants she brings from the forest. The people there have grown familiar with her and Otan; they pass word of interested buyers when they have it. Still, Emori had always kept her hand well covered and Otan, his face.

Familiarity doesn’t necessarily breed trust or safety.

There is another Sangedakru settlement towards the south. Emori has only been there once and vows never to return. She steers clear of it when she needs to cross the Dead Zone. It has been months, but sometimes she still wakes up with Baylis’s face in her mind. Otan had always been able to recognize when her nightmares were about him; he would silently wrap her in his arms, and, though on most days she would huff at his mothering and insist she was no longer a child, on those nights she would bury her head in Otan’s chest and let herself feel safe and loved.

She misses Otan like a misplaced part of her, like a limb that has been cut off and can still be felt but no longer used. She misses him with a painful desperation – if only I hadn’t let him go with Jaha, if only I hadn’t left in the boat – if only, if only, if only. She hopes he’s safe. She hopes he’s alive. She hopes John will agree to help her find him.

John is a mystery.

He’s different from any people she’s ever met. Emori can’t tell what clan he’s from, though she studies him closely when he isn’t looking, searching for details she recognizes. He wears no identifying marks on his skin or in his hair. His pale skin is covered in scars, but not the ceremonial scarring of Azgeda. His clothing is strange; he carries no trinkets.

One day, as they sort through their recent score, she decides to ask. “What clan are you from?”

He looks up from his pile. She’d taught him what can get a good price and what isn’t worth carrying, but he seems to instinctively have a good eye for what can still be reused. Sometimes when she sorts something as waste, he pulls it out of the pile and suggests another purpose for it, and she can’t help but wonder if he also grew up as a scavenger.

“I’m not from a clan,” John answers. Emori understands that – the sense that you can’t classify yourself as any one people, that you can no longer claim the clan you were born into. She knows he was banished from his own people, same as her. Still, she’s curious, so she waits, watching him expectantly, and raises her eyebrows in silent question. “I’m from the Ark,” he clarifies. “You guys call us, uh, sky crew, I think.”

Emori has never heard of the Ark. Skaikru sounds familiar, though. Perhaps she’s heard it in passing at a trading post. “I’ve never heard of the Ark. Is it far from the Dead Zone?”

John laughs. “You could say that.” His voice is light with amusement. Emori feels like she’s missed a joke. “The Ark’s on the ground now,” he continues, “but it used to be in space. Uh, in the sky.”

Emori stares at him without comprehension. “What do you mean in the sky?”

“Uh…” John looks unsure of how to phrase his reply. His mouth twists. He scratches the back of his neck awkwardly. “Guess you guys don’t really understand space, huh?”

The insinuation is insulting. She’s sure she would understand it if he would just explain. She continues to stare at him, expectant, slightly more peeved now.

“In the stars,” he says finally.

The metal cup she had been examining falls from her grasp. It clatters to the boat floor, spinning and rolling away. She stares at him. “You’re from the stars?” She doesn’t know if her voice sounds incredulous or just skeptical – she doesn’t know which way she’s feeling, either.

The stars are familiar to her. She has spent many nights staring up at them, from the gently rocking floor of her boat or the cold desert sand or the uneven forest floor. When she was younger, she would trace them with her hand, finding shapes and pictures hidden amongst them, and Otan would add to them, crafting stories to entertain her out of the glittering lights above them.

He taught her how to navigate with them, too – how to find her place and her destination, how to use them to guide her path. The stars are a comfort, because they’re a constant in a world that never lets her settle.

But she’d never thought of the stars as a place you could live.

“I don’t believe you,” she says finally, because ever since that first meeting, she’s never lied to him.

John bristles. “I’m telling the truth.” Emori knows she’s hit a nerve; his voice is sharp and tight, his shoulders hunched. He throws the shredded fabric he’s holding in the trash pile. “I’m not the one who goes around lying.”

It’s Emori’s turn to tense. She’d thought they’d gotten over that, honestly. He’s never brought it up again. “I apologized,” she snaps. “And I haven’t lied to you since.”

John doesn’t reply. Nor does he look at her. She watches him places a decent looking wire in the trash pile without hardly looking at it. When she leans closer to him to move it to the keep pile, he tenses.

Sometimes he reminds her of cornered prey. She can’t fault him for it; the world is hard and cruel and she’s often been made to feel like cornered prey herself, though she’s gotten skilled at hiding it behind a smile. The only time she lets herself appear vulnerable anymore is when she’s pulling a con.

“I didn’t say I thought you were lying,” she explains softly. With Otan gone, the thought of John growing angry with her and leaving is terrifying. “But I don’t understand how it can be real.”

“It’s not my fault grounders don’t understand science.” He still sounds defensive.

Emori scrunches her nose up at the unfamiliar word. “Grounders?”

“That’s what we call your people. Because you live on the ground.”

“I don’t have a people,” Emori corrects sharply. John looks up abruptly at her tone and locks eyes with her.

“Right,” he says, and something softens in his eyes. “Yeah, I know. Skaikru aren’t my people, either. We’re just from the same place.”

“The sky,” she says, still trying to wrap her mind around the idea. She looks up into the sky and images a city built in the clouds. It sounds impossible.

“You believe me now?”

Emori stares at the sky for a moment longer. She doesn’t understand it still, but, if nothing else, John believes it. He isn’t lying to her on purpose. She shrugs. “Well, you’re a terrible liar, so it must be true.”

“What? That’s not true.”

Emori grins at him. “It is. You’ll have to play a corpse in our next con because it was so bad. I thought I would have to come out of the trees early to save you.”

“You’ve just had more practice,” John snaps, but his tone is not truly angry. This is a friendly argument, like she would have with Otan, and it fills her with happiness. She’s glad that John is here with her; she’s glad he still seems to like her.

They continue to bicker playfully as they sort the rest of the stolen goods, and Emori can’t keep the smile from her face. She likes him, she realizes. She’s never had anyone to like before. It’s a wonderfully addictive feeling.

--

“So how do you live in the sky?” she asks one day as she’s repairing the boat engine.

“I don’t know,” John replies. He’s no help at all with machinery, so he’s lying in the shade of the boat cover, fanning himself with a spare piece of fabric. It’s hot with the sun beating down on them, but he’s still too scared of the water to jump in and cool himself off. “Same as down here, I guess.”

She stares at him, shrewd and unbelieving; seeing it, he falters.

“Well, not exactly the same. You can’t live outside in space because there’s no oxygen, so you have to live in a ship.”

“Oxygen?” she asks curiously, catching on the unfamiliar word.

“It’s an element in the air that you need to breathe.”

She takes that in, processes it. “And there’s lots of oxygen here?”

“Yeah, there’s tons on Earth. Lot more than the Ark had.”

When she asks him to explain further what oxygen is, he fumbles over his words, unsure how better to describe it. Eventually, she tires of both bombarding him with questions and messing with the stubborn engine and decides to teach him to swim instead.

--

“Everything floats in space,” John tells her one night when they’re cleaning fish for dinner.

“Why?” she asks.

“There’s no gravity.”

And then she has a new word and a new concept that John finds difficult to explain. She mentally adds it to the list.

--

“How do you travel to your home in the sky?”

“With a rocket ship.”

“Like a boat?”

“No, not really. It has a massive engine, and it just sort of shoots you up there.”

Emori tries to picture it, but the only image she can produce is their little boat fitted with a bigger engine, floating up towards the clouds, and she knows that isn’t what John means. It’s frustrating to be unable to fully understand him. She’s not stupid, but the concepts he talks about are so unfamiliar it’s nearly impossible to wrap her head around them. And John, much as he tries, seems unsure how to explain them so she can.

Still, when she asks questions, he answers them honestly and as best he can, and she appreciates it.

She understands better when the chip is in her head and ALIE is feeding information into her brain. Everything comes easier to her then, even the explanations that John had struggled to give her.

Still, she won’t fully understand space for nearly another year, not until she sits beside John in a rocket ship – not at all like her boat with a bigger engine attached – and leaves the only places she’s ever known behind for the stars. Suddenly, she can understand all of it. The lack of gravity is what lets Raven float into the air like she’s weightless. The lack of oxygen is what nearly kills them all. The concepts that John had tried his best to explain become real in a way they never had before.

Space is deadly, she learns. Perhaps more deadly than the deserts or the oceans or the fierce cold of Azgeda territory. It is cold and dark and empty and vast.

And yet, it feels safer than any place she has ever been before. None of the people there threaten to cast her out because of her hand; most of them don’t even treat her differently because of it. The Ring is small and confined, but she learns to be free in a way she has never been before. She stretches herself out and grows, one day, she realizes she's stopped covering her hand at all.

Otan used to say they were from everywhere, but the first real home that Emori ever knows is in the sky.

[floosies]

bury a friend: The Story of Noctua

pairing: steve rogers x possessed!oc x mcu!au

summary: there have been sightings of a dark creature who vanishes with night and in the mornings only remains of once living people are found scattered in open fields or forests nearby.

warnings: mentions of abuse, mentions of attempted suicide, violence, gore, cursing, mentions/scenes of sexual nature.

Please read with discretion. 18+ content.

A/N: This is my first attempt at something more dark. It’s been in my brain since hearing some of biilie’s works and quiet frankly I want to venture into new territory. However, I understand the severity of some topics that I will write about. If you or someone you know is in need please look at these resources

Tags: @indecisivedolly​

Series Masterlist

Part 5: Cold, Cold Heart

It took some time before they let the man get out of the room. His mind was steady fast on her. Was she dead? Why did he care? She was no better than him, and murdered people for sport. Still he raced to the med bay, with hopes she was doing well. When neared the entrance he found Steve waiting there, his face full of concentration. “What’d they say?” The look he gave his friend made Bucky’s heart drop.

Ruth was a little girl that greeted all the creatures of the woods. The kindest soul anyone could ever meet. It was what Tenebrae admired about her. What her parents saw from the great beyond. A kindred spirit with good intentions. Yet, here she laid feeble and fighting to wake up. She wouldn’t give up, especially since she only just discovered her freedom to be herself. 

“Cho, you’re joking right?” It made sense, but a part of Bucky seemed to be in disbelief. The doctor shook her head though, “this girl seriously malnourished, under weight, and has serious bone damage. I’m surprised she’s alive.” It was reaching nightfall, Steve was still hoping she’d wake up. Outside the door of her room was the elderly man from the previous night, “Tenebrae right?” He smiled at the boy, “Bucky. How is she?” The being could read the anger well on the boy. “How could you let that happen to her?” With a look of shock he mockingly answered the boy, “I thought she was a monster? Is that not how you viewed her?” Of course this took him aback. 

Steve heard the voice of someone else, he left the room to see the two men standing in silence. “Sir? Can I help you?” The elderly man looked at Steve, but Bucky answered, “it’s the Tenebrae thing.” “I am not a thing, I am an entity.” Being ever polite Steve asked why he had returned, “she is like my daughter. I must check on her well being.” A scoff arose from the one armed soldier at the very comment, “she’s malnourished, and has multiple bone fractures. How caring.” Because of its human form, it could finally express emotion, “those bone fractures came from a terrible early childhood. Or had she not mentioned what drove her to nearly kill herself?’

The silence was not one of awkwardness nor anger, but of guilt. The entity explained her misfortunes. How she would still smile and try to make those wretched people love her. How they did everything to try and break her. Explaining why all the rotten souls were killed, and how she cried after kill out of guilt. Steve wanted to cry, ever the sentimentalist. “So when you go and call her a monster remember that she is very aware of her impending flaws soldat.” The elderly man whispered something and then disappeared.

She woke up in the middle of the night, she knew where she was even if she had never been through the whole of the compound. There were so many floors to go through, this time she’d found a room filled with records and a great gramophone. She found an old french record that made her smile. It didn’t take long after to sense she was going to have company. She had already guessed who. 

He walked in with an urgency, “Doctor Cho said you’re malnourished and fractured everywhere.” He then proceeded to take seat, “well I’m still alive though.” The record play in the background, “did you know those people weren’t your real parents.” Her puzzled look was a quick indicator that this was new to her, “the spirit thing told us about your upbringing.” There was no time to react, her palm left a burning sensation his cheek. Her eyes began to brim with tears, “you are an empty shell of man. Your soul is rotten, if you still have one. You vicious, cold blooded, cumberground.” “Cumberground?” She went to strike him again, but his metal arm gripped her wrist. “You serve no purpose, you merely exist to take up space. That is what you are.” She spat at the soldier.

“You’re no one to talk to me like that-” “someone should! I have done nothing to you. Yet you belittle me and glare when my presence is near.” His heart was racing, “why do you let me? Why don’t you kill me?” She pushed herself away from, “kill you? Kill you?! Do you hear yourself?! Are you mad? You must be absolutely insane! Why would I ever wish death upon anyone?” Was she serious? “Your history says otherwise-” “those heathens hurt children, women, other men. They suffered their endings because they were awful people. I’ve witnessed them in the midst of their horrid acts. I’ve seen the lives that were destroyed because of the scum I kill. You think I kill for sport? I live with each and every memory, the agonizing screams as they try to ask for forgiveness. It aches my heart sometimes, but they were merely trying not to pay for the injustices they made on the feeble.”

There was only the sound of her sobs for a moment. He quietly asked, “so why do it? If it pains you?” She looked at him, the blue in his eyes was like the ocean in late summer, their gaze was content on her. “I do it because I know the pain of being taken advantage of. I nearly lost my virtue out of forceful brute from someone who was supposed to care for me. The reassurance that someone else doesn’t have to feel the pain I did is why I continue.” She paused for a moment before continuing, “if I had died like I’d planned I would have never been able to save any of them. I cherish the fact that have been given a second chance. You may not, but I do. A fear lives in me, one that makes me believe this may all be taken away from me and I’ll have to live in the horrors of my past. So I carry on as best as I can. I am a kind soul at my core, but I will not live to please anymore.”

His mind was rushing with many thoughts, she could not read all of them. Perhaps she should have stayed in that bed, “when we were in the alternate past and I saw that Kennedy was alive. I realized that it meant I was dead, there was a comfort in that.” Here was the glimpse into the fragments of darkness that haunted him, “to find comfort in one’s own demise is a feeling I longed for. Your past does not define you. It should not guide who you are now, you do not have to be cold, the best thing would be to look forward.” 

The record was ending, “when the old man explained your past. I thought of my own pain. I’ve been seeing you like they saw me. It’s easier to see everyone as your enemy when you’ve been made to believe that for so long.” She listened, not sure what would come from it the next day. He was really just a scared boy, filled with paranoia and insecurity. When he began to sob, she made him sleep, presenting him a sweet dream. Something comforting from his past. 

Her room was in the same state she left in. Despite the softness of the linens and the cushion of the pillows, an unsettling feeling sat in the depths of her heart. How would the days work now? Would his glares and harshness continue? She decided on not erasing his memory of their conversation. Fatigue soon answered for her, and soon she was in her dream land as well.

Steve went to look for her in the morning, she wasn’t in her room or in the med bay. She was gone. He called Tony, “what do you mean she just disappeared?” The billionaire’s voice came from the cellphone, “I don’t know. I’m searching everywhere-” FRIDAY’s voice interrupted the conversation, “she’s in the basement kitchen.”  A sigh of relief erupted from Steve as he went to the elevator down to the basement.

As the elevator opened, he looked over at the kitchen area of the basement. She was sat next to Bucky, they appeared to be in a deep discussion. “Sorry to interrupt, I couldn’t find you in the med bay.” She smiled at the golden haired man, “I apologize for not advising you about my whereabouts. Could some breakfast make up for it?” He smiled at her, “sure.” Bucky just sat there for a while. He listened to his friend make the young witch laugh, somewhere in his heart he was a bit upset that she was happy in Steve’s presence. 

So much so that he didn’t hear her talking to him, “you alright Bucky?” Her voice was so soft, “yeah? Yes. Sorry what was the question?” She giggled, “Steve and I were wondering if you wanted to come grocery shopping with us?” There was this gleam of hope in her eyes. Her doe like eyes, the ones he’d seen before he fell asleep and dreamed about the first time his ma took him to Coney Island. He agreed to go with them though, he had to ask her more questions about how she did it. If she could bring back more of his memories, if she would help him find himself.

[sykilik101]

Extrasensory

It came without warning, like an assassination in the night. They had inexplicably begun teasing him, egging him on about his "obvious" crush on the girl. He'd had little luck deciphering their motives. Perhaps for their own sense of entertainment or pleasure, or maybe out of sheer boredom, or maybe they'd had some life-altering revelation that dictated that they make a mockery of his love life, or lack of. This had gone on for months now, and from the beginning their jests had been nothing but an annoyance, comments constructed for the sole purpose of provoking him. As time passed, however, their words slowly worked into his mind like tiny drills, and eventually their lies shifted into his truths. With each passing day, his blushes grew darker, the racing of his heart became more rapid, and his thoughts were more isolated, focused simply on one person.

Eventually, he’d returned home, where he was met with a surprise greeting with the girl. The moment he saw her, everything came full circle. He knew her eye color, and could recall it to the exact hue, but he'd never noticed the sparkle in them when she smiled, like the ocean reflecting the early morning. Speaking of her smile, hers radiated in a manner that had never before tugged at his chest the way it did now. He must've grown taller, maybe a few inches or so, because he now had to lower his gaze to meet hers. As she hugged him, there was an aroma, a sensation that tickled his nose and levitated his heart into the back of his throat. He fought to swallow it back where it belonged, pumping blood at a comfortable rate instead of trying to suffocate him internally. There was a renewed press against his torso, one he'd felt from her before but never to this extent in her presence. His breaths were released in shudders at her closeness, at her touch, and it was an experience completely foreign to him.

Of all this, however, what stood out most in his hormonally-driven, out of control mind was the feeling of her skin. Maybe it was for the sake of nostalgia, or maybe it was because of the warm weather in Pallet Town, or even both, but she had reverted back to the outfit she'd worn when they’d first met. In their embrace his fingertips lightly grazed the small of her back, and even that minuscule meeting of flesh sent his body and mind into a maddening frenzy. It was a miracle to him that he wasn't bursting at the seams from exhilaration, but it was conceivable that somewhere in the depths of his throttled brain, the notion that he was enjoying the contact helped him keep his sanity in check, or whatever he could retain in his situation.

He allowed his consciousness to return to him, realizing that she'd finally ended the embrace. The lingering remnants of her scent must have been playing tricks on his sight, he concluded to himself as the girl headed inside the house, urging him to follow. That couldn't have been a brush of red on her cheeks. Could it?

Through the excitable reunion with his mother and the miniature feast prepared for his return, he finally gained some alone time. Lying on his bed, he attempted to tie down his thoughts, hoping to make sense of them all. In the past, the relationship between his head and his heart had always been platonic, and it worked for him. Never too concerned with romance, he instead put all his efforts into his dream. Not that anything could deter him from this goal; anyone and everyone who knew him could tell he would see it through to the end. He didn't mind small distractions here and there; helping someone in need, making time to meet new friends, participating in a competition purely for personal enjoyment. However, he perceived anything with the potential to make him lose sight of his ambition as a threat.

And love reeked of potential.

Not that he harbored any gripes with it. It was that emotion that let him care for his mother, as well as his friends, albeit in a strictly friendly way. To see it grow into something that would avert his gaze frightened him. Years had passed, and yet no experience or mix of words had diminished his desire; in fact, as his journey had progressed, the vision of being named the World's Greatest Pokémon Master only clarified.

And yet, why was he thinking about it now? He initially decided to lay the blame on his friends' taunting, but that couldn't be right. False accusations against his heart had been presented before, but they'd never gotten this kind of response out of him. Not in all his years of traveling had he struggled so ardently to calm his body down outside of a Pokémon battle. And yet here he was, at the mercy of a girl who held him delicately in the palm of her hand, and she didn't even know it.

Ash rolled to his side, allowing the warm sunlight to seep through the window and caress his face. He groaned, shuffling in place and closing his eyes to keep from being blinded. A soft slumber began overtaking him. He resisted, although weakly. Perhaps the days of travel were catching up to him, or the familiar softness of his own bed was luring him in, pleading to be occupied once more. Whatever the cause, he curled up, kicking his shoes off and letting them fall to the floor with a dull thud. The sedation only furthered as he pulled the blanket over his body. A small nap wouldn't hurt, he thought, and so with a small yawn, he allowed himself to be carried off into his dreams, that faraway place where there was no confusion, no worry, and where his feelings were as clear as the pools of water he saw in Misty's eyes.

xxxxx

The week that followed was unlike anything that Ash had experienced before. He'd lost control of his bodily functions more often than he could count. First thing to go were his vocal chords. Misty's presence was enough to render the boy speechless, or at the very least unable to speak a coherent sentence. And when he could manage a civil conversation, the chances of the sentence making any intellectual sense were hopeful at best.

Next was his sense of direction, though some would say he never had it to begin with. Walking into walls, slipping on objects, knocking objects over; he'd even temporarily forgotten where his room was when Misty had greeted him from his exit from the shower, an incident he'd rather be shoved deep into his memories, never again to see the light of day. Though, he was almost certain that her gaze was upon him longer than a normal glance should be, and when she'd turned away, his eyes had fooled him into believing she was grinning.

It was then, really, that he'd named his sight as the third function he'd lost control of. It wasn't so much that he was losing his vision; no, what was happening was that he was seeing things that weren't really there. His eyes had betrayed him, casting illusions and mirages to distort him into losing focus on what was real. Often times, during the middle of the utter catastrophes he called conversations with her, he noticed more smiles, more blushes. On the occasion when his eyes wanted to truly abandon him, he'd be unable to avert them, succumbing to their desires to remain fastened to her.

Indeed, the previous days had been a nightmarish agony, and as he gazed up at the ceiling, he angrily interrogated his emotions, slaving away for a confession. He wanted to know everything. He knew in the back of his emotionally obliterated mind that he had special feelings for her. Not ones a simple friend could admit to, nor the meager crush his friends had initially claimed he had on her; oh no, no. This, this was something far more sinister. Whatever this was, it was wreaking havoc on his very being. And he wouldn't let this go unanswered; he wanted names, places, anything to give him a clue as to when, and why.

Why. Now that was the truly elusive one, particularly because there were so many whys that he couldn't comprehend, the most prominent being why her. Perhaps it was the duration he'd spent with her, or the friendship they'd managed to forge over the remains of a broken, charred bicycle. He'd never understood what made her special, and no matter how hard he sought to understand, every step forward seemed to be in the wrong direction.

Feeling his blood boil, he jumped up from his bed, hopeful that a walk would appease his growing temper. Closing the door harder than he'd intended, he descended the stairs to find his mother staring at him questionably from the kitchen.

"Ash, honey, is something the matter?"

Even without the obvious sign of the door slamming, Ash knew his mom would've known about his foul mood with just one glance at him. She'd always been able to tell, despite how he'd try to hide it. Even now, soft as they appeared to be, her eyes were scanning him, picking out each and every tidbit of distress in his heart. He'd even go so far as to assume she already knew the problem, or at the very least had a notion.

He smiled as honestly as he could, knowing full well she could see how fake it was. "Yeah, I'm fine. I'm just gonna go for a walk, okay?"

For the briefest of moments, silence. Her eyes never wavered; neither did his. They shared not words or expressions, but a basic understanding that there was a problem, one which could neither be discussed nor solved through any ordinary or simple means. It would take time. Patience was the solution. Or perhaps action; a firm, head-on assault against the issue. Or…maybe both. A strategic, well-timed ambush would be most effective. Wait for the right moment to strike, and victory was assured.

All of this was conveyed between them instantaneously in a manner only they understood, shared by the bond of a mother and son.

"Okay, but be careful. And don't stay out too late, alright?" She warned, but quickly followed with the special, small smile a parent saves for their child.

This time, Ash's grin was genuine. "Sure, mom." And moments later, he was gone.

Down the dusty road he went, going wherever his feet carried him. He reveled in the crunch of the dirt below him, savoring the gusts of wind passing by. It was all so familiar, and in that familiarity there was solace. His hands slid into his pockets, his thoughts fixed on a destination. With the sun only an hour or two away from departing for the night, he imagined the beach would be a good way to ease his mind. It was one of his most beloved spots in all of Pallet, and to see it below the glow of the evening sky was a rare treat for him.

And perhaps Misty would be there. He grimaced, unsuccessfully attempting to usher the redhead from his thoughts.

It wasn't long before the hard dirt beneath his steps turned into soft sand, crushing and sinking beneath him. The waves lapped softly near the shore, occasionally leaving behind a strand of seaweed or pulling a wandering Krabby back into the murky depths. The smell of the sea whipped around him, salty and slightly chilled by the approaching night. He removed his socks and shoes, leaving his feet vulnerable to the still warm sand and smooth seashells. He wiggled his toes, relaxed by how the minuscule grains clung between them. He walked towards the water, halting when it rose to his ankles. It was cool, but warm enough for a person to enjoy if they were smart enough to keep their body moving.

Absentmindedly, his eyes scanned the beach, looking for any signs of human life. A tiny flock of Spearow cawed from above, but otherwise only the lapping of the waves filled the air.

Then, the silence was broken by a person emerging from the sea. And for a fleeting moment, Ash swore he'd seen a mermaid.

It took him two blinks to realize that it was Misty, who'd let her hair out of its ponytail. The flush in his cheeks that he'd become so familiar with in the past week returned as he watched her swim along the surface, occasionally diving below. He grinned to himself, admiring how graceful she was in the water. He'd known swimming was her specialty, but she was far more enjoyable to watch than he last recalled.

It wasn't long before the redhead became aware of her audience of one, moving to the beach to get a closer look. "Ash? What are you doing here?"

Looking for you.

"Uh, I just went for a walk, and I wanted to come here. To see if there were any Pokémon I could catch." He wasn't very good at lying.

Fortunately, she seemed to believe him. The rest of Ash's face warmed, feeling his stomach tingle as Misty rose from the water. Her tangerine hair spilled down her shoulders, reaching down to tickle the middle of her back. She wore a simple blue two-piece, but it complimented the shapeliness she'd acquired in the years. It wasn't skimpy, but it was all kinds of alluring, enticing him as he felt his leg take a small step forward. He managed to keep the other leg under control, but the one step was enough to get Misty's attention.

"Is something wrong?"

I never realized how pretty you are.

He grit his teeth as discreetly as he could, hating the flood of thoughts that swallowed his mind with each conversation they shared. The fact that no one else was around only increased the tension he felt. He shook his head, both to clear his mind and to answer her question. "I'm fine. So, why are <i>you</i> out here?"

"Well, it's been so long since I've been able to swim at a beach, so I thought now would be a good opportunity. The Gym is great and all, but a beach feels so nice and open."

Suddenly, there was a strange look in her eye, one he'd seen a few times through the week but never managed to decipher. Her hands clasped behind her back, gently putting her weight on one leg to lean to the side. "So, Ash, do you think I look good in this?"

Unbelievably amazing.

His face was frying as he worked to keep his composure. "Huh? Um, well…I…yeah, you look great." He inwardly applauded himself for making a sensible sentence.

Misty giggled. "Thanks." Her eyes widened for a moment before turning her attention to the ocean, then back to Ash. "Hey, you wanna go swimming with me?"

"Huh? But, I…"

"Come on, Ash, it'll be fun!" Misty quickly took his hand, pulling him back towards the ocean. Only a few steps in, however, she found Ash had rooted himself to the spot. She eyed him, curious, worried. "Ash, is something wrong?"

Ash, however, was focused only on the hand that held his. It was soft, and he wasn't able to control his thumb as it gently rubbed along her knuckles. His gaze remained fastened to the ground, fearful of what she'd say or how she would look at him for his actions. "Misty, um…I…"

It was gentle, but her grip strengthened. He looked to find a smile on her face. It was then that a wordless connection was made, an extrasensory union much like with his mom but on a more intimate level. He knew exactly what she was thinking and feeling, and vice-versa. All of his worries, his confusion, his affections; she saw it all. Nothing was hidden from her, no matter how embarrassing or secret. And in her he could see the same. He felt hope, wonder, curiosity, hurt…but most of all, love. In some ethereal transition, their thoughts were being shared, and they both understood.

They didn't have to say a word. They both knew how the other felt.

Ash smiled in return, gingerly squeezing Misty's hand. He knew her heart must have skipped a beat, because his did. She nudged her head to the waters and he smirked. He managed to remove his jacket, gloves, and cap, and he only just barely pulled his shirt off before Misty dragged him to the ocean. His yelps were quickly drowned out by seawater, having been rashly dunked under the surface. His body surged with a jolt, unaccustomed to the sudden drop in temperature. His mind blanked momentarily before he was able to properly feel the hands pressing down upon his shoulders. Managing to scrape the sand below with his feet, he jumped up, breaking through the surface with a breathless gasp. His hair clung to his face as his eyes flickered about, searching for a sign of the girl. She'd disappeared, most likely underneath him. He felt like prey, soon to be the meal of the menacing predator that'd set their eyes on him.

Ten seconds passed, yet still no glimmer of movement. He groaned; he was aware of how long she could hold her breath if she really tried. It would be another minute, maybe sooner, before she emerged. Adrenaline pumped through him, heightening his senses. No sloshing of the waves went unnoticed, and no unnatural breaking of the water would be out of his vision. Suddenly he froze, feeling a set of hands wrap around him from behind, caressing his stomach. The touch wasn't threatening, so he relaxed as he felt Misty rise behind him.

His face flushed, yet he was pleased at the redhead's gentle affections. He couldn't say he disliked it; being so close to her was sending a warm shudder through his body. She seemed captivated, taking him in and memorizing every muscle and piece of skin. Her chin rested on his shoulder, their cheeks grazing together. A mere day ago, all of this would have been strange, even taboo. No more would that be the case.

His mind and body told him to touch her back, and for the first time in a week, there was no resistance. He snuggled his face against hers, taking her hands in his. She giggled, planting her lips on his cheek. His previous blush doubled in strength, his stomach swelling as she slowly kissed him over and over. She'd been waiting for this, for years; he'd seen it when they'd made their connection. The dam had finally been allowed to break, and he was being hit with the aftermath. No longer worrying about hiding or concealing his emotions, he let his fingers intertwine with hers, and through the touch he felt warmth fill his veins. The moment seemed perfect.

That is, until Ash decided to have some more fun.

With an "accidental" slip that tossed him off his balance and a scream, the pair fell backwards, surrounded once again by liquid. Misty was the first to rise, gasping for air. She moved the strands of hair in her face behind her ear, searching around for Ash. Though it was predictable, she didn't expect him to come from behind, taking a firm hold on her. Now it was she who was the captive; not that she minded. Unlike before, however, Ash turned her, leaving them face to face.

For the second time that day, their gazes were locked. Ash's fingers fiddled with her slick lower back absentmindedly, his fingernails occasionally scraping the skin. Misty grinned pleasantly, though he was unable to tell if it was from the gentle caresses or something else. Her hands snaked up his chest before ensnaring her arms around his neck, taking hold and pulling herself closer towards him.

"You don't have to be so nervous, Ash."

It was barely above a whisper, yet he heard each word clearly. His competitive instincts immediately kicked in. "I'm not nervous," he replied with a small pout.

Misty grinned. "I can tell that you are, you know."

Ash tilted his head, intrigued at the girl's claim. "How?"

She giggled, almost victoriously. "Because you just told me."

The boy's heart sunk, as did his jaw. Once again Misty had managed to outwit him, and there was no chance that he would admit it. There was no way to counter her tactics. Unless…

"Well, you're nervous, too. I can tell."

"Oh, really? Well, how’s that?"

Inwardly, Ash cringed. She hadn't worded it properly for him to retort. All hope seemed lost, as his brain wracked itself in all manners possible in an attempt to find a viable solution. Suddenly, however, he felt something. It was gentle at first, but he soon knew exactly what it was, and he grinned; he'd found his answer. "I can feel your heart beating really hard."

Misty's expression blanked for a moment, blinking twice before realizing just how tight of a hold she had on him. She blushed sharply before her body reacted on instinct. "ASH, YOU-!"

The poor boy didn't hear the last word, as the combination of a loud smack and the crashing of water drowned out his ability to register sound. Moments later, his body drifted to the surface. There was no point in tending to the searing slap mark on his face, he thought; the pain would dwindle away eventually.

And besides, seeing Misty with a genuinely concerned look on her face was enough to ease his grief.

"Ash, are you alright?"

He chuckled, carelessly floating along the water's surface. "Yeah, that still hurts."

Misty smirked, half annoyed. "Well, maybe next time you won't say things like that."

The sun was now barely peeking over the horizon, making the visibility of the shore dim. The water had become chilly, ushering the two out with a small, icy wave. Soaked and with very little light to dry them off, the pair groaned in frigid agony. Thankfully, there was no breeze to freeze their skin, but the risk of catching a cold was not one either was willing to take. The two got dressed, but Ash took note of Misty rubbing her arms, attempting to gather warmth. He thought to himself for a moment, then smiled.

Misty continued to apply friction to her body, hoping to retain as much heat as she could. Her skin was still moist, and she shivered under the cooling night. Suddenly, she felt something warm cover her shoulders. She turned to see Ash placing his jacket around her, a newfound affection in his eyes. Magenta seared across Misty's face, though she managed to control it with a tender smile.

With the sunset behind them, the two departed back to Ash's house, their fuzzy shadows connected at the hand.

xxxxx

The moon had long since replaced the sun as ruler of the sky, leaving the world covered in a black veil. Hours after everyone had gone to sleep, Ash and Misty had snuck out, sitting atop the roof. Reflected in their eyes were countless stars as they sat together, leaning against each other for warmth and support.

"Hey, Ash?" Misty wrapped her arms around his, her head on his shoulder.

"Yeah?" He whispered back, his cheek nestled atop her orange hair.

"Talk about something."

He chuckled, but inwardly reflected on how strange it sounded for Misty to say that. Maybe the long span of time had changed her, because the redhead he'd known years ago would never even have considered thinking such a thing; she'd have more than likely said there was no point in talking when you didn't need to, or something similar. Or perhaps that would only have applied to him. The thought tickled his fancy and released another chuckle, and it was beginning to irk at Misty's curiosity.

"Hey, what's so funny?"

He smirked, his gaze still to the sky. "I guess I'm just kind of getting used to this."

He could feel her smile before she cuddled up closer into him. "Same here. It feels a little weird, to be honest, but I don't think it's bad."

Ash hummed in agreement and the pair was silent again, if only for a few moments.

"Ash, I said talk about something." Her voice was meant to sound stern, but playfulness and affection seeped through the cracks.

He lovingly bopped his head against hers. "Well, give me something to talk about."

Misty tapped at her chin, her eyes rolled back in thought. Her gaze floated along the starry ocean, taking in its majesty. "Have you ever made a wish on a star?"

Ash was quiet for a moment before he chuckled to himself. "Yeah, a lot when I was little. I'd wish I could find and catch a Pokémon, or that I could beat Gary at something for once."

Misty giggled, loving Ash's sudden pouty expression at the recollection of his rival. "Well, wanna make one right now?" Her hold on his arm tightened as she rocked the both of them side to side.

He grinned, scooting closer to her. "Sure."

Then, they looked to the stars. A minute flew by as they both contemplated potential wishes, and then looking for prime stars to wish upon. The two seemed to know when the other was done as Ash spoke up just as Misty had finished. "So what did you wish for?"

"Ash, you're not supposed to tell. Then it won't come true."

"Come on, Misty, tell me."

As much as she hated to admit it, the immunity to Ash's slightly lopsided grin that she'd had as a young girl had abandoned her, leaving her unable to keep her thoughts to herself as much as she'd like. She wanted to tell him no, and that he would just have to keep wondering, but the endearing look in his eyes compelled her to tell him all of her hopes and wishes. Starting with the one she'd just made. "I will, but first tell me yours."

He raised a quirky eyebrow, huffing amusedly. His cheeks flushed, but he cleared his throat and spoke. "I wished that one day, when I become a Pokémon Master, you'd be there to celebrate with me."

Misty found herself blushing as a joyous tingle shot through her. She giggled blissfully as she released her hold on his arms, opting to secure his torso instead. It took Ash by surprise, but nonetheless allowed him to snake his now free arm over her shoulders.

"So what did you wish for?"

In her euphoria, she'd almost forgotten about her end of the deal. She'd hoped he would have as well, considering how embarrassing her wish was. She nibbled at her lip, taking in a soft breath. "Well, I wished that we would be together…forever." In all her years of friendship, she couldn't recall feeling her heart moving so erratically. It felt foreign to admit such a thing, especially to the object of her affections. As if she were searching for reassurance, her hold on the boy strengthened, practically clinging for dear life.

She'd hoped to be met with comforting words, but instead received light laughter. It struck a nerve as she glared upwards at Ash. "What's so funny?"

His chuckles were amused, but not malignant. "It's a nice wish, really, but it seemed a bit silly to me for a moment."

Her lips pursed, wondering what in the world Ash could be thinking. "How come?"

At this, his expression became earnest, his attention solely on her. "Well, it's not like you have to wish for that. We'll always be together, no matter what."

The words were simple, but the effect was astounding. She'd heard words of pure sincerity from him before, but never had they been so exclusive, so strong in magnitude that they left her lost for words. She could only call it magic. Her speechlessness, her shaky lips, and the tightening in her chest were all the effects of the spell he was casting on her. Her breaths were caught in her throat as she lost herself in his eyes, nearly hidden under the shadows of the moonlight. She needed to tell him; she had to. She felt he had to know, but she couldn't bring herself to utter a sound. It was as if words would ruin the moment. In a crazed swirl, her thoughts screamed at her, dictating that he know of what she was feeling. But if words were useless, then how?

And then, the answer was obvious.

He appeared to have picked up on it as well because he suddenly licked his lips, turning his cap around so as not to interfere. Their hearts jittered about in a stupor as their faces inched closer, stopping when their foreheads and the tips of their noses connected. One last time the pair exchanged glances, looking for signs of apprehension or discomfort. All they could see was what was reflected in each other, and they smiled. Then, with a gentle tilting of their heads, the gap was closed.

Words were meaningless. Their hearts said it all, loud and clear.

[bluemoonpunch]

I want to Know how the rest BTS members and Bang PD see Jungkook, i don't know if you have this reading or not i can't find it. thank you [anonymous @ bluemoonpunch(.)com]

First off, the energy that Kook projects out towards the group is the 9 of Cups in reverse, which I was seeing this as not something he consciously projects, or even subconsciously projects, it’s just something that they pick up on. It’s a lack of fulfillment, a cup being filled up halfway, just not being satisfied with the current state on an internal level. If I had to assume, I would say this is a matter of self-actualization, something related to growing up and being his own person and expressing himself as an individual with personal style and perspectives. As we all know, he’s genuinely a very sweet and caring person and he really wants to please everyone, even people who only see him as an object of sexual fantasy and treat everything that he does to change his appearance or speak his mind as if he personally just stabbed their sex doll to death. Tragic. 

But yeah, he is projecting this and it is something recognizable to people very close to him, he’s not happy with how things are at the moment, he doesn’t feel complete in certain areas of his life.

Namjoon — 6 of Swords

I thought this was kind of cool because it reflected what I had for them in their relationship reading where I talked about how Kook was transitioning into extroverted Virgo energy for the first time while Namjoon was transitioning into introverted Virgo energy, where he has been before. They are trading places in a sense, but their “places” won’t be there by the time that actually happens. 

Basically, Namjoon sees this lack of fulfillment, but he’s seeing it as an experience, or a learning process, something that Kook has to go through in order to learn how to value what he wants and what he thinks over the audience. This is very specific and very evident because Namjoon literally did that himself. He used to be a big ass conformist shit show who just went around playing roles and he fucked up a lot because of it, and he had to LEARN through EXPERIENCES how to honor himself. Kook is doing the same thing right now.

I have a visual for this and I thought it was interesting to point out the differences. 

Once upon a time, Namjoon was being given stones and rocks to tape to his face and body, to beef him up, make him look bigger and scarier than he was, playing the tough guy. That was his previous state, covered in stones, looking all sorts of insane to people who weren’t the ones giving him the stones to wear. Kook, right now, as the 9 of Cups, is just trying to fill himself up. He’s just trying to do little things for himself to fill up one cup at a time. Whether that be a new piercing or a new haircut, a new personal project or solo song, whatever it is, it’s just one cup that he’s trying to fill so he can take a drink. Then people come along and say, “you shouldn’t drink that. You’re supposed to be a bird and fly around where I can see you. You’re not a fish at the bottom of the ocean. Dump it out.” And then he does, because his Virgo energy is introverted, his judgment is already towards himself before anyone else, and he’ll listen to anything that seems like criticism and he’ll believe it because he does it to himself all the time. 

It’s two different scenarios, but the key that connects them is the influence of the spectators. 

It’s kind of low energy of not knowing how to help Kook while also knowing that he can’t and shouldn’t. Going back to the 6 of Swords, it’s like Namjoon is standing on the shore as he watches Kook set out on the boat on treacherous waters. He himself as taken that journey before, he knows the way, and he has advice that he could give, but today is a different day. The path is the same, but who’s to say Kook won’t hit a rainstorm, or that the deepest part of the river is now the shallowest and can’t be navigated the same. It’s a different time and place, and in spite of having a lot of it, Namjoon’s advice here may be completely useless. All he can do is watch Kook make that trip and hopefully make it to the other side without any real issues.

Jin — 3 of Pentacles 

I swear, this is all I ever get for them. Jin sees Kook as his apprentice, as a student, and I’ve gotten the same thing for them in two other readings I’ve done for them including their Relationships Reading (coming out in November). It always comes off as very business-oriented, like focusing on money and investments, but there is this sense of responsibility that Jin has towards Kook to teach him SOMETHING and business and money are what he KNOWS for SURE. 

So, I don’t want to get to into this one because I feel like I’ll just relay everything I have for their Relationship Reading, but there are some posts somewhere that has stuff like this around business and money between them. 

Yoongi — The High Priestess with The Lovers (rev.)

This has to do with the fulfillment thing and I thought that this was really interesting because this is basically saying that Yoongi recognizes a deep sense of empathy in Kook, something that connects him to other people, however, with the reversed Lovers, he can’t see Kook having a solid connection with himself or a sense of purpose that is clearly defined by him without the validation of others. He’s just constantly in a state of receptivity like The High Priestess, but nothing is contained as it would be within The Lovers if it was upright.

I assume, similar to Namjoon, that Yoongi sees Kook through the lenses of these higher aspects with The High Priestess and The Lovers because he has gone through a similar state before as well.

Hoseok — Wheel of Fortune (rev.)

This made me laugh because as soon as I put the reversed Wheel of Fortune down I heard, “why’s he just sitting there?” and it was in reference to the man in the 9 of Cups. Like, he’s upside down and all of his cups are spilling, so why is he not getting up and trying to fix it? 

Then I started laughing again because with the way I have these cards laid out, Hoseok’s card is next to Yoongi’s set — Mr. Pisces Man is next to Mr. Aquarius Man. So, there’s this funny offset to their perspectives where Yoongi is seeing the current state as this big huge thing and is seeing the transference out of it as very small, a mindset of, “you’re where you are until you aren’t.” And then, Hoseok has the exact opposite where he’s seeing the transference out of it, the Wheel of Fortune, as this BIG OBVIOUS THING that Kook just isn’t utilizing and he can’t see why. Or he can, but it just doesn’t make sense to him why it’s such a big issue… Mr. Aquarius Man with his funny shoes and fanny packs doesn’t understand why Kook cares so much about what people think of him… imagine that.

It really is this thing of Hoseok pulling some Air Sign shenanigans and seeing all of the cups spill, seeing the turmoil that it’s causing, but having a perspective so far beyond that moment that he can’t understand why someone would choose to just sit there and take it. It’s like there’s a little Hoseok standing on the Wheel of Fortune waving his hands around yelling at Kook who’s sitting on the floor surrounding by all of these spilled cups in the reversed 9 of Cups, and he’s like, “heyyyy!!! If you just stand up and start picking those cups up, you’ll turn upright and then we can get this wheel turning!!” and Kook is all down like “ :( “ and Hoseok, the frustrated Aquarius, is like, “I get that it’s sad, but fucking MOVE!”

So, it’s funny but also kind of sad, because in a similar vein to everyone else, he wants to help, wants Kook to get up and get his cups all filled and be happy, but he doesn’t know how to do it.

Jimin — Knight of Cups with the Page of Wands

As always, the Page of Wands has to come out at some point for Kook, right? And not surprisingly at all, it’s with Jimin. There’s a definite duality here which mirrors the balance and connection they have on multiple levels. As I’ve explained about a thousand times, the Page of Wands is Kook in a more dependent state where he relies on guidance and encouragement from the others, seeking validation. I don’t remember which reading it was, but one of the earlier ones it was shown that this connection is through Jimin primarily. It’s a child following a mother, that’s how they connect etherically through their imprinting, with Kook being a “product of Venus” as it was said, or a child of Venus and Jimin being a Libra, the love side of Venus. There’s a comfort and nurturing there, so Jimin is seeing Kook as his child, or just a child in general, but this is referencing reliance and dependency, so… Kook’s his baby here, lol.

BUT!!!

Then there’s the Knight of Cups, which I always mess up and call the Prince of Cups because I think of “Prince Charming” and “Knight in Shining Armor” and somehow it gets mushed in my head visually and audibly, so… the Prince of Cups. Someone more mature, more independent, and someone that Jimin can be reliant on. My attention was brought to the Knight’s cup, which he holds out proudly in front of him, and I was shown this being “a cup he won’t spill.” As in, his care and affection for Jimin, in spite of what people say or think of them, no matter how their relationship is perceived, negatively or positively, Kook will NOT dump the water out of that cup. Jimin sees this, appreciates this, and trusts this.

There’s a trade there. Kook takes care of Jimin when he needs it, and Jimin takes care of Kook when he needs it. Jimin needs more care in the realm of Water, the emotions, so it’s fitting that the Knight of Cups is here, and Kook needs care in the realm of Fire, his projection and soul.

Taehyung — The Emperor

This is more superficial, almost like he’s choosing to see Kook as The Emperor. It’s stemmed in Kook’s pride, in not wanting to seem weak or small, or childish. He wouldn’t want anyone to actually see him as the reversed 9 of Cups, and I’m sure Taehyung, the master of disguises, understands that and he projects this image on to Kook. 

Actually, something just came to mind of how Taehyung always talks about how strong Kook is physically, or at least I have like ten time in my head where he brought up Kook’s physical strength or goes on about his talents. It’s kind of like that. He’s projecting that STRONG MAN image and pointing it out to people so that they focus on that because he knows that that is what Kook would want. He wouldn’t ask for it or project it himself, but he likes to be seen as a MAN rather than a small helpless child and Taehyung tries to give him that. I imagine there’s a bit of comradery there as the two youngest members in that sense. This is actually really similar to what Kook does for Jimin and what Jimin does for Taehyung, so they have like a little ring of projected egos going on for each other, lol.

More Mini-Readings | Celebrity/Idol Readings 

[smol-and-grumpy]

Dear Dean (Chapter 2)

Re-post

Pairing: Dean Winchester x OFC (Jamie Blum)

WC: 3.4k

Summary: After taking Saint Lo, by sheer dumb luck, Lieutenant Dean Winchester from the 29th Infantry Division, Baker Company, received a truckload of replacements for his platoon that was falling apart. Little did he know, that one recruit would change his life forever.

Chapter Warnings: There’s none, except angst and the fear of what lies ahead.

SERIES MASTERLIST

22nd July, 1944

Letters from home arrived early in the morning and everyone tore them open, reading them out loud while they were sitting at breakfast and weirdly enough, Dean got a letter too. He thought first that it was Sam’s but no, it was from home. Dean ripped it open, not minding that he tore out a little of the letter as well. He was clumsy with his fingers lately, having trouble to keep them from trembling in the most inconvenient of times.

Dear Dean,

I hope this letter reaches you well, like all the other letters I’ve sent you before. I wish that you would write back, but I understand that time must be a real big issue. I miss you and wanted to say that I’m immensely proud of what you’re doing. I hope Sam’s doing great, too. I thought that I should send you a photograph I found while I cleared out my mom’s attic. Remember how you, Sam and me snuck out to go to the fair? This is the picture of then. That night you kissed me. It was my first kiss, too. I miss you guys so much. My mom’s still taking care of your home. Growing flowers and tending to the porch. She too, believes that the both of you will come back. You were always more than the neighbor boy to me. You were more than a brother or a friend. Dean, I love you, and I still do. Come back in one piece, alright?

Love Always,

Anna Milton

Dean threw away the letter pretty soon after he read it. He wouldn’t reply, like the others that he left on a trail from Omaha to here. Dean knew that if he would write back and tell her that he’d never saw anything else than a friend in her, he’d break her heart and sometimes, if you have nothing nice to say in a letter, you shouldn’t be writing one at all. However he kept the photograph. It was a picture of he, Sam, and Anna in the middle. All of them smiling. All of them still hopeful. He folded it and tucked it into his helmet. Now he had picture in there, too.

June, 1944

Just when it felt like it was all too much, like the loneliness would swallow her whole, Jamie received a letter in the mail addressed to Mr. Jamie Blum. She eagerly ripped through the envelope, not caring about the paper cuts that easily sliced through the skin on her fingers. She held the paper in her hands, small droplets of blood sprinkling the words on the page.

Greeting:

Having submitted yourself to a local board composed of your neighbors for the purpose of determining your availability for training and service in the armed forces of the United States, you are hereby notified that you have been selected for training and service in the Army. You will, therefore, report….

She’d been drafted. Jameson put her name in after all.

Jamie stared at the white paper, and the words began to melt together. She didn’t know if she should cry, or rejoice. So, instead, she walked up the stairs, and into the bathroom. She pulled out her brothers razor blade. Jamie stared at her reflection, her eyes were hollow, and her cheek bones protrudes from lack of sleep. She closed her eyes, and when she opened them she ran the blade across her scalp, in one fluid motion, wincing at the tug of protest that her long hair gave. It fell to the ground like new fallen snow, lackadaisical, and languid. It danced past her empty eyes and collected at her bare feet on the bathroom floor.

She ducked her naked head under the sink, letting the cool water run over her irritated scalp. Jamie was going to do this and nothing would stop her. She gripped the edge of the sink and looked at herself in the mirror, she looked alien without hair, but she smiled at her own reflection, water droplets rolling down her face. She looked a little like Jameson, she thought, as she reached out a hand to touch her reflection in the mirror.

Jamie would leave the house, without looking back, like her brothers before her. Anywhere was better than being alone. Always waiting for letters or worse, for someone to tell her that her brothers all had fallen. She needed to stand on the same ground as them. She needed to feel alive again. So she gathered up what she could find of her brothers that fit, and packed her duffle bag, tossing it over her shoulder. She locked the door behind her, fully prepared to never see her childhood home again.

**

Jamie arrived in England a week later for Basic Training. She was careful about her appearance and was really grateful that she didn’t have large boobs. She didn’t have to actually bind them tightly. She waited for the others to shower and slipped in when they were dressing. It worked surprisingly well, maybe because she was so small, and she could really go anywhere almost undetected. Most of the men in her training class were young themselves, and missing home. They didn’t seem to pay close attention to anyone else, let alone her. She adapted the ways of the men around her. She told crude jokes, and ate with her mouth open. They talked about the dolls at home, and she told them that she couldn’t be tied down by just one. Her secret was safe.

Turned out, she was a hell of a shot. Having three brothers worked to her advantage. Jamie knew how to spit, clean a weapon, and she could drink just about any man under the table. She completed only four days of training when they announced that she was shipping off to France. Apparently there was a shortage everywhere. Soldiers moved in and out of camp restlessly, like little ants.

**

22nd July, 1944

On the way to her assignment, she sat in the back of a truck. It was bumping, and uncomfortable. She grunted at every rock the truck rolled over. When they arrive in Saint Lo, and she finally could stand up again, and straighten her back, she felt a stinging pain traveling down her spine, but she wouldn’t let it bring her down.

Even in a war zone, she could admit that France was beautiful. She could see the seaside, and taste the ocean air. Almost like back at Trenton. The other men didn’t seem to notice the sea air, or the clear sky. They gathered their things and were already in step.

Biting on her lip, Jamie secured her webbing, swung her haversack across her back and hung her musette bag around her body, determined to be at the front of the pack. She wouldn’t fall behind. She fetched her rifle from the floor of the truck bed, and jumped off the halting truck, into the bright sun.

They lined up the new arrivals in the front of their respective platoons and were inspected by the platoon leaders. Jamie stood at attention like she was taught, her chest out, next to her training class. Her heartbeat rang in her ears with a woosh, as her eyes landed on the man in front of her. He was tall, about six foot, if she was guessing. His shoulders were broad, and she could see the reflection of their terrified faces in his mossy green eyes.

“Name’s Lieutenant Dean Winchester.” The man announced and Jamie flinched at the deep rolling sound of his voice at first, but at the same time, the bass of it was strangely calming and smooth, as if it was coated with warm and sweet honey.

She pressed her lips together, and tried to ignore the bead of sweat that was on her upper lip.

Lieutenant Winchester stood up straight, puffing up his broad shoulders to intimidate them and for some, it worked, but not with her. She knew these kind of men, all bark, but no bite.  She tightened her jaw, trying not to laugh at her platoon leader’s alpha behavior.

Dean turned on his heels, his eyes narrowing at the small replacement in front of him. Christ, he can’t be older than eighteen? They make them smaller and smaller. “What your name, private?”

“Blum, Sir.” It came shouting out of him like a pistol. He’d been drilled to do it, Dean knew.

“Private Blum, huh?” A lopsided grin started to spread on Dean’s face. “Alright, private Blum. From now on, in my platoon, you’ll be Bambi.” And then he looked up from him to the other replacements. “I like to give nicknames to my privates. You’ll all get one if you’re lucky.” He took a good look at their faces in the line before he stalled before private Blum. “You’re fucking small, Bambi. Tell me, what can you contribute to my platoon?”

“Sir, I’m a mean shooter.” Bambi shouted like he’d been drilled in basic.

“Shooter, huh? Good. I can use that. What else, private?” Dean knew that he shouldn’t be so harsh on the first day but hell, he’s got a platoon to lead and a freaking war to win. Then he adds, “Come on! Humor me.”

“I..uh..”

“That’s what I thought –” Dean snickered but got cut off by the small private with doe eyes.

“I know a little German, Lieutenant. You’re right, I’m small but I’m stronger than I look. I’m pretty good, you just watch.” The privates eyes locked with Deans in a challenge. Almost as if he was saying, challenge me.

Dean nodded at that. He knew that he should maybe shout at him, telling him not to talk to his superior like that, but he was too tired for this shit. He still had a briefing to attend and so he stepped back before he turned to Sergeant Harvelle. “Take over, sergeant.”

And then he walked away, leaving Harvelle to deal with instructions.

There was something about Bambi that made his blood freeze. He couldn’t figure out what it was, but it was something that made him want to protect that little son of a bitch who thought he was a smartass. But Dean also knew that private Blum would probably be trouble, he just couldn’t put a finger on how yet.

The look Bambi gave Dean was all too familiar. It was a look he normally saw on Sam. Sammy could look at him with doe eyes, under long lashes, and he would melt. Now there was someone in his company - no, in his freaking platoon - that gave him the same fucking look and it didn’t really bode well with Dean.

He couldn’t stop thinking about Sam and so Dean decided to fill his remaining 10 minutes before briefing with writing him a letter.

Dear Sam,

I haven’t had a lot of time to write to you lately. I’m sorry for that. Things have been wild, man. I thought you’d be here with us in Saint Lo, but I got words that you stayed behind at Omaha to help clear things out. Sammy, just take good care, alright? Don’t make me abandon my platoon and come save your ass!

I thought Omaha was bad, but shit just got worse from there on out. I lost a kid. A goddamn kid, Sam! Not much older than you are. He tried to tell me a joke and stepped on a landmine. I should have seen it but I was so goddamn distracted by him and now, there’s not even enough of him left to send home to his parents, and I know that it’s on me. It’s all on me. You asked me once how many I need to save, and I answered with “all of them”, do you remember? I think I failed, Sammy. I failed real bad.

I’ve lost half of my platoon before we could take over Saint Lo, Sammy. And hey, we did it without ammo. I hope you’re proud of me. Captain Mills is weird lately, though. He always keeps talking about me taking over. I don’t even know why he does that.. So my job right now is to cheer him the fuck up at keep him alive because, Sam, I don’t wanna lead. I can’t. I will fail, I know that much. I’ll let my platoon down, the whole Baker Company. I’m so fucking screwed if something should happen to Mills.

We’ve got a shitload of new recruits today. More lives that I need to take care of. They arrived this morning and one of them already rubs me the wrong way. And he’s also the reason why I sat myself down to write to you. He reminds me of you. He has the same set of eyes and already tried to undermine me. I should have stripped him the fuck down, but I couldn’t, Sammy. I couldn’t, because I saw you in him. You have the same eyes and fucking hell, remember the screening of Bambi at camp? He’s got Bambi eyes. Big, doe-like and I swear he gave me that dirty diaper look you’ve always been giving me since I can remember.

I’m sorry about the rant, brother. It’s just… I don’t know who I should talk to about this. I hoped you skipped half of the letter because there’s nothing but ranting.

Shit, Sammy, I fucking miss you. I hope you’re ok and this letter will reach you. Take care, alright?

Lieutenant Dean Winchester

Jamie’s fingers twitched at her side. Bambi, huh? Fuck this. Not even here for a minute and the Lieutenant was already pissing on her parade. If Jamie didn’t think that she’d made a mistake by coming, she sure as hell knew now, but there was no going back anymore.

Sergeant Harvelle directed them to their billets before they would go out for a hot meal. The people in the platoon were in good spirits and some of them even joked that they wanted to stay here for the roof over their head and the regular hot meals. It made Jamie think about what they went through to consider this a piece of heaven.

Jamie fetched her tray and lined up and waited on her serving of food. She balanced the tray to the table where her platoon was sitting and sat at the beginning of the bench, next to Sergeant Harvelle and across from Corporal Tran. She poked around in something that looks awful lot like Mac’n’Cheese, but she couldn’t be sure until she would taste it on her tongue, when Tran asked her a question.

“So, you’re Bambi, huh?” He said it with a casual smile on his face, having heard about her interaction with Lieutenant Winchester.

Jamie swallowed what turned out to really be Mac’n’Cheese, only too watery and salty for her taste, but she couldn’t complain now, could she, before she spoke. “Apparently, that’s me.”

“Hey,” Tran said, pointing his fork in her direction, “Better than being called Dopey or Sneezy.”

She grinned at the thought of Lieutenant Winchester naming people in his platoon after the seven dwarfs. “Why, who’s Dopey?”

Tran points to the private at the end of the table. “Private Sands is Dopey, and next to him,” Tran looks back at her, “we have Private Redfield as Sneezy.”

“Oh, wow.”

“Sneezed his freaking way through the fields after Omaha, man.” Tran and Harvelle laughed when they thought back at the way Private Redfields nose and eyes were puffy red and swollen from hayfever.

“And you, Sergeant, Corporal?” She looks at them, wondering what their nicknames were. It would only be fair if everyone has got one, Jamie thought.

“We don’t. Winchester’s only giving them on the go. So, I guess, congrats to you, Bambi!” Harvelle stuffed his mouth with a big fork of food and then Tran leaned in a little, looking around before he whispered so that only Jamie and sergeant Harvelle could hear him.

“We call the Lieutenant Grumpy.” Tran winked and Jamie snorted before throwing her head back into heartfelt laughter. Harvelle and Tran joined in.

“What’s so funny?” Lieutenant Winchester was standing at the foot of the table, a little behind him, was Lieutenant Novak. They both held a tray in their hands and there was a heavy frown on Lieutenant Winchester’s face.

“Nothing, Sir.” Harvelle said hastily and began to shout down the line to scooch together and Jamie did the same, scooching close to Harvelle, to make room for the two Lieutenants.

Lieutenant Winchester sat down his eyebrows still knotted together in the middle of his forehead, as if he didn’t trust that they were laughing about nothing. Lieutenant Novak on the other hand, had his lips spread into a warm smile and he spoke and first she didn’t know that he meant her, but then he asked again. “Private? Hey, Bambi.”

“Yes, Sir!” It came out a little too enthusiastic and she could see at the corner of her eye that Lieutenant Dean Winchester was holding back a laugh.

“I asked you why you are here. What’s your story?” Lieutenant Novak said, his voice warm and kind. Why couldn’t she be in his platoon?

Jamie exhaled loudly, and then she speaks. “I..uh… my brother’s are all in the army. I didn’t want to be left behind.”

She could see that Lieutenant Winchesters face went from grumpy to understanding and she hoped he was warming up to her.

“How many brothers do you have?” It was Tran who asked and he had sympathy painted on his face.

Jamie stopped eating and laid her fork down. “Three. They’re all scattered around here somewhere.” She could feel that everyone in her close proximity were listening to her because they stopped eating, too. She tapped her fork, not liking being the center of attention after all the time she spent in Basic trying to blend in.

“And parents? Must be tough having all their kids out in the field.” Harvelle asked hesitantly, as if he didn’t want to overstep but he was curious and Jamie understood.

“I don’t have any. We’ve only had each other as far as I can remember.” Jamie bit back the tears that stung in her eyes. There was no way that she wanted to cry there in front of everyone. She was a man, dammit.

Harvelle nodded and returned to his food and the others followed. They all kept eating in silence, and she could only hear Lieutenants Winchester and Novak talking to each other in low voices.

When Lieutenant Winchester finished his plate, he looks around his platoon. “Who’s on sentry?” They’d been rotating sentry with the other companies and he knew that Baker always have one or two sentry shifts at night, but he tended to forget who and when.

“We are, Sir!” The shout came from the other end of the table and Lieutenant Dean Winchester craned his neck.

“Dopey and Sneezy? What a team, huh? What time?”

“Oh-three-hundred, Sir!”

Lieutenant Winchester nodded in the direction of Private Sands and Redford. “Alright you two, you are switching with me and Bambi. Take a nap. Rest. I want you all well rested at Oh-six-hundred.”

Jamie looked at Lieutenant Winchester in disbelief. She just arrived for fuck’s sake. She didn’t even know the perimeter. Didn’t even know how what to do. While her mind was working with the endless tasks and what there is to do on sentry duty, Lieutenant Dean looked at her, raising an eyebrow.

“You got a problem with that, Bambi?”

“No, Sir.” She replied, a little less enthusiastic.

Lieutenant Dean stood up from the bench and balanced his tray in one hand. “Good. Report to the meeting point at Oh-two-fifty.”

And before Jamie could even nod, he was already gone with Lieutenant Novak trailing behind.

“Shit, Bambi. What did you do to piss him off?” Tran looked at her stunned. “He never changed sentry rota with a new replacement before.”

Jamie just shrugged in disbelieve. “I don’t fucking know.”

“Look, he’s grumpy and might be harsh, but he’s looking out for his people, alright? We’ve had rough days behind us and he probably just wanted us to get a good nights worth of sleep and it happened that two of us still had to be on sentry so he took it over and I guess, you were just sitting the closet to him.” Harvelle cleaned his plate with his fork, the metal clinking together and it gave Jamie goosebumps.

“Yeah, probably.” Jamie said meekly and with the others, she put the tray back and walked out of the hall. She paused and looked up to the dimming sky, thinking and hoping that her brothers had it better than she did.

Chapter 3

[tothedarkdarkseas]

2Doc Week 2019, 6/6: Birthday

Really wanted to contribute something before the week was over and scrambled to put this together! This is a little day 5, but mostly day 6. Apologies for being a bit short and probably shaky quality! And apologies for… not breaking canon exactly, but bending it. (This assumes that the car from Saturnz Barz was transported back to London before Murdoc’s incarceration, which seems like more effort than they’d probably make.)

Warnings: Smokes ‘n swears, and one UK-specific traveller slur. Moderate angst, but by my standards I’d say this is actually pretty tender.

AO3 Link

Everybody cool down, ev—

Pause. Select channel 3, playback 80%.

—rybody see yourself. Everybody on time, on t—

Pause. 78%.

Murdoc’s sat at the near-buckling desk in his bedroom, overloaded with sound equipment and empty cans, papers and postage cluttered under his laptop. The corkboard hanging in front is stuffed to capacity, with the overflow beginning to pour from the walls to the desk to the floor. It’s not a proper studio, not even close, but it’s got what he needs for now: a mixer open with the recent touring tracklist queued up. He slows the bass track, clips notes, tries to match Ace’s recording more to his own pacing and it just doesn’t work. Accounting for his style throws everyone else’s rhythm off; he’d heard it in every city for that last leg and he hears it now. His mouth sinks at the edges as he bumps it down and plays it again.

There’s an unsubtle shuffling behind him, has been for a minute or two, but he doesn’t bother turning to greet Stuart. He can feel him idling in the doorway and reckons that’s on purpose. It’s gone on past seven now with no “best wishes” or formalities, and Murdoc thinks he’d do well to keep skirting it ‘til midnight. He doesn’t exactly want a conversation, not about them, not today. He doesn’t want a pardon for the day’s sake, doesn’t want an obligation to it from Stu.

He doesn’t really want a birthday.

Stu’s hands fall on his shoulders, almost big enough for the tips of his outstretched fingers to meet over Murdoc’s sternum. His breath is hot and foul against the side of his face.

“Hey.” The stink of sweat is practically steaming off him, and Murdoc’s throat tightens. “Got you something.”

He smirks as he leans his head further on his shoulder, reveling in that awful balmy feeling of skin on sweat-slick skin. “You can leave it in the back.”

Stu huffs a nasally laugh right in his ear and pushes off him, muttering something under his breath. Turning to face him properly, Murdoc notes his reddish face and neck, his unwashed hair, his white tank gone yellow around the edges and stained, overwide jeans.

“Look at you. Is your prezzy coming in my room at night good an' dirty?” He lets his mouth hang open just enough to see him tongue at the back of his teeth in consideration. “S’not the worst you could do.”

Stu cranes his neck and juts his jaw forward, clearly fancying himself a real stud. “I’ve been working on your caddy.”

Murdoc’s brow tics as he pulls a cigarette from the pack on his desk and lights it, his eyes still stuck on the discolored spots beneath Stu’s bony collar.

“Pikey drove up in a brand new Cadillac?”

“Yeah, balls to you,” he quotes back. “Can’t really leave it to sit pretty this long without some engine problems. I cleared out the coolants and the oil, checked the spark plugs, swapped out the coils for smoother suspension in the rear.”

“Mm, now say you stuck your fingers in the tailpipe,” Murdoc mutters around his cigarette.

Stu grins. “You’ve got a little corrosion on one of the belts. I’ll have to fetch another in the morning, I haven’t got a replacement.”

He doesn’t entirely understand the point of this, hasn’t got much need for the car to run in London, but telling his bandmates to fuck off for making efforts is something he’s made efforts himself not to do recently. It’s good that it’s something small and familiar; he’d rather this than something heavier hanging over his head.

“Awful rugged of you. Tell me we’re on the part where I say I’m strapped and ask if there’s any other way I can repay you.”

Stu ignores him and nicks the cigarette from his mouth, then presses it to his own and burns it down, down, down. He stares indiscreetly at his laptop screen and ashes into an old cider can. Murdoc wordlessly minimizes the mixer.

“I’ll fetch a belt in the city tomorrow, was heading out anyway. I rang in an appointment at Snippers ‘round eleven.”

Murdoc pauses his crafty maneuver to grab his fag back and sizes him up. Stu’s shaggy hair hangs nearly to his nape, thinning and unflatteringly wet, the one-time shock of blue faded with sparse silver strands throughout. He’s always been a man who cared for his appearance, but he typically favored looking like he didn’t; either Russ or Stu himself have cut his hair as long as he’s been living outside his mum’s house. He frowns in suspicion.

“Just decided you’d pop in for a trim?”

Stu toes off his trainers, shrugging distractedly. “Yeah.”

“Are you going somewhere?” He hesitates. “Am I going somewhere?”

Stu starts to strip off his jeans, the seams worn to nothing and the waist at least a full size too big, nearly falling to his thighs as soon as the belt’s off. The denim pools on top of his flat socked feet and he keeps silent as he kicks them off, then digs through the wash pile and rummages out a bright red pair of joggers to replace them. Murdoc watches without comment, dread pooling in him. Stuart sits on the bed to keep from toppling as he stretches back past his shoulders and pulls his shirt up over his head, inelegant, the cigarette still dangling between his lips.

He thumbs the damp fabric in his lap, then tosses it aside and sits up a bit taller.

“I don’t know, figured I’d ask first. Maybe somewhere quiet for a bit, somewhere in the countryside. Maybe…” He works his jaw, eyes hooded and downcast, looking at the space between Murdoc’s out-turned ankles more than Murdoc himself. “Maybe someplace in the Cotswolds or somethin’. Or a girlie bar in Soho, topless one. I’d like to look sharp either way.”

Murdoc sits stock-still. He watches Stu smoke and swears he can hear ticking from the space between them.

“…You don’t have to do that.”

“Funny thing about me, I don’t have to do much of anything. ‘Hafta’ wasn’t really the point.”

Murdoc brings a thumb to his lip, tries for indifference as he prods a cracking spot with his nail and makes the split worse. “Can’t imagine there’s much to the synth scene in Gloucestershire.”

“Think I can pull through. It’s not forever, s’just a holiday.”

He fights the urge to look behind him at the corkboard, pinned from corner to corner with tickets and magazine clippings and a single seaside postcard. If he tries he can still remember the shadow of flat palm leaves against a blinding afternoon sky, the taste of rum and seabreeze, the lap of easy waves over soft, warm sand. He remembers the way Stuart laughed, dizzy and near-drowning and too drunk to know it.

But when he looks at it now, that’s not what comes to mind. He thinks of the beach and he hears crashing, and then gunshots, and then nothing. He smells dissolving cellophane and rot, the biting ocean air acrid and chemical and clawing up his nostrils into his brain. He sees pink.

He sees a sprawling, melding, mile-deep labyrinth of pink.

Stu eyes him and takes another pull of smoke.

“You could stand a cut yourself. Your flop’s starting to flip.” He makes a swooping gesture with the cigarette down his forehead.

Murdoc palms his fringe down while he studies Stuart.

“I’m about 20 years past my sell by date, s’not gonna make a difference—”

“Well I’m not,” Stu interrupts. “I’m not, alright? Halfway isn’t the ‘too late’ mark for me.��

For all his supposed cool, Murdoc can’t help but see the exhausted folds above and below his eyes and the red lines lingering across his forehead.

“The fuck’s that even mean, why’m I counting your marks?”

“It means it’s not about you.”

“On my birthday, my present’s not about me? It’s about you?” He almost laughs despite himself. “Now that sounds more like you, Stuart.”

“Your present was me fixing the bloody car you left rusting while you were banged up. The holiday’d be for me.” He’s as near to a hiss as the smoke will let him go.

Murdoc tries to keep straight-faced as he swallows, feeling his tongue and all his excuses too acutely. “Why?”

“Because it’s not staring at another pissing wall in another pissing studio in another pissing country, it’s… you know, it’s quaint. It’s just picturesque bollocks and I really shouldn’t have to explain why regular people might enjoy that.”

“Fuck’re you even saying, Stu? Had a poor time out in Cali, so we should just… what? Run off in a sodding lobby painting? I don’t—” his stomach twists, and he tilts his head nearer to the board. “C’mon. I don’t get that.”

“And I don’t get that,” Stu replies, eyeing the postcard without pretense. “If it makes it easier, I don’t bloody well care whether you’re up at night; point is that I didn’t get to keep it. You owe me that much.”

He sounds harsh, but he doesn’t look it. He just looks tired. Stu leans over and stubs the already burnt-out cigarette on the rug. He rubs his hands over his face, scrubs his dirty fingers against his eyelids and the bridge of his nose.

“M’sorry. It’s—it’s been a long year for me too, Murdoc.”

“Thought you said Hollywood was alright,” he says, knowing it doesn’t help.

Stuart runs his knobby fingers through his hair. Murdoc knows he tries to hide it by keeping his bangs long and scattered, but pushed back like this, it’s clear to see how far his hairline’s receded. Slick with sweat and with grime, it looks like his hair’s being weighted down, just slipping further back on his skull so the ends can pool at his nape. He’s still handsome, of course—still something half-divine in Murdoc’s eyes—but he’s looking his age now.

“A trim would do you good,” Murdoc offers quietly.

“Yeah. I think it would.” He hasn’t got the energy to pull a face, to look like anything but what he is. “I think it might do you good too.”

Murdoc drops his head forward and swipes at his upper lip, back throbbing from his confinement at this desk. He wants to do better this time, but it’s clearer to him than anyone how wrongly the better Murdoc fits with what Stu’s made.

He feels how Stu’s worn eyes stay on him.

“Look, this doesn’t have to mean anythin’ with bells and whistles. It just means I’d like to take a drive and I’d like to stand on a hill and drink whatever shite they peddle, fucking toffee ale or summin'. I’d like to have a different sort of day.”

“It means you want to go inland,” he murmurs like he’s got a right to think it.

Stuart exhales loudly, his already sunken chest deflating further.

“It means I know that you…” Murdoc glances up to catch how he looks at him with a muddled sorriness, an acknowledgment without a reward. “It means I know. And it means the knowing’s fine, alright? I’d just like to see something different. Or at the very least I’d like to see some tits.”

“Go back to the mechanic talk and you can see some right now.” They share a small smile. Murdoc wets his lips, tries to stay present. “Y’really think she’s up for a drive? Car’s older than I am.”

“You doubting these hands?” He spreads them wide and gives his knuckles a cheeky crack, then jokingly winces.

“Only entirely.”

Stu braces against his knees and lumbers to his feet, gaze never wavering as he crosses the distance to Murdoc. He stands in front of him, all peaks and angles and towering shapes, sweat dried to his skin. He just watches him, no posing and no pleading, just stays there with his bare torso level to the other’s face.

After a moment Murdoc reaches out to twist his fingers in his waistband, bunching the red between his wrists and pulling him close. Stu lifts a hand to the back of his head to grab a handful of thick, choppy hair and crane his neck back. He stares at Murdoc’s chin against his navel for another beat before bending, kissing Murdoc hard and brief.

Their hands keep their place after they separate.

Every word that occurs to him to say feels like running, or wallowing, or something devaluing to what Stu’s willing to let them be. It all just feels too big—feels like more than it needs to be, like it makes it matter less.

“Yeah,” is the best he can manage.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”