#physically read papers aloud which i hate so much. its the only way i can fucking understand things and it still makes me feel dumb bc ill

[opens-up-4-nobody]

...

[bbddbopp]

Manifestation techniques #1: Water technique 💧

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This technique is by no means, a new one nor do I claimed that I was the one created this technique. I’ve seen countless people share similar methods, with slight variations, across many social media platforms. It’s a concept that’s been around and shared by many.

I first encountered a version of this technique sometime between 2020 and 2021 (I can’t remember exactly when) while watching a tarot reading video on YouTube. The tarot reader suggested placing a water bottle by the window during a full moon to harness its energy for manifestation. This idea immediately reminded me of a lecture I attended around 2016-2017, where the speaker (whose credentials and name I completely forgot lmao) talked about Dr. Emoto’s research on water molecules.

For those interested, I’ll also share a link to Dr. Emoto’s full study below:

The water research, combined with various religious practices involving the 'blessing of water'—such as baptisms in Christianity and ruqyah with water in Islam—motivated me to try the water method for myself. In this post, I’ll be discussing the technique, along with my personal experiences and the results I achieved using these methods.

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TL;DR (just in case if you're too lazy to read the whole study lol)

Dr.Emoto found that water exposed to different types of stimuli, such as positive or negative words, music, and even human thoughts, resulted in distinct crystal formations.

Positive Influence: When water was exposed to positive words, music or thoughts (like “love,” “gratitude,” or “peace”), the resulting ice crystals formed beautiful, symmetrical patterns.

Negative Influence: When water was exposed to negative words, music or thoughts (like “hate,” “angry,” or “evil”), the crystals were chaotic, disordered, and ugly.

In short, Dr. Emoto’s work on water suggests that our thoughts, words, and emotions can influence the molecular structure of water, and by extension, potentially impact our physical and emotional well-being.

Note: There are criticism against Dr.Emoto's work on water, mainly for its lack of replicability and control that failed to meet the scientific standards. Since I want this blog to focus on the techniques rather than his study (which is only meant to support and explain my beliefs), I’ll link to a Google Doc that may help those who are more logical or have difficulty overlooking the criticisms of his research.

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Both Emoto’s study and various religious practices suggest that words have a noticeable effect on water. Based on this, we can apply it to our manifestation practices.

There are 2 ways of doing this method:

The Affirmation way.

Write down your affirmations, either on paper or in your phone’s notes. I recommend focusing on 3 or fewer goals at a time. You can do more, but it will take much longer, so unless you have plenty of free time, I’d suggest keeping it to 3.

Grab a bottle of water and open the lid.

Read your affirmations aloud, making sure you’re close to the bottle.

Once you’ve finished, close the lid, and make sure the bottle is kept away from anything you consider as negative influence.

The water now 'holds' your affirmations, and you can drink it at any time to help manifest your desires!

Tip: I personally like to use a large bottle for this method, storing it in the fridge for about 3 days. I cover it with cloth to prevent mold or algae from forming, and I always close the lid after drinking. This way, I don’t have to repeat the process daily to avoid it feeling like a chore that I had to do.

The Subliminal way.

Choose your favorite subliminal or playlist and play it near your water. I recommend choosing subliminals that don’t have music, as some songs have lyrics that can carry negative connotations that could adversely affect the water’s molecules.

Make sure the volume is loud enough, or that your device is close enough for the affirmations to be 'absorbed' by the water.

After the subliminal or playlist finishes, close the lid or let it play on loop for however long you want.

This method is really convenient because you can let the subliminals run while you’re doing other things. If you have a long playlist, consider following the big bottle tip I mentioned earlier.

It's up to you whether you want to do the 1st or the 2nd method or both. It's just depends on which one is more suitable for your current lifestyle and schedule.

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My Experiences & Results:

Grades: I used this method to manifest better grades and ended up with straight As for two semesters in a row.

Clear Skin: I was able to maintain relatively clear skin for a whole year! While I did get a few small pimples, they were barely noticeable and only popped up a couple of times during the year. This was a huge improvement, considering I usually dealt with painful cystic acne every month.

Love Life: After breaking up with my ex, I manifested a guy who was exactly as described in my affirmations. We've been happily together for 4 years now 💗

Free Stuff: I didn’t specifically affirm for free stuff, but I think it might have been in a subliminal from an old playlist I used to play for this method. Several brands sent me duplicate items I had ordered, or even extra items I hadn't requested but found useful at the time. Sometimes this happened by mistake (which they did informed me to just keep it after I told them about the mix up), and other times as an apology for delays. Either way, I usually ended up with more than what I paid for!

Money: Because of my academic success, some lecturers gifted me with free stationery, food and money. Even my family started giving me money randomly, even though I never asked for it.

I stopped doing this method after about a year because my schedule became pretty hectic, but I have to say—it helped me manifest many of my desires and was a fun, fulfilling process!

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That’s all for this post, everyone! I hope you enjoyed reading it. If you decide to try out this technique, remember to have fun with it and not stress too much about the results. Manifestation should be fun, not stressful! ✨

11:11 11:11 11:11 11:11 11:11 11:11 11:11 ⋆.˚🦋༘⋆ 11:11 11:11 11:11 11:11 11:11 11:11 11:1

[hoodoo12]

Associates with Benefits

Secret Santa on our discord server matched me with the fabulous @strange-n-unbluusual, which made me giddy.

NSFW. That’s all I’m gonna say.

Enjoy! `

“You? What’re you doing here?!”

Out of anyone, anywhere in the Nether- or upper world, Beetlejuice never thought he’d lay eyes on him again. 

“I’d ask the same of you, but I’m fairly sure I know the answer.”

From his seat on the trunk by the window, the specter scoffed and shook his head, although he didn’t take his eyes off the other man. 

“Jesus. You still scamming people? Life coach or crystal whisperer or whatever? Or are you back to trying to get your sex cult up and running again?” Otho--he never took the time to legally change his name, but like he told his clients, “if you believed in something enough, it can become your reality”--matched the scoff and straightened to an imposing height. He always was taller. “The sex cult only worked with your help,” he admitted begrudgingly, “and you know it, Beetlejuice.” A quick flash of pink rippled through the specter’s hair and he shivered. He couldn’t disguise either semi-pleased reaction to his name spoken aloud. More importantly, did he want to?

“So what’s the con this time, big guy?”

Otho rolled his eyes and opened his jacket enough to find a silver cigarette case tucked into the inside pocket. He took his time extracting a cigarette, paused, then offered one to the house’s uninvited guest he’d found in the attic. Beetlejuice took it, lit it with a flame that originated on his fingertip, and gestured Otho closer. 

The man agreed without a word, but instead of using flame to light his smoke, Beetlejuice leaned in close enough for the tips to meet. Amber eyes held more the humanly brown, and Otho sucked slightly on the cigarette between his lips to light it. Only once it caught did Beetlejuice move back. 

“I was hired to cleanse this house of some distinctive poltergeist activity,” he finally answered. Beetlejuice grinned. True to form, Otho never used the word ‘con.’ The man may be a shyster, but he was full of himself. Beetlejuice could respect that, being a confident hustler himself. 

“That wasn’t me.”

Otho lifted an eyebrow. “Oh no?” 

“Shit no. Moving chairs around? Knocking on walls? That’s haunting 101. Baby ghost antics, like that pansy white bread couple, what’s their name--”

“You know their names. The Maitlands.”

When he wasn’t overwhelmed by a demon raging beyond reason, Otho never hesitated to call him out. “Right. The Maitlands. How’re they doing? And the rest of the Scooby gang?” He took in a lungful of smoke then dropped his gaze as if he was suddenly very interested in the cigarette, examining it as if trying to read the brand on the paper in the pale moonlight filtering through the attic window. 

“I wouldn’t know. Someone strapped me to a Wheel of Death and kicked me into some weird limbo where I had to claw my way back to the upper world. I ended up in Iowa, for christ’s sake!”

Beetlejuice chuckled, but choked it back when he saw the angry expression on the other’s face. “Hey man, I’m sorry about that. I didn’t know you were going to end up in the midwest! I was angry, and you know that sometimes things get a little out of control when I’m angry.”

Otho gave him a dead-eyed stare in response. Taking a second to center himself, he decided to follow the advice from that one movie and let it go. He wished he could’ve laid claim to that phrase without sounding like he was parrotting a kid’s movie; it was a good one: simple and seemingly easy to follow. 

More calmly, he returned to an earlier part of the conversation. “So I have no clue how any of them are getting on. You spent more time with them, why don’t you tell me?” Automatically Beetlejuice’s free hand went to the center of his chest. It was a habit that he found hard to break, running his fingers over the knobby scar he’d gotten as a reminder of the whole bungled situation. It still physically pained him, and could be felt even through a layer of clothing. It still emotionally pained him, that betrayal that he didn’t want to admit he deserved. 

“I don’t know either,” he whispered, and yanked his hand away from his chest. 

The two of them stood in silence for a moment. Smoke drifted upwards in curlicues, looking bright white in the moonlight. 

Otho hadn’t missed the involuntary movements and cleared his throat quietly. “I heard she hurt you.” “Everybody hurts me.” He meant it say it snappy and full of wrath, but it came out weak.

The man’s reply was just as soft, and just was wounded. “I never did.” 

Beetlejuice looked up again. Otho held his lit cigarette at his side and was watching him with an unreadable expression. He tried to dredge up some righteous indignation. “You were going to put me in a soul box!”

“The soul box you gave me?” Otho replied drily. “The one that was particle board painted with some fancy iridescent paint you brought over from the Netherworld to look impressive? That soul box?”

He had no reply to that.

“Damn it. Beej--we almost had them! If we’d just stuck to the plan, it would have been free and clear, but--” “But it was my fault, is that what you were going to say?! That once again I screwed the pooch, just like so many other times in my fucking existence?!” “--but the girl threw a wretch in the works,” Otho continued firmly. 

Beetlejuice both hated and loved that Otho was rarely rattled by his outbursts. 

“She offered something you couldn’t pass up. I get it.” He wanted to stay angry at the man. At least he could feel anger; it was one of the strongest emotions, but it always burnt itself out and left him exhausted and remorseful. Suddenly he just couldn’t hold onto the rage. He dropped his head.

The floorboards creaked and the man’s cologne washed over him. Blenheim Bouquet. The light spicy floral scent always seemed too gossamery for a man, but wasn’t the faint aroma of roses that followed him occasionally out of place as well? The cologne was so synonymous with Otho the specter couldn’t imagine him without it. 

With his face still turned down, he watched a hand carefully curl into his striped lapel. “I don’t blame you, Beej,” Otho said quietly. He didn’t need to. He blamed himself. After a beat with no reply, Otho continued, even more quietly. “I’ve missed you.”

“I missed you too,” Beetlejuice admitted in such a whisper his voice would have been lost if they weren’t in a silent attic.

In a fluid movement Otho dropped his cigarette to the wooden floor and brought that hand to the specter’s jaw., He stepped forward to crush the smoldering smoke out and bring himself even closer, and as he lifted Beetlejuice’s face he pressed his open mouth against the ghost’s.

It felt like old times. 

Beetlejuice breathed in, taking the warm air from Otho’s lungs, like a thirsty man in a desert. Oh, he’d missed that--

Otho broke the kiss once he’d run out of oxygen. He stayed close though, hand now fisted in his jacket. Beetlejuice wasn’t sure if that was to keep him from disappearing from literally right under his nose, or just because the man had a propensity for wrinkling clothing. As dapper as he liked to present himself, he had a thing for mussed clothing up, like creases were evidence of passion.  

The only thing he could think to say was, “It feels different now that you have a beard.”

Jesus he was a dumbass. Luckily, Otho didn’t seem to share his opinion. “I decided to grow it out because of yours. Do you like it?”

“I don’t know. Let me feel it again.”

With that ham-fisted invitation, Otho kissed him again. It grew this time--more of the old give and take, more tongue, more suction--as they fell back into the familiarity of it. When Otho had to stop for air this time, he was panting. Beetlejuice was the one to hold him close, now, to luxuriate in the breath.

With fingers made crass from a flood of arousal, Beetlejuice cupped and dug at the pants and its closure in front of him. 

“My clients are downstairs,” Otho hissed, but didn’t make any move to step away or stop him. “Then don’t be loud,” Beetlejuice advised, unhelpfully. 

He’d managed to fight open Otho’s belt but the button was going to take two hands. He could just manipulate it free with a thought, but liked the tease of slightly frantic fumbling, and listening to Otho’s breath hitch as he did. He also liked finding that Otho still wore silk underwear. They felt nice, but provided no support against an erection. A wet spot, visible even in the frosty moonlight streaming through the window, marred the front of them. He had an urge to put his mouth there, to make that wet spot bigger, but Otho’s fingers under his jaw turned him up upward again. 

The man’s expression was unreadable once more. Beetlejuice didn’t know if he was going to be shoved away to end this or shoved to the dusty attic floor with Otho on top of him. What he got instead, was another kiss, this one harder, more desperate than the ones before it, a pull to an upright position, and a hand at his groin too, with equal floundering of his fly and a almost inaudible curse as Otho had to push the striped jacket back and suspenders off the specter’s shoulders to assist getting him undressed.

In very little time, however, both of them had their pants pushed hurriedly to mid-thigh, and Beetlejuice had been hauled to his feet. He should have known that there was no way Otho was going go to the floor and let dust and grime get on his tailored trousers. So now they were pressed torso to torso, groin to groin, mouth to mouth, and this time Otho only took sips of air when his lungs absolutely demanded it.

Bumping his hips forward, the specter was rewarded with a low groan. His bigger reward was the man’s large hand wrapping simultaneously around both their cocks. The heat and pressure made him gasp. 

A further rutting into that hand to determine how much movement he was granted made Otho gasp. “Clients. Downstairs,” he reminded him with a wicked grin. Otho retorted, “Then don’t be loud!” in a strained whisper, and gave them both a pull just to test him. That glorious warmth of his cock against another, of a hand stroking them both off--Beetlejuice moaned, checked himself, and buried his face in the other man’s neck to muffle himself. If he had his wits about him he’d make some comment about how moaning was going to be okay, this house was haunted after all, but the movement of Otho’s hand was shutting down his higher brain function. 

Not only was he losing the ability to keep the noises he made quiet, his hips moved of their own accord. The specter rolled his pelvis upward, chasing each stroke. He wasn’t alone in that; Otho pushed into his own hand, creating a beautiful counter friction as well. The man’s free hand held him in the small of his back, under his untucked shirt, searing his cold skin with the warmth of his palm. He missed that rough handling to keep him in position so much. He clung to Otho’s shoulders.

It’d been a long time since they’d been together, but Otho quickly fell into a practiced rhythm that suited them both: long pulls, an occasional twist for variety, a bit of a squeeze to stave off coming too quickly. Speaking of which--

Beetlejuice pried the fingers of one hand off Otho’s jacket and dropped it to the man’s fist. He meant to slow him down, meant to gasp in his ear to wait, give me a second baby, please--but the moment Otho loosened his grip to allow him to lace his tepid fingers between his, he wanted nothing more than to let pleasure take the bit between its teeth and have Otho follow quickly too. He wanted to be coated and smeared with the man’s come, and he wanted it now.

The combination of warm and chill, the doubling of pressure and friction pushed him higher and higher, closer to his end. A slight buckling of Otho’s knees made him hurriedly shift his other hand from his shoulder to his bare hip to help support him, and just as he wanted, Otho came in thick spurts over both their fists. The heat and additional bit of slick it provided was enough to send him over the edge as well. 

His cool release mingled with Otho’s, and for several moments they both simply leaned into one another. Beetlejuice would have stood there for an eon, soaking in as much warmth as he could. Otho was the one to gently start to move away. 

They both groaned as they carefully relaxed their hands from their cocks. Otho made up for the fact that he was the first to move by capturing the Beetlejuice’s mouth again, swallowing his groans. He also dipped his hand lower to pinch the specter’s ass, earning himself a surprised gasp and a chuckle, and a nip to his lower lip in return. 

Hobbled by his trousers, Otho had to dig for his handkerchief awkwardly. When he finally extracted it from a back pocket, he wiped his hand clean before offering it to Beetlejuice. He took it and cleaned himself as well, then stuck the square of cloth into his own pocket instead of handing it back. 

There was no sound for a moment but the rustling of clothing and re-fastening of zippers and other closures. Otho was done before Beetlejuice, and stepped against the ghost immediately after he’d resituated his suspenders.

Before he could kiss him again, Beetlejuice said, “I guess I like the beard.” Otho snorted in amusement--so un-guru like!--and kissed him. It was lingering and soft, and felt like they’d never been apart. 

It also felt like a good bye.

Beetlejuice steeled himself for another rejection as the man broke away again.

“Beetlejuice--”

He shuddered at his name spoken aloud again. He couldn’t help it. But here it comes--

“--I’m glad to see you again. But--|

Oh fuck. Here it comes--

“--we haven’t seen each other for so long. I just . . .”

Fuck his fucking un-life. He should just slink back into the Netherworld while Otho was searching for words.

“ . . . I just don’t . . . this is hard to say . . . ”

Fuck fuck fuck fuck! Why was is so hard to leave? Why couldn’t he be the one to leave, instead of people leaving him?! 

“You want to come with me, when I go?”

The words were spoken in a hushed rush, as if Otho just needed to blurt them out. It took Beetlejuice several embarrassing moments to comprehend them. “Come with you?” “Yes. I’ve been looking for you, you know . . .” He didn’t know. He wouldn’t have thought! Suddenly, the future looked, well, maybe not bright per se, but at least not as dim. 

He nodded, as if he had to reply as quickly as possible and didn’t trust words to be fast enough. 

Otho smiled. “Good. You have to do something for me first, though.”

He didn’t even hesitate. “Anything, baby. You just name it.”

“You have to get rid of whatever is actually haunting this place. You know I’m garbage at all that stuff.” Beetlejuice broke into laughter that probably echoed through the house, scaring the owners, but he didn’t care and knew Otho wouldn’t either. It’d just lend more credence to the man being able to banish spirits, just like the cons they used to pull back in the old days.

fin

[samtheflamingomain]

25.21%

I've been sober for 3 months today. 92 days. 25.21% of 2021.

I could've posted more updates, more milestones (it took a LOT not to post on Day 69) but I wanted to kind of save it up for a Big Day. It was also a decent way to continue to incentivize my continued sobriety: a full pass to do a shameless, hardcore bragging sesh.

Anyway, this post comes in 2 parts: the TL;DR for those who only want the gist, then more in depth on my ability to stay sober, the lasting effects of rehab, etc.

I tried my damnedest to pare this absolute novel down, but it's long, so feel free to dip out if you just get bored. Onward!

TL;DR: I went to rehab the beginning of July for 3 weeks and haven't had a drop of alcohol since. I've lost weight, I'm more healthy, my daily anxiety level went from 8 to 2, I haven't had an anxiety attack in 3 months, and everything generally just seems... easier. My memory and concentration have improved. I've been productive and I've been meditating every day. I'm saving money, and while I sometimes fantasize about getting drunk, that's usually all it is.

Honestly, it's been much easier than I expected, but I think a lot of that is because for the first 3 weeks, the time in which I would usually break down and start drinking again when trying to get sober myself, was spent behind a locked door. So far I haven't had any days where I was close to giving in. I haven't had many days where I've been depressed about it, missing it or really tempted. Maybe 3-4. I've basically just gotten on with my life as if alcohol doesn't exist.

To wrap up the short version for those ready to peace out, I'll leave it with a bit of advice.

I don't feel qualified to give any specific advice, because my story feels very unique to me, and I honestly don't think what worked for me will work for MOST people. Sometimes people spend a year in rehab and still drive straight to the liquor store on their way home.

That said, there's one thing that I've found pretty universally true: you have to really want it. For a while, I floated about without much of a "reason" to stay sober. I don't have a spouse, kids or a job I've been fired from, so I didn't see the point.

It's taken me a while, but after not being "convinced" by a few superficial "reasons" like weight loss and saving money, I thought I needed something more... permanent? Consequential? I now realize that my "reason" for getting sober at a young age after only a few years of alcoholism is that I don't want it to get to a point where I'm hurting other people, drinking myself into multiple lasting health problems... I don't want it to become permanent or consequential.

Anyway, that's my two cents. If you do have something like kids or trouble keeping a job, definitely use that as your reason. But for anyone who's a pretty "functional" alcoholic like I was, "not letting it go on long enough to become disfunctional" is a good enough reason.

This is going to get stupid long, so feel free to walk away now, just glad you read this much and it really does mean the world when people listen to what I have to say.

Now some more things in depth. I'll go in chronological order: what made me get sober, what I took from rehab (and what I left), and how it's been the past few months.

I started drinking when I got kicked out, manic out of my mind and homeless unable to sleep. It took a while until I was able to sleep without alcohol, but by then the addict brain had taken over. I'd tried a few times to get sober myself, but I never made it more than a week without, and always got back to daily drinking after a few months maximum.

Some people need a "wake up call", a "last straw" or a "rock bottom". Something external to make them realize they can't go on as they are. For me, the catalyst was my health, which is more of an internal reason I suppose. I didn't have a heart attack or liver failure, but my anxiety was getting uncontrollable and I knew it was directly tied to my drinking.

My life had been starting to feel tolerable, and I was more financially secure than ever before. Things were looking up... except for the alcoholism. This is a weird analogy but the only one that makes sense to express why, if I was doing so well on paper, I decided to go to rehab: you have to sweep before you mop. If I hadn't been in the place I was, I don't think I would've been successful at rehab. I had to sweep up the cat turds from the floor of my life before I was able to mop up the shit stains with sobriety. I know, I'm a true wordsmith.

When I finally called the hotline that hooked me up with a bunch of different rehabs, I knew I was in for a wait. It was about 5 months from that call to checking in, which isn't too bad considering I've been on the waitlist for a neuropsychiatrist in ALL OF CANADA for 4 years.

That brings us to July 12th, Rehab Day One. I've gone in depth in multiple other posts but to touch on it briefly, if I had to describe my experience in a sentence I'd say "the place I went to got very lucky with me".

What this means is that, of the 5 people in my group, I think this exact program was only ever going to help me. At the same time, I didn't even know what I would need, but this exact program was 90% of it. I didn't think 3 weeks would be long enough, but for me it was. The hours-long, repetitive, basic-ass CBT groups held 5 times a day 7 days a week was absolute torture for everyone but myself. While it was a drag to spend an hour on defining what a cognitive distortion is, the routine and repetition, something I've never gotten out of any outpatient program, helped me to really absorb the information and let it rewire my brain.

I've always said that I'm someone who should be spending an hour a day with a therapist for the rest of my life, and while that's not even remotely feasible, this was as close as it's ever gotten, and it proved me right, because it worked. I've done biweekly therapy for a short time but even that didn't come close to the way my brain changed in those 3 short weeks.

This program required absolute commitment and open-mindedness. This isn't because it was hard work or difficult concepts, but quite the opposite. While I hate the entire concept of art therapy being used as a cure-all for mental illness, I willingly got out of my bed, went downstairs and tried doing a dot mandala for an hour because I'm willing to try anything to get better. A lot of people might think they are, but really aren't. To use the mandala as an example, one guy was really into it, I wasn't, but we both finished. The other 3 tried, messed up a few times, and then scrolled through their phones. When I say this program necessitates complete engagement, that's not a compliment. It shouldn't be a chore to engage with the program. It shouldn't take me actively saying "I know I've known this basic concept since 4th grade, but maybe hearing it again will help" to get something out of a rehab program. So again, in every way, I got lucky, and so did they.

Before I finish with the rehab section, having had a few months to reflect on the whole thing, I now have an endless list of things wrong with it. I arrived, greeted by the most jaded and disillusioned of staff, and quickly became disturbed and at points concerned with just how negligent the staff are.

Maybe it's because I've been on the psych ward where they won't even let you have shoelaces and shine a flashlight on your face every half hour through the night, but it could've been so incredibly easy to sneak in alcohol. I brought 2 full water bottles, fully expecting to have to dump them out upon arrival, but they said "nah it's fine". Is it though?

Then there were actual counsellors there who were... okay. I recall one, the one I thought was the smartest, reading a handout aloud and coming across the word "delve" as in "let's delve into..." and stumbled, then said she doesn't know that word. The room was silent. As she pulled up Google on the screen I said, "it means to dive into it". She Googled it anyway. Synonyms include "dive in". If that was the only example I wouldn't mention it, but this was the first of at least 10 words she had do Google, none past a 10th grade level, from HER OWN MATERIAL. From that point on it became clear that they had no fucking idea what they were doing.

We had one last one-on-one counselling session before we left and the counsellor just filled in boxes to questions on her computer, rephrasing everything I said to fit into the buzzwords and "lessons" we'd "learned". Example. Me: I do think I'm better able to catch myself thinking 'oh I can just have one drink' and say 'no I can't'." Her: "Okay, so would you say that you can recognize negative cognitive distortions like permission-giving thoughts and counter them with a more rational and less emotional mind?" Like girl, blink twice if your boss is holding your family hostage. She gave me some papers, detailing all the online courses they were signing me up for and options for more treatment they'd be sending me, a phone number to call and a phone appointment for the next Monday. I never got that call, the phone number is a hotline, I never got a single email from them, and given how shitty they really are at their jobs, I didn't feel the inclination to try and get those resources. If they even exist in the first place.

In summation, it was a place where it was physically impossible to get alcohol. That's really all I can say in its favor. Oh, and they let you have your cell phone.

Now on our timeline I'm back home. I want to kind of analyze why it's been easy for me.

I often said that my main goal of going to rehab was to lock me away from alcohol long enough for it to reset my brain. Most people thought that was naïve, but that's exactly what happened. But I'm well aware that my experience of "instantly became sober and literally hasn't had a single hard day in 3 months" is absurdly unusual.

I put this down to a few things. Firstly, I'm on seven different meds for my mental health. Almost all of them have their effects dulled or even eliminated when you drink. So when I noticed my mood, fatigue, memory, concentration etc all getting better at once - right about as I left rehab, I don't think it would be a stretch to say that all those meds started working properly.

Secondly, I've been keeping myself busy, but that's something I've always been good at. Now I specifically choose to undertake projects that will eat up a lot my time and put me in a state of flow. I recently made an entire card game from scratch, and let me tell you, I didn't think of alcohol for a week.

Thirdly, my other goals now get in the way of alcohol. I'm getting old and my body is deteriorating. But I've always wanted to do just one last season of gymnastics. Well, I need to lose weight for that to happen. I've already lost 35 pounds, and after another 20 I'll be ready to go. Also, I used to spend more on alcohol per month than rent. Even though I've done a few shopping sprees lately, I haven't come remotely close to how much I was spending before.

I want it more than anything. I want to be sober more than I want one night of "fun" that will more likely than not lead me back to where I was a year ago. I never want to need anything as much as I needed alcohol.

Lastly, just a few more random thoughts.

A lot of people, myself included, worried about the fact that I work at a bar as a cook, but honestly the entire time I'm there I'm thinking about food, not alcohol. If I'm hanging out with some regulars before/after, I can watch them drink and be perfectly fine with my coffee, because the coffee is $2, and I used to spend $20 after every work shift.

I also decided in rehab to start taking better care of myself as best I could. This started with getting my second vax which I'd been putting off, then an eye appointment, then new glasses, then a dentist appointment where I was informed I need to do $3000 worth of work on my implant that's erroding my bone matter, so that sucks, but I caught it early. I've also been meditating every day. In just 3 months, I've made pretty big improvements to my self-care and my daily routine.

One of my fears about sobriety was "missing out" on "having fun". A few days ago, all my housemates got together to play Mario Party, and it was kind of my first night doing something social while sober. It was a breath of fresh air - I wasn't constantly running to piss, I didn't worry about running out of alcohol, I didn't get sloppy and obnoxious as I can sometimes do. I even came very very close to winning my first game of MP. When I reflected on the night, I realized that, if I'd been getting drunk the whole time, I would've sucked at the minigames, been a hindrance to anyone unfortunate enough to be teamed with me, and likely would've stopped caring about the game itself after the first few turns.

Yesterday I was making my 4th pot of coffee of the day when I realized there was a full glass of wine just sitting on the counter. I had absolutely no idea where the hell it came from - nobody in my house drinks wine. I shrugged and poured that sweet sweet bean juice. It was only when I sat down and took a sip of coffee did I find myself thinking automatically, "this tastes so much better than wine". I only realized then that it had been rose wine, the only kind I've ever been able to tolerate. It was the ultimate moment of possible temptation, and the thought of just chugging that glass - as I may've done in the past - didn't even cross my mind.

I'm so glad to be where I am. I'm about to undergo some serious financial changes - i.e. going absolutely broke - but drinking isn't gonna help that, so I'm cautiously optimistic.

Stay Greater, Flamingos.

[cilldaracailin]

Play The Game

Hello my Tumblr lovelys :)

And finally I have made it back with the next part of Play The Game and I hate to say it, but it is also the last part of this particular adventure for Robyn and Taron. 

Thank you so much for all the love, comments, followers and reads on this one. It’s been a fun adventure.

I don’t really have anything else to say except enjoy and yeah... I enjoyed writing this part :)

Suze xx :) 

4

“I’ve learned that every day you should reach out and touch someone. People love a warm hug, or just a friendly pat on the back.”

“Are you going to be singing the songs the whole way back to the hotel?” Laughed Taron once Anthony had closed the back door of the car.

“You knew this. I warned you.”

“So I take it you enjoyed the musical?” He asked, shifting in his seat so Robyn could sit a little sideways against him.

“Oh it was just stunning. The music and costumes and cast and the whole production. Thank you so much for asking me to come Taron. I would have come to see it anyway at some stage but this was just perfect.” Robyn went back to humming as she sent a quick text to her mam telling her how her evening had gone, popping her phone back in her clutch. She pulled out the receipt she got Taron to sign. “I am going to frame this.”

“Really?”

“Well I don’t have your autograph.” Robyn crossed her legs, leaning a little more into Taron and held the little piece of paper which had been in her clutch from the last time she used it, the index finger of her right hand running over Taron’s signature.

“I wrote a note on your rocketman DVD.” He reminded her, the fingers of his left hand making light circles on her bare shoulder.

“That was a personal note, not an autograph. It is very different.”

“You could have just asked me for one.”

“I may ask you for another one. I am going to frame this one and then sell it on eBay for hundreds of pounds especially when I say it’s from me!”

“Then you have to split it with me. It’s is my name you are selling.”

“Or I could just photocopy this one.” She grinned shaking the paper at him. “No one would know!” Robyn giggled as Taron tried to pull the paper from her, but she quickly pushed it in through the left arm hole of her dress and into her bra.

“Robyn I will go in there for it.” Grinned Taron, his eyes darkening, knowing exactly where Robyn had pushed the page.

“I have no doubt but you won’t.” She countered.

“No I won’t but I could and would.”

“But you won’t.” She repeated.

Sighing Taron nodded. “I won’t.”

Robyn nodded and leaned back against him smiling as Taron loosely draped his arm around her shoulders again and she happily sighed, starting to hum once. It was a very quick drive back to the hotel and just as she had comfortably settled against Taron, the car stopped and Anthony had opened the door to let them out.

“I will see you tomorrow at half five?” Asked Anthony once he closed the door of the car again.

“Yes please.” Confirmed Taron.

“Well I will see you then. Have a good night.”

They waited for Anthony to get back into the car and drive away before they made their way into the hotel. It was a quick walk to the lift and back to their hotel room, Robyn opening the room this time as she minded the key in her bag. Turn down service had been and gone and she squealed when she saw the two chocolates on the pillows, picking them up and throwing one to Taron who caught it, grinning as he unwrapped it and popped it on his mouth.

“Yum.” He smiled walking over to the bed and sitting down, loosening his tie a little. “Happy you got your chocolate?” He asked her as she sat beside him.

“Hmm. Very.” Robyn watched from the corner of her eyes as Taron stripped himself of his tie and opened the top two buttons of his shirt. “Do you want to go and have a drink or anything before we hit the hay for the evening?” She asked him as he slipped his jacket off, her eyes not missing the wince he tried to hide as he let the material fall to the bed just by shuffling his arms a little.

“Is it ok if we skip it?” He said turning to look at her. “Normally I’d say yes and happily sit and nurse a beer but I’d rather just lay on the bed and watch some TV.”

“Of course. I am very happy to do that.”

“You sure?”

“Absolutely. Even after a cosy nap earlier, now that the excitement has died down a little, I am very much open to relaxing on this bed and watching TV. I vote for PJ’s and pie.”

“Pie?” He asked confused. “I understand PJ’s but pie?”

Robyn smiled as she got to her feet. “Give me ten minutes to take this face off and I shall reveal all.”

She walked towards the bathroom and as she walked balanced on one foot so she could take her left shoe off and then her right, throwing them on the floor under the desk. It always felt great to be out of her heels and she enjoyed the softness of the carpet and then the coolness of the bathroom tiles under her bare feet. She turned around to close the bathroom door behind her and her smile faded as she saw a look of pain on Taron’s tired face, his two hands on his shoulders as he rubbed them hard, his chin against his chest. She knew he had been hiding the whole evening and hiding very well the ache he was feeling but even if his face as he sat watching the musical didn’t convey the truth of the soreness he felt, his eyes did. Taron’s beautiful eyes always gave away his true feelings and emotions and after seeing the look of misery in his green irises for most of the night, she could see he was now finding it harder to physically hide how he was truly feeling. As she closed the door, she knew her surprise for him would make him smile, but it wouldn’t really help his shoulders. “Some paracetamol and if I can convince him a little shoulder massage.” She said to herself.  

After flushing the toilet and washing her hands, Robyn looked in the mirror and grinned that she still looked pretty well put together, her hair still crimped and holding its shape. She routed through her toiletry bag for her make-up remover and as she pulled it out, knocked over Taron’s leather brown wash bag from the counter, sending it falling to the floor.

“Shit.” She cursed and bent down to pick it up, putting his toiletries back in. The last thing she picked up was a piece of scrap paper which looked very familiar with the light blue lines. She unfolded it, turned it over and her head titled as a sad smile filled her face. “One shoulder massage” She read aloud. “Taron.” She sighed as she stood up with his wash bag in one hand and the page in her other. Placing his wash bag back on the counter she laid the page on top. She quickly took her make-up off and washed her face, rubbed some moisturiser in and brushed her teeth once she was done. She searched through her bag on the counter and once she had found the two things she was looking for, made her way back into the bedroom with the hand written page she had given Taron for Christmas.

Taron was still sitting on the bed with his hands on his shoulders, his eyes closed. He hadn’t heard the bathroom door open and only realised she was finished when he felt the bed sink beside him. He quickly moved his hands and gave her a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “All done?” He asked her.

“All yours.”

Nodding, Taron stood up and made his way towards the bathroom. “I am just going to take a quick shower.”

“Taron?”

“Hmm?”

“Want to use this after your shower?” Robyn held up the piece of paper to him and he padded slowly back over to her and took it from her.

“You found this?”

“I accidently knocked your wash bag over and it fell out. So, would you like to use it after your shower?”

“I am good Robyn. The shower will help.”

“Like shit it will.” Replied Robyn sternly. “You forget who you are talking to Taron. I know you very well.”

“Robyn…”

“Why did you bring it?” She gently pulled the page from his hand and she waited a few seconds, watching as he tried to come up with an answer but his blank eyes met with her concerned ones. “You brought it because you wanted to use it and it didn’t just slip into your wash bag by itself.” Taron felt his shoulders drop along with his head to his chest. “Go and shower and then come back out to me and we will make use of this voucher.”

“You wouldn’t mind?” He glanced her way, feeling better in himself about bringing the voucher with him, especially when Robyn was so willing to follow through with it.

“We going to have the talk about presents again?” She responded with a half grin.

Taron smiled a little. “No, we don’t need to have that talk. We definitely don’t need to have that talk.”

“So…”

“Give me five minutes.” Taron turned and headed back for the bathroom, grabbing a pair of sweats and a t-shirt from his case on the way to change into once he was out of his suit. Robyn’s belongings were neatly lined up on the sink and it always made him grin when he saw the travel bottles of creams and liquids, she brought with her. Robyn wasn’t one to fuss too much but she was still a woman at heart and had her own favourite products she liked to use. He quickly stripped himself of his suit, hanging it back up in the bag that still hung in the bathroom and as he waited for the water of the shower to heat up, brushed his teeth, using Robyn’s toothpaste, Taron forgetting his own. He rolled his neck slowly hearing his bones creak and crack as he moved his shoulders round a little too. It was the last hour of re-shoots and his fall from the top of a yellow cab that had left him so sore and tender but he hadn’t told Robyn that. He lost his footing and slid down the front windscreen of the taxi and then onto the hard ground on his shoulders and back of his neck. He didn’t know how his head hadn’t hit the ground but after a check-up by the onset medic, he was given the all clear immediately. The fall had hurt though and the continuation of filming hadn’t helped when what he really needed was an ice pack and some rest but with half an hour before the sun went down, he got back up on the taxi cab, shook the pain away and carried on filming, knowing he had time off once he was back home to rest. He just hadn’t told Robyn what had happened because he knew she would worry about him, knowing her protective nature of him would come straight to the forefront. This weekend was his turn to look out for her and he wouldn’t have it any other way but he wouldn’t refuse her offer of a shoulder massage even though he pretended she didn’t have too. He was almost desperate for one and had to keep his face straight from showing that need he felt.

Fully stripping down, Taron carefully stepped into the shower and stood under the hot spray, the water flattening his hair against his forehead and he closed his eyes and just stood. After about a minute he moved so the focus of the jets of water was on the back of his neck and the thundery downpour and force of the shower definitely helped to knead some of the knots out. Steam rose all around him and he could see the mirror fogging up and feeling a little overheated, his thoughts on the single-minded subject of Robyn’s soft hands, he turned the dial from hot to cold, allowing the change in temperature to cool his heated body down. The shoulder massage voucher Robyn had given him for Christmas had been constantly on his mind, more so than the back massage as he knew a shoulder massage was more likely than a back one and knowing how delicate and gentle she was as she ran her fingers through his hair, he shivered in anticipation of what was about to happen. Closing his eyes, he had etched in his memory the feeling of how she traced the features of his face the time he fell asleep against her in the tent they made for his sisters and knowing how intimately wonderful that felt especially when he pretended to still be asleep when he was actually awake and he had no doubt that her hands on his shoulders would be just as tender.

The cold water that had been needed, now made his body shiver and letting the water run over his face once more, he turned the dial to shut the water off. He ran his hands through his wet hair, squeezing the water out, shaking once more as the chilly drops, dripped down his back. He very carefully stepped out and quickly dried himself off, pulling on his sweatpants and t-shirt. He rubbed his hair hard, trying to get most of the wetness out, laughing at his reflection in the mirror when he was done.

“Really need a haircut.” He said to himself, not bothering to fix the fuzzy mess he was left it. Even though it felt longer, he opened the bathroom door five minutes later and strolled back into the bedroom. Robyn had changed out of her dress and was wearing a pair of blue shorts and a black oversized t-shirt, that came off her right shoulder and she sat on the bed with her legs crossed, the television on in the background.

“How are you feeling?” She asked him as he walked over to her. “And loving the hair.” She laughed a little at his dishevelled appearance, his hair sticking up everywhere.

“Better thanks. Showering always helps and yeah, the hair. In need of a cut.” He sat on the edge of the bed and as he had hoped, Robyn’s hands went straight for his hair, flattening it down for him.

“Just a trim.” She said.

“Because you got just a trim?”

“I desperately needed a haircut and my hair was so long it really was just a trim and my hair is still long. You only need a trim. I like it this length.”

Taron smiled. “I know but I will probably get it cut a bit shorter and don’t pout at me. Hair grows. You told me yourself.”

“Knew that would back fire on me.”

Taron’s grin faded a little as his eyes caught the piece of paper he had torn from his voucher book on the bed. “You don’t have to do this Robyn.” He picked up the page from the duvet. “I didn’t bring it so…”

“Taron…” Robyn interrupted him and took the page for him. “I gave you that book of vouchers for you to use them and you brought it with you because you wanted to use it and I am so very happy to pay up for you now. Who knows when we will see each other again?”

“St Patrick’s Day.” He answered.

“That is three weeks away and not certain.”

“Then at RENT.”

Robyn frowned at him. “And that is even further away.” She reached for his hand. “I gave you that present because I wanted you to use them when you needed them the most and right now this…” She placed the page in his free hand. “… This is something you need and would like. If I didn’t want to do it, I wouldn’t have given you one, let alone five.” Robyn let go of his hand and patted the bed in front of her. “Come and sit down in front of me.”

He hesitated a little, not wanting to rush, to show her how eager he was and then climbed up onto the bed and sat in front of her crossing his legs, smiling at the confused look she wore. “What?”

“It’s a shoulder massage rocketman. I need to get to your shoulders. You have to turn around for me.” With a little sheepish grin, Taron moved and turned around so his back was facing her.  “And this is going to have to come off too.” Robyn lightly pulled on the bottom of his t-shirt.

Taron nervously laughed and gripping his t-shirt, quickly pulled it up and over his head, taking it off completely throwing it to the side.

“Take this.” Robyn handed him a pillow from the bed. “You can either sit with your legs crossed and hug the pillow or bring your knees to your chest and use the pillow on your knees to rest your head on.”

Going with the second option, Taron pulled his knees to his chest and balanced the pillow on them. With his arms hugging his legs, he rested his head on the soft cotton of the pillow. The position placed an uncomfortable strain on his shoulders and he loosened his arms a little so his back wasn’t pulled too tight.

“You ok there Taron?” Robyn asked him, her eyes roaming over the freckles and moles on his back and the smooth skin that was longing to be touched. Telling her heart to slow down, Robyn was slightly regretting some of the vouchers she had wrote for Taron’s Christmas present. She hadn’t really thought the process through and that it would be her hands on his skin. Robyn had held Taron in her arms before when he was shirtless but that was before her developing feelings were so intense and she had to wriggle her fingers and shake her hands a little, feeling a wonderful but yet a jumpy drop in her stomach as she got ready to give Taron one of his first shoulder massages.

“Yeah, I’m good.”

“I have some oil Taron which I use as a moisturiser for my own skin and I am going to use that for your shoulders. It’s by a brand called Nuxe and it’s got a little fragrance to it but nothing overly strong and I also have a tube of that medicated rub I gave you when you were at my house last year. Then when we are done, I am going to get you to take some paracetamol and then we can get to the pie.”

Taron face broke into a grin and he looked over his shoulder at her. “You are full of surprises. What have you got up your sleeve?” He fully grinned as she winked at him, laughing a little as she used an index finger on his jaw to gently push his face back around. “You can be so secretive sometimes.”

“And that is why you love me.” She replied confidently, moving to sit on her ankles right behind him. “Now you never answered me when I said I would be using a little oil on your shoulders.”

Taron nodded. “That’s ok Robyn. You don’t have to explain anything to me. I trust you.” He knew he wasn’t cold, even after his cold shower and the hotel room was toasty warm but he still felt little shivers running down his spine and Robyn hadn’t even touched him yet.

Rubbing her hands together to try and warm them up as she knew her hands were always cold, she gently placed them by his neck, feeling him jump a little at the first contact but once she slipped her thumbs up the nape of his neck and into his hair, his whole body relaxed to her touch and once she started to move her thumbs in slow circles on his skin, his body further loosened up, easing the pressure with which he held himself against his knees, his shoulders rising and falling with a deep breath. Robyn played with his hair for a little while, giving Taron a chance to get comfortable. “Close your eyes rocketman and just stop thinking too much.”

Once she knew he was completely at ease and not going to jump when she touched him again, she reached for the gel and small glass jar of oil beside her, poured a little of each onto the palm of her right hand, and once she had rubbed her hands together, hovered over his shoulders for a second before she placed them on his neck again her thumbs rolling in easy circles on warm skin. “Taron?” She asked hearing a whisper of a groan from him, stopping her thumbs from moving immediately.

The groan left his body involuntarily and his squeezed his eyes shut with embarrassment when Robyn heard it, her wonderfully caring hands lifted from his neck. The combination of the slick oil and the feathery caresses below his neck were incredible, the light pressure she used perfect on tender muscles. Burying his face into the pillow, he was glad that his silence was enough for Robyn to replace her hands on his shoulders and this time with a bit more pressure, she worked her thumbs a little deeper into his skin, making trails down in-between his shoulder blades and back up to his neck, her long fingers sweeping over his shoulders to his collar bones.

Robyn took Taron’s continued silence and deep breathing as permission to continue with his massage and she went a little harder with her movements and a little lower too, smoothing over his shoulder blades. She moved her thumbs back down his back, tracing the line of his spine as she went, moving even more slowly as her eyes were distracted by the beauty marks on his back, her index fingers tracing over them. Applying firmer pressure, digging deeper into his skin, Robyn smiled as Taron moved his head on the pillow so she could reach more of his neck and she moved her hands at a snail’s pace back up to his neck and while her fingers kneaded the front of his neck, her thumbs worked the stress tenderly from him. She was completely in her element, so glad Taron had brought the voucher with him. She absolutely hated massages, except for when he played with her hair but had always been told she was good at them, good with her hands and if she could help alleviate some of Taron’s sore muscles, she was more than willing to help him, probably enjoying having her hands all over him more than she should. With every stroke, Robyn could see his tense muscles slacken and whereas before his shoulders were held tight, now as her hands moved further across the top of his body, his arms fell down by his sides, his face turning sideways on the pillow.

“You ok rocketman?” She asked quietly.

“So good.” He cooed back to her. “Best Christmas present.”

“Not as good as my Care Bear.” She laughed back at him.

“Uh-uh.” Taron replied. “Care Bear’s don’t give massages like you do.”

With a laugh, Robyn knelt up on her knees and she poured some more of her expensive body oil onto the palm of her hands with some of the gel and once spread over her palms, moved back to his shoulders, concentrating now on his actual shoulders. As she knelt behind him, Robyn was taken aback by how broad Taron actually was and she rolled her thumbs across his warm soft skin, smoothing over the light dusting of freckles on his skin that she hadn’t seen before. She had been in so many tight hugs with him and even fallen asleep on his shoulders but it was only now as she faced his bare back that she could take in his stunning physic and frame. His training for Eggsy had him in peak shape, not that she was bothered by his fit physic, knowing herself it wasn’t exactly her preferred body type and she could feel the tightness of his muscles as she rubbed his shoulders, making sure she didn’t knead into his skin too hard. Some parts of his upper back had been the cause of his twinges during the day and she didn’t want to hurt him more. She had a feeling his tough re-shoots were the root of his discomfort but was keeping the reason why to himself and she didn’t want to push him for an explanation. So instead she dipped her hands down his arms, feeling the little bump of the scar on his right upper arm as she palmed her way back up and down a few times, before moving over towards his neck, her thumbs circling in that spot she knew could make Taron almost turn to jelly. She could feel him push the tiniest bit back into her thumbs, so continued in that same spot, dipping up into his hair every now and again, taking her time and kneading his neck lovingly.

“You ok for just a little more pressure Taron?”

“Give me all you got chicken.”

“You sure? I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t Robyn.” Taron turned to look at her and nodded her way. “Honestly you won’t hurt me and I would be very happy for you to go a little harder.” His cheeks immediately tinted and he lifted his head, the pillow falling from his knees as he sat up. “Jesus Christ, why do I always put my fucking foot in my mouth.”

Robyn stretched over him and picked up the pillow. “I can go harder for you.” She answered placing the pillow back on his knees. “And you only get your words muddled when you are either knackered or completely comfortable. Now, get yourself settled again and just let me know if it’s too much.”

Still wishing he could eat his previous words, Taron snuggled into the pillow on his knees, letting his arms rest by his sides as before. He was in absolute heaven and what he thought was going to be a loving tender massage was so much more. He knew Robyn was so talented with her hands and loved every head massage she had ever given him, the delicate face one nearly coming out on top but it was nothing compared to how she manipulated her hands on his upper back and shoulders. The moment she ran her two thumbs down his spine, he had to hold his moan of pure delight in and only wished she pressed harder into his back, needing to feel a much more intense kneading and when she had asked him if she could massage his skin a little harder he could have turned around and hugged her tight. The cooling effect from the pain relief gel along with the slickness of the oil felt so sensual and as Robyn increased the strength at which she was rubbing his shoulders, her thumbs were digging so wonderfully into his raw and tender muscles that had been aching since he came back from New York. Soon he got his wish of deep pressure on his spine and couldn’t help but push his back into her hands, smiling as she repeated the motion once again and again. His whole body went limp and he hoped she hadn’t heard the guttural moan that came from the back of his throat as she put a lot more force into her movements, really grinding into his shoulders and it felt so gratifying and pleasurable. The tension and friction he had been cursed with since he fell was being kneaded away with a strong fluid movements and Robyn wasn’t going easy on him which he was so thankful for. He needed this. He desperately needed someone to just not be afraid to go a little harder with his back and shoulders and as her thumbs moved to that wonderful soft spot at the nape of his neck that she found so quickly when she hugged him, his eyes rolled a little, if felt so good.

When Taron asked her to go harder, Robyn didn’t hold back and put a little bit of her body weight into her movements, smiling to herself as she moved her two hands from one shoulder to the other and back to his neck, Taron moving back into her hands a few times, which gave her the confidence to push just a little harder into his skin. Her eyes were following the movements of her hands and his skin rolled with her thumbs as she pushed into his shoulders, hoping she wasn’t hurting him but as his whole body leaned further into his knees and feeling his deep breathing under her hands, she took it as a sign that he was thoroughly and literally under her thumb and relishing in every moment and move she made and increased the pressure just a little more. His skin was toasty warm under her hands and as the oil soaked into his neck and shoulders, she knew it would only make his silky smooth skin under her palms so much more so. The expensive oil she used to rub his back also had a slight hint of shimmer in it but Robyn just hadn’t told Taron that. It was barely noticeable and as she dragged her thumbs from one shoulder to the next, it could only be seen when his body caught the light in a certain way. Robyn wasn’t worried about him finding out either, knowing he was going to shower in the morning anyway and the shimmer would wash away under the water. As her thumbs made their way down his spine once again, she was sure she heard another moan of appreciation from him, Taron’s face moving into the pillow once more and she ran them very slowly back up to his neck, her two hands moving through his hair before brushing over his shoulders and down his spine again.

She took no notice of the time or how long they sat on the bed together, Robyn just wanting to give Taron something to not only relax him but to thank him for looking after her so well on the red carpet but when she felt it had been at least half an hour since she started, she knelt up to her full height and dragged her two hands up through his slightly damp hair, pulling gently, Taron catching on quickly that she wanted him to lift his head from his knees. Robyn sat back down on her ankles and guided Taron with her so his back now rested against her chest and his head was under her chin. With his new position she was able to rake her fingers through his hair easily, her nails scratching his scalp deliciously, her fingertips running in soothing circles over his temples, forehead and top of his head.

“The voucher was only for a shoulder massage.” He replied a little sleepily.

“Want me to stop?”

“Absolutely not.” Taron moved so his legs were stretched out in front of him, leaning right into Robyn behind him and closed his eyes. “How am I going to repay you for this?” He questioned as his arms lay by his sides.

“You don’t have to pay me back. It was your Christmas present and you already have. Tonight was amazing.” Robyn kneaded his head, a little harder than she normally would but hearing no complaints from Taron, she kept the pressure up for a few minutes, her hands moving back and forth through his hair and over his forehead. She smoothed her two index fingers over his eyebrows and carefully down his nose, one finger at time, running under his eyes and back to his eyebrows, repeating the movements a few times, her hands then sweeping back through his hair. As she traced down his temples and back up again, she knew Taron was completely in a trance and haze of glorious of pleasure as he lay against her with his arms resting by his sides palm up.

Deciding she was going to take a huge risk, hoping it was going to pay off, Robyn slowly moved her fingers down his face and neck, her hands then resting on his shoulders. With slow and purposeful movements, Robyn advanced her hands down his chest, her eyes locked on his stomach waiting to see if his breathing changed as her fingers slipped through the wonderfully soft hair on his chest before she travelled back up to his shoulders. Taron didn’t even move an inch and his breathing was still steady and controlled. It was a completely different story for Robyn and her heart was racing in her own chest and it took all of her inner strength to keep her hands from shaking as she took another chance to travel her hands down his chest again, lingering a little on centre of his sternum where only five months ago she had performed CPR on him. Without thinking Robyn ran her fingers in circles over the spot, soft delicate twists and turns now compared to the rough powerfully thrusts she had made on him before. Closing her eyes, she shook the imagines of an unresponsive Taron from her mind and concentrated on how she was practically running her hands all over him and he was letting her and kept her eyes focused on slow rise and fall of his stomach as she gently caressed his chest once more, smoothing over his collar bones and then the strong muscles of his arms.

“Robyn?” Taron’s voice was as quiet as a whisper.

“Hmm?” She asked, her hands grazing down his arms slowly.

“I don’t have a voucher for this.”

“I know.” Robyn brushed her fingers over his chest again. “This one is on the house.”

Taron was in complete and absolute heaven. He thought the shoulder and neck massage was wonderful and so soothing to his aching muscles and as always when someone played with his hair, he was putty in their hands but when Robyn pulled him against her, his body nestled so comfortably against her chest, Taron found a position and new comfort he never knew he needed. He had never been given such attention before, his whole body was on fire from her touch but he felt so calm and relaxed. His time on set had been cruel and hard, his body put through the mil by Matthew but now as he lay against Robyn , he couldn’t even open his eyes to look to look to the woman who so tentatively moved her hands down his chest and over his heart. When Robyn lingered over the centre of chest, his whole body heated up and he hoped Robyn hadn’t felt the increase in his body temperature. When she had previously been incredibly rough with him, her hands leaving bruises on his chest, Robyn’s nimble fingers were running in the sweetest of circles on his skin and it felt so comforting for him. Taron didn’t remember the CPR only feeling the after effects of what Robyn had done for him but as her hands moved over his chest again, Taron knew the motion of what she was doing was of vital importance to her and was happy to let her have her moment with him, not really wanting to ask her to stop as he was very much enjoying the new take on a shoulder massage. If Robyn needed the time to place her hands on his chest to feel him breathing and his heart beating, he was always willing to let her do it, even remembering that he had told her to do so when he stayed with her once they had left Florida. As far as he was concerned Robyn basically had every right to his heart, because he had his because of her.

Robyn lingered over his upper body for another minute or two, selfishly taking the time to draw shapes and designs on his chest, enjoying the slight intimacy Taron was giving her, glad he was doing so as she suddenly felt a strong need to feel a steady heart beat under her hands. Sometimes, the reality of what they had been through, would come back to the forefront of her memories and being able to feel his beating heart, always calmed the slight anxiety she felt as she thought about Taron not breathing under her hands. Almost reluctantly, Robyn ran her hands once more over his body once more, before moving back to his head.

“So, you going to tell me what happened on set?” She asked him, as she dragged her fingers through his hair.

“What do you mean?” He asked quietly, his eyes still closed.

“You are sporting some bruising on your left shoulder. Did you not notice how I kept the kneading lighter on that side?”

Taron sighed. “No.” He opened his eyes. “I was lost in a haze of pure happiness.”

“Want to tell me about it?”

“Not really.”

“Shall I ring Matthew?”

“I slipped off the roof of a yellow cab, slid down the windscreen, bonnet and to the ground, banged my shoulders and neck off the curb.”

“Taron, Jesus, why didn’t you tell me? I could have hurt you.”

“I got the all clear from the medic on site.”

“I still could have hurt you.”

“You didn’t.” He felt Robyn take her hands from his hair and rest on his shoulders. “You didn’t.” He repeated. “It felt so good Robyn. I can’t even explain how good. I wish I had of brought another voucher with me so I could get another one.” He lifted his body from hers and spun around so he could kneel opposite her. “I know you worry about me and I also know I can’t tell you not too but if I was to tell you about every time I hurt myself on set, I would probably be ringing you at the end of every working day with about ten stories of a caught finger, or bumped head. It’s just natural on such a physical set and I promise I was absolutely fine after I fell. Just a little sore.”

“I still could have really hurt you Taron. I really applied some heavy pressure into your shoulders at one point.”

“And it felt amazing Robyn. I am so glad you asked me if it was ok. I really really needed that extra hard pressure.” Taron rolled his shoulders to prove a point. “See no twinges any more.” He half grinned. “And you know you can do this whenever you need too.” He lifted her hand and placed it onto his chest, over his heart. “Whenever you need too.” He repeated. “It’s beating because of you.”

Without hesitation, Robyn threw her arms around his neck and have his body a tight squeeze, her palms resting flat against his bare back. “Thanks for letting me do that Taron.”

“Anytime you need to Robyn.” He kissed her temple and hugged her close to him. “But we may have to replace the free head massages with free shoulder ones.” He grinned as she let him go quickly, ending their hug.

“You have four vouchers left. Use them wisely.” She replied reaching her hands up and brushed his hair from his forehead, keeping her hands in his hair so it was spiked up a little. “Next time you need to warn me if you’ve had a fall Taron. This…” She raked her hands through his hair again, her voice deadly serious. “… Is very different from this.” Her hands ran the whole way down the back of his head and to his shoulders which she gentled rubbed. “I am not a professional and just good with my hands, as you have told me before so I should be aware before I even touch you if you are carrying even the lightest of injuries. A simple wrong move could be disastrous.” Her hands wandered down his arms and to his hands.

“I will make sure you know if I am carrying a somewhat of an injury next time.” Taron gripped her hands tight. “I will have to return the favour some day.”

“No need.”

“What?”

“I hate massages.”

Taron’s eyes opened wide. “Shut up.”

His words made her laugh. “I don’t like them.” She said again.

“What is wrong with you?” He asked letting go her hands dramatically. “You don’t like massages?”

“You know how tickly I am and I just don’t like them.”

“I have given you a massage before.” He titled his head to her.

“You have played with my hair before. It’s different.”

“And I have rubbed the back of your neck and your head.”

“Still different rocketman.” Robyn climbed off the bed.

“I am going to change your mind someday.” Taron reached for his t-shirt and as he pulled it back on, immediately noticing an ease with his movements. “Hey I have given you a massage before.” He said excitedly, fixing his t-shirt and getting off the bed, walking over to where Robyn was routing through the mini fridge, rolling his shoulders feeling such a relief from the pain he felt during the day. “In the 7/11.” He continued. “When I rubbed the aftersun into your shoulders. That was a mini massage.” Robyn looked up to him. “And you didn’t flinch away from me.”

“That was because you were helping me with the horrible sting I felt from the sunburn and the aftersun was helping to take the burn away.” Explained Robyn as she got to her feet with a frosted plastic box in her hands. “Different situation and it wasn’t technically a massage.” She closed the fridge with her foot.

“I bet I can change your mind.” He grinned. “When I come visit next month, I will change your mind.” Robyn didn’t answer him but walked around him and the bed so she was at her side. “I will change it.”

“You can try but there is no guarantee.”

“I like a challenge.” He winked. “What you got there?” The frosted box intrigued him and as Robyn settled herself on the bed, he moved around the opposite side of the bed.

“Pie.”

“Pie?” Taron got up on the bed and sat right beside her. “What you been up to now?”

“Take this.” Robyn handed him a fork, which he did, staring at the piece of cutlery as he held it, still completely puzzled but once she opened the tuber ware box on her legs, his eyes lit up.

“You absolute dream!” In the box were two pieces of key lime pie, nestled together in neat triangles, a blob of cream on top of each one. “Where have you been hiding this?” He asked watching as Robyn pushed her fork into her slice and ate it with a grin.

“I wasn’t hiding it. It was in the fridge.” Robyn smiled at the childlike grin that Taron wore as he took his own bite from his slice.

“You need to stop bringing baked goods with you every time you visit me.”

“You really want me to do that?” She asked, handing the box to Taron so he could get better access to his share. “Not bake for you?”

Taron stopped mid-bite and shook his head. “Ignore everything I have just said. Always bring me yummy things to eat when you visit me.” He finished off the rest of the zesty treat on his fork. “Yours tastes much better than mine.”

“I don’t believe that for a second.” Robyn reached over and took another piece of pie to eat. “It’s a fool proof recipe.”

Taron leaned happily against the pillows behind his back and he sighed as he chewed away. “Any more surprises for me?” He asked.

“I am all out.” Robyn answered simply. “But I also want you to take these.”  Hidden in her free hand she had two pain killers. “The shoulder rub is only temporary. These will definitely help more to take the ache away.”

“Do you just keep a supply of these for me?” He asked her as he handed her back the box and his fork to hold.

“Not necessarily for you but I have a stash.” She watched as he got off the bed and walked to the fridge. He stood a little straighter and his eyes were definitely brighter and as he carried a bottle of water back to the bed, his was smiling widely. “Sometimes I drive up to Newry in the North of Ireland. It’s only about an hour and half away from Kilcreen and because it is technically part of England, things are much cheaper like paracetamol and I can get a packet of sixteen for forty pence instead of a pack of twelve for two euro fifty. I stock up so I always have them.”

“Should I be a little worried?” He asked after he had settled himself on the bed. “Please tell me you buy other things and not just medication.”

“I buy other things. Normally spend the whole day walking around.” As Taron took the tablets from her, she took another bite of her slice of pie. “Ireland is quite expensive so I take advantage of part of the UK being in Ireland sometimes.” Once he had taken a drink and placed the bottle on the bed between them so Robyn could use it to drink from too, she handed him back his fork, satisfied he had taken something that would further ease his achy shoulders.

Taron dropped the fork on the bed and took the box from Robyn and reaching in, lifted his slice out, taking a large bite from it, grinning as Robyn rolled her eyes at him but copying him, she picked up her slice too ate it from her hands.

“So good.” He sighed, leaning back against the pillows. “Aren’t you cold?” He asked her as she moved to lay next to him, her legs crossed at the ankles. “Shorts? In February?”

“That time of the month.” She replied to him as she brushed her hands together to get rid of the remaining crumbs on her fingers, her slice all eaten. “I always run a little warmer and you are always warm so I picked something a little lighter to wear.”

Taron, who was finished his surprise treat, moved so his left arm was resting alongside her right one, for once feeling that her hand was actually warmer than normal. “Anything I can do for you?” He asked her remembering that last time he had been around her when her monthly visitor was around.

She pulled on his hand and he let her guide his left arm to her lap. “I am good. Last time was a one off. I just know I will be warmer than usual so came prepared with shorts.”

Taron looked down to her hands, his eyes closing as she made feather light touches up and down his arm, her fingers making zig-zag patterns along his skin. He naturally just sunk a little lower on the bed and let his cheek rest on her bare shoulder that was on show with the way her over-sized t-shirt sat on her frame, understanding more now how she explained about how her body temperature was a little warmer than usual, her skin soft and balmy om his cheek. Robyn had a knack for being so gentle with her movements when it was needed and she now traced his arm so lightly as if a harder touch would break him, already having used her strength to knead his shoulders so wonderfully. He felt like he was in a complete dream world, as Robyn took to now massaging the skin on his arm. He opened his eyes when he felt her swirl her finger in the same spot a few times and he grinned as he realised she was running over his moles on his arm.

“What are you doing?” He asked as her as she moved to another one near his elbow.

“You have so many of these.” Robyn moved her hand back down towards his wrist, his arm hair silky under her fingers and she stopped as she spotted another two moles.

“Not as many as you.” He laughed as she tapped each one along his arm and up past his elbow.

“Yours are here all the time. My freckles fade.”

“Not these ones.” Taron copied her movements and stretched over to use his right hand to tap her own freckles.

“I like yours.”

“Meh.”

“What’s the meh for?”

“They have been photoshopped out before from a few photoshoots I have done.”

“What?” Robyn stopped rid stroke, her fingers hovering over his arm.

“Particularly the mole on my neck.” He had to lift his head from her shoulder as Robyn moved suddenly and he started to fall. “It’s all true chicken.” He saw the looked of disbelief on her face.

“But why?” She asked and automatically stretched her arm over to his neck.

“Guess it’s not perfect enough for them.” He couldn’t help but smile at the scowl she wore and let her lift his chin a little and her eyebrows stayed furrowed as she ran her fingers lightly over his mole on his neck. “I know what you are going to say.”

“Fucking vain tosspots.”

Taron chuckled. “Ok maybe not.”

“You are perfect Taron.”

“And there it is.” He grinned, his smile widening as she still frowned.

“I hate that you have to be subjected to that shit Taron. It’s so mentally draining and just disgusting.”

“You are so wonderful Robyn and with you around, I don’t need to worry about people taking my moles and freckles away.”

“But they shouldn’t do it Taron.”

Still smiling, Taron moved a little further down the bed so he could lay his head back on her shoulder and draped his left arm back across her lap. “It’s just the way it is Robyn.”

“Well I love your freckles and moles.” She said firmly. “I love all of you. Every bit.”

“Every bit.” He grinned as she started to stroke his arm again.

“Every bit.” She confirmed, her whole hand moving up and down his arm.

“I love every bit of you too but probably your hands the best, especially at the moment.”

“Mr. Egerton is a little softie at heart, isn’t he? You love these cuddly and cosy situations.”

“I don’t get them very often Robyn and normally only in private when I am with you.” He admitted. “I don’t really have anyone who is willing to give me the hugs and cuddles or such soothing massages.”

“Deian?” She asked with a little laugh.

“Dear God no.” He laughed. “Just no.” He snuggled a little more into her, closing his eyes, feeling a little tired as the heat from her body and the movement of her hand on his skin, helped to relax him completely. He felt her kiss his head and without a second thought, turned to lay on his left side so he could lean a little better against her, moving his left arm, so his right arm was now slack against her stomach.

“I like these moles too.” He heard her say and felt her gentle touch on his other arm. “And these ones.”

Robyn, now with Taron’s other arm, could touch and caress and examine his beautifully soft skin, her fingers running over tendons and veins on the back of his hand, feeling strong defined muscles under his skin. She was completely in her element as she lay with Taron, finally getting the chance to do what she had been desperate to do to him since she was sitting with him in the 7/11 and that was to get to his wonderfully strong arms and his hands. She continued to draw patterns on his toasty skin, over his moles and freckles and rub back and forth over his arm hair. She eventually linked her fingers with his and she smiled happily. He hadn’t been in a bad mood when they met that morning but she knew something was up with him. Now as he nestled into her, not only was Taron much more content in himself but Robyn was doing what she loved doing best, looking after the man in her arms who had spent the whole day making sure she felt entirely comfortable and her heart was filled with nothing but true and honest love for him.

Taron felt his face was going to start hurting from the permanent smile that filled his cheeks and he opened his eyes as he felt Robyn trail a finger down his nose and back up again. “I am really starting to understand why you like that so much. I don’t know how to describe it but it is wonderful.” Robyn’s body moved under him as she laughed and he watched as she moved her legs a little, crossing them at her ankles, her right ankle over her left. “Chicken?”

“Hmmm..?” Robyn hummed as she brushed his nose again.

“Why are your legs all bruised?”

Robyn’s hand stalled on Taron’s nose and she looked to her legs which had little bruises below and above her knees, some darker ones on her thighs. “Along with my busy week of paperwork I also had to fill in for one of the girls as she was out sick so I was in the Preschool room with the children and walked into the furniture a few times, maybe the tables too.”

“You really do bruise easily.” With his position, Taron was able to reach down and delicately stroked the blue tinted skin of a bruise on her right thigh.

“You have no idea. I am so used to adult sized furniture in the office that I forget when I am in a room and catch myself on the corners of the wooden play kitchen a lot, normally when I walk past it.”

“It’s kind of depressing in a way but I am glad I was caught under the shelf in the 7/11 and not you. I know how bruised I was afterwards but I would have hated to have seen the bruising on your skin.”

“It would have been pretty grim.” She agreed. “It doesn’t help that my iron levels can be low.”

Taron moved to sit up against the pillows so he wasn’t leaning on her shoulder any more, his whole face turning stern. “We have had this conversation a few times before. Should I be getting my serious lecture face ready for you? Low iron can be dangerous Robyn.”

Her heart swelled as she saw the genuine concern on his face and she knew he would be ready in a heartbeat to tell her off for not taking more red meat into her diet. “You don’t have to tell me Taron.”

“Sometimes I feel like I do have to tell you and look after you too. I think you forget to do so. You are too busy looking after everyone else.”

“You look after me.” She told him. “Every time I come and see you, you look after me.”

“I feel like I might be the only one who does.” He answered her. “And cwtch doesn’t count.” He quickly added, earning a grin from her. “You need to take care of yourself Robyn and I mean that. It’s ok to stop and breathe and do things for you. I was serious when I told you this morning that you are going to burn out. You need to slow down.”

“Says the actor who can work a sixteen-hour day.”

“Who gets breaks during his day and a few weeks after and in-between filming. You work every single day with only an hour lunch.”

“I have some days off coming up.”

“And when I come to visit, we are going to do lots of relaxing and sleeping and baking.” He was glad to see her smile. “I don’t want to have to come and visit you in hospital Robyn.”

“You won’t Taron.” She assured him. “You won’t.” She placed her hands on his cheeks and kissed his forehead.

“You can’t distract me with kisses Robyn.” He closed his eyes and inwardly sighed as her lips found the corner of his. “Robyn…” He opened his eyes and was taken back at how close her face was to his. “You are a tosspot.”

“And you are wonderful caring man. I promise that I will take it easy the next few weeks in work.”

“No overtime.”

“No overtime.” She repeated.

“And lots of Taron cuddles starting now.”

With a little change of position and making sure they were tucked under the duvet cover, Robyn found herself in what had become her usual cuddling position with Taron, her head on his shoulder while his arm wrapped around her shoulder, tucking her into him. She didn’t get a chance to move her arm over his waist, as Taron pulled her hand over his stomach himself his own hand now trailing shapes up and down her arm, repeating the same tender touch she had been using with him. “I love you.” Taron whispered so quietly into her hair that Robyn didn’t hear him. He smiled as her hair was still crimped and in her plaits, enjoying the extra warmth her body provided him which he easily felt through his t-shirt. He found himself becoming more and more protective of the woman in his arms, each time he saw her and knowing how hard she worked, almost until she was dead on her feet, even more so and after how she had so lovingly just cared for his whole body with her hands, he was more than willing and ready to look after her. He wished he could whisk her away for a few days where it was just the two of them, both just spending the time together like they did when they were in her home but with their lives so busy, they were lucky to get a weekend together and he knew he was going to do everything to try to get to her for St Patrick’s Day, just wanting to spend more with her, just to make sure she was taking care of herself while letting her do the same for him.

[hazelandglasz]

AU klaine prompt inspired by the video with the window washer playing with the cat where blaine is the window washer and kurt is the cat's owner?

The aforementioned video

On AO3

Window washing was the Anderson family business. His father did it, and then, when his back didn’t allow him to climb and wash the windows himself, he started training Cooper and Blaine to follow in his footsteps.

Cooper loved the job, but he always ended up having to go back because he left traces on the windows.

Blaine, well… It’s not that he doesn’t enjoy doing it, the physicality of it, the work-out it represents, and the happiness he brings to some of his clients.

But he could definitely do without the small percentage of clients who are insufferable.

Luckily, today is a light day, mentally.

Today is Tuesday, which means that he has to clean the Plaza building. Not a lot of offices, which he prefers, and large window panels without convoluted stone carvings to clean around. 

Blaine slides down from the roof and starts cleaning the window when a small black kitten appears in his line of sight.

“Hello,” he coos, applying the soap and giggling when the kitten follows the motion of his brush with his little head. Blaine is truly delighted when the kitten trots up to him when he moves to the next window on his right, the feline walking with his tail swishing from side to side.

Once the window is clean, Blaine decides that he can spare a couple of moments to play with the kitten.

He is so focused on his reactions that he misses the appearance of two socked feet behind him.

The music notes do get his attention, though, and he looks up to find a man giggling his head off as he films Blaine and his cat.

Blaine grins at him and waves, only for the kitten to bat his hand through the glass.

The man laughs harder but looks up from his screen, waving back at Blaine.

The cat seems very interested in his owner and moves away from the window, visibly meowing to be picked up.

Blaine shrugs and waves again, this time to signal his departure, before sliding down to the next floor.

That was a very nice moment.

And that man was very, very, very handsome.

---

From that day on, it becomes a sort of tradition.

Every other Tuesday, Blaine gets to meet the black kitten (who visibly grows as the weeks go by), while his owner records their encounters.

As cute and funny as the cat is, Blaine doesn’t really know if he looks forward to those Tuesdays for the animal or for his human.

They don’t speak to each other, per se, but he feels like they are having whole conversations through their eyes and gestures.

It’s been two months since Blaine met the black cat and his owner, and he still doesn’t know their names, and it’s bothering him more than he cares to admit.

So he prepared a sheet, saying, “Hi, I’m Blaine,” in the hope that it will prompt his Mystery Man to reply.

But first, entertain the Mystery Cat while doing his job.

The moment two human feet appear, Blaine reaches into his breast pocket to unfold the paper.

The man turns off the phone and comes to sit next to his cat to read it.

It’s a good thing Blaine is firmly attached with his harness, otherwise he doesn’t know how well he would be able to maintain his balance, because…

Wow.

The man looked handsome, cute even, from afar, but up close…

W. O. W.

Look at those eyes.

The man smiles as he reads Blaine’s introduction, before pointing at himself and waving his fingers in the hair.

A vertical line; two short diagonales; then a curvy one…

Oh! 

Okay, Blaine can do this.

K.U.R.T.

He says it aloud. “Kurt?”

Mystery Man nods and beams at him. 

“Nice to meet you.”

Kurt waves between them while nodding. Blaine interprets it as “Likewise”.

He then points at the cat, and Kurt wrinkles his nose.

It’s adorable.

And then, Kurt lights up, holding up a finger, pointing at his socks.

“Socks?”

Kurt shakes his head, twisting his upper body to show Blaine the brand.

(Blaine is absolutely not distracted from said brand by the sight of Kurt’s backside, presented to him in the same motion.)

“Ah! McQueen?”

A vigorous nod.

Blaine makes an approving gesture before tapping the glass with all of his fingers to respond to the aforementioned cat who was busy batting the window, demanding his dose of attention.

Kurt smiles at the two of them before returning his focus to Blaine, who tries really hard to fight his blush under such scrutiny.

Kurt opens and closes his mouth several times, visibly growing frustrated with each aborted attempt. 

Meanwhile, Blaine moves on to finish cleaning Kurt’s windows. When he’s done, he lowers himself until his face is at ground level for the apartment and its residents, waving goodbye and planning his next move.

The next fortnight, Blaine has another piece of paper ready for Kurt.

“Here is my phone number.”

Kurt’s smile is blinding as he rushes to take his phone and save the number, rapidly typing a message as he goes.

Blaine can feel his phone vibrating in his chest pocket, but he never takes his phone out while suspended mid-air. He makes a gesture he hopes Kurt will understand to say “later”, before cooing at McQueen who is sticking his face against the glass.

When he’s back on the ground, Blaine takes his phone out and reads Kurt’s message.

“HI! I’m so glad I can finally tell you how much you’ve brightened my days with your kindness for my cat.

I hope to see you many times, but would it be possible to do so without a barrier between us?

Have a nice day and stay safe,

Kurt”

Blaine presses his forehead against his phone (and wipes it against his t-shirt because his forehead is quite sweaty after all) before typing his answer, looking up even if it’s useless once it’s sent.

“I would love that. Tomorrow is my day off, so, you tell me?

And just so you know, cleaning your windows has been the highlight of my weeks ever since I met… McQueen.”

Yes, he’s playing coy. So sue him.

Kurt’s response is immediate. “Starlight Dinner. For lunch. My treat?”

And, not even fifteen seconds later, “I’ll make sure to let him know how much you enjoy your dates.”

Oh, okay. Two can play that game.

---

“What’s the big occasion?”

Cooper lets himself into Blaine’s apartment and drops himself onto Blaine’s couch, looking at his little brother getting dressed.

And there must be an occasion behind that outfit—Blaine knows how to highlight his assets, he learned from the best after all.

“I have a date.”

Cooper straightens up, and Blaine can’t help but smile proudly at the idea of the upcoming date. “With the cute cat guy?”

“I told you his name is Kurt.”

“Right, right.” Cooper comes to stand with Blaine in front of the mirror, handing him a different belt to tie the outfit. “And you really want it to go well?”

“Duh.”

“You know what you need to do then.”

Blaine glares in their reflection. “I am not going to serenade him with a poppy lovesong in a public space.”

“Ah?”

“Not on the first date.”

“Attaboy.”

---

Naturally, Blaine gets to the restaurant early—far too early, if he’s being honest, but he was so worried of being late, and so anxious to escape Cooper’s ridiculous advice, that he left and walked to the place—but it gives him the time he needs to compose himself and let the odd ambiance of the restaurant soothe his nerves.

And then, someone enters the restaurant and makes a beeline for Blaine’s table.

Someone Blaine has been eager to see and meet and hear, wearing the most perfect sweater Blaine could ever imagine.

“Hi,” Kurt simply says, and his voice is even more perfect than the one Blaine imagined.

“Hi.”

Kurt sits down and crosses his arms over the table, slightly leaning over it to get closer to Blaine. “I almost can’t believe this is happening,” he tells Blaine, in a tone of confidence.

“Me neither,” Blaine confesses. “I had to check and recheck your text. My brother even pinched me to guarantee I wasn’t having a very detailed daydream.”

“Oh, I hope he didn’t hurt you.”

Blaine shrugs. “Anyway, here we are.”

“Here we are.”

Silence thickens between them until they both laugh, awkward all over.

“This would be easier if your matchmaker pet was here.”

“Wouldn’t it be, though?”

“A black cat named McQueen, that is quite the statement.”

Kurt smiles at Blaine, before launching into a story of how the cat got his name.

(Long story short, when Kurt first fostered him, the black kitten would always find his way to Kurt’s beloved McQueen scarves to nestle in them, and the name stuck.)

The ice definitely breaks when Blaine pushes his side of fries toward Kurt while they eat and Kurt covers Blaine’s hand with his before devouring half of the fries, in the most inelegant way possible.

Blaine finds it absolutely irresistible.

And he tells Kurt so, while Kurt has his cheeks stuffed with fries like a chipmunk.

“You’re adorable.”

Kurt freezes, before gulping as his cheeks turn bright pink. “Oh. Really?”

Blaine leans his head on his hand. “Really.”

Kurt looks away before returning his hand on top of Blaine and squeezing it. “I, um. Me too.”

“You, too, think you are adorable?”

Kurt shakes his head. “No, you jerk, I think you’re adorable too.”

“Kind of sending mixed signals, here.”

“Oh, okay. I take it back. You’re not adorable.”

“No?”

“No,” Kurt says, his smile belying his tone. “You’re insufferable. I hate you.”

“Right.”

Kurt brings Blaine’s hand closer to him, rubbing his thumb over his knuckles. “But,” he continues, a darkness appearing in his eyes, “my cat loves you, so that must mean something about your character.”

“Oh, bless McQueen’s judgment call, then.”

“Indeed.”

Blaine nods, swiping the last fries for himself with his fork. “Didn’t mean to be a jerk.”

“Didn’t mean to call you a jerk.”

Blaine smiles. “This should make for an interesting second date.”

“Second date?”

“My turn to invite you.”

“Right.” Kurt cocks his head to the side. “A bit cocky of you, though, to assume there will be a second date.”

“I don’t assume,” Blaine replies. “All I know is that I would love to see you again, and not on my regular Tuesday.”

Kurt smiles, all bravado melting away. “I would love that too.”

“Then it’s a date.”

“It’s a date.”

“And I have to meet McQueen in person sometime in the future.”

Kurt laughs at that. “I’m pretty sure he will be beside himself to finally meet his favorite human.”

“Oh, second favorite, surely.”

Kurt smirks. “Surely, yeah.”

--

Two years later, when they get married and McQueen is the ringbearer, they are still debating who is his favorite human.

(The response is clearly a tie, but McQueen prefers to let them wonder.)

[aliceslantern]

Retribution, a Kingdom Hearts fanfic, chapter 2

Newly a person again, Ienzo is weighed down by guilt and his humanity. He's prepared to do whatever it takes to atone... only to find unexpected solace in a familiar face. With more insight into the bonds between people than ever before, Ienzo reaches for a dangerous element from the past to help Kairi and Riku in their search for Sora. What is his life if it means saving another, brighter light?

Chapter summary:  Ienzo believes his powers may be the key to finding Sora's heart.

Read it on FF.net/on AO3

---

What made a heart?

Ienzo's head was aching again. It’d been years, truly, since he’d been a scholar of it, as he’d told Sora. Seeing the annals of their old research--and all the implications therein--wasn’t helping. Truly, after all that had happened, they understood almost nothing--but they understood more than the guardians, which was why they were useful.

He had a heart, now.

The rush of trying to find a body for Roxas had left him with little time to consider the impacts of being Ienzo. The tides of emotion, as much as he tried to keep them at bay, were always threatening him. He didn’t have time to drown, to fall apart--nor did he want to. Being here was humiliating enough.

The neophytes had all wanted hearts, humanity, in the Organization days. But Zexion hadn’t, not for a heartbeat (ha ha). A Nobody’s mind, for him, had been largely stabilizing--he had the wherewithal to realize that now. It tamped down on the ever-present anxiety, reduced the ache of old traumas. Let him think clearly, cleanly.

Let him commit atrocities.

Was this who he really was, below it all? True, without a heart one was unfettered by inhibitions, societal expectations. Secondly, he’d been completely focused on the morally good since he woke. The committee. Sora. Stopping Xehanort, the one who pushed him onto this path.

Ienzo looked to his left, to the sealed door that led down to their labs. Nobody had the gall to go down there since. Almost as if possessed, he stood slowly, walked over to the keypad, and laid his hand on it. Considering his radical change in size, it didn’t read the palmprint, so instead he was forced to manually type in the numbers--something he did almost with muscle memory.

Why was he doing this? What answers would he find? Perhaps some paper reports which could be of use?

(At least, this was what he told himself.)

Ienzo took a deep breath. Took two. He held out his hand and called for the lexicon.

None of the others here, save Demyx, had access to their weapons. One had to be very closely bonded with that essence of the self for it to remain. Considering he’d had it twelve years, it was only suitable he had it still. This object, on its own, was purely neutral. But unlike Demyx’s sitar, it had changed shape, color; no longer that deep sage green but a sort of lavender, the Nobody insignia replaced with a heart. His psyche was more than a little literal, which was disappointing.

But Ienzo’s magic was limited. Gone were the days of intense, gorgeous spellwork, complex illusions. He was stuck with the same arsenal as any Joe or Jane on the street, reduced from a powerful mage to someone who was exhausted by second-tier spells.

Down here, he may need to defend himself.

He turned on his gummiphone’s flashlight, set it in his pocket. The white light was cold. Power still ran down here, though more so in an emergency capacity. He walked down, and down, and down that ramp, dreading the walk up, because to his newly-weakened form, it was bound to be exhausting.

What was he looking to find?

There was no darkness here anymore. The basement was just a basement, and the only smell that existed was must and likely mold. He realized he was breathing hard. A thin film of memory played over his consciousness; talking with their victims, as a child, manipulating them into revealing information which would promptly be used to break them. It took little to make or break a heart.

Worse, he remembered such manipulations giving him a sort of pleasure. Not much had come easily to him as a child, and he was praised endlessly for this work, a praise which bolstered his anxiety.

Was it really Xehanort that made him this? He tried to think. There had been a time when he, as a young man, insisted on spending time with Ienzo, playing endless games of chess (which Ienzo had hated, and still did). In between this, he did recall Xehanort asking him to speak to Ansem regarding the construction of this very lab. As his son, Ienzo held an enormous influence over the king. Ask him for the world, and he’ll give it to you on a string , Xehanort had said, his voice like gravel. This is for the greater good.

He scoffed aloud. All it did was wreak a legacy of suffering all the World over. How many worlds had fallen? How many people had simply died? He didn’t even know.

Ienzo took another breath and faced the lab. The containment cells were all the same as he remembered, some of them having gouge marks in the floor from their victims’ transformations. Stuffing of mattresses everywhere, mirrors shattered.

He was not here to gawk. He was here to gather data. He forced himself to walk past all these rooms towards the offices.

The place was a wreck, papers scattered and torn everywhere. He knelt and began sweeping them together. He should’ve brought a bag; there was no way he could read it all quickly enough for it to enter the lexicon.

Behind him he heard something like a whisper. Ienzo turned and saw the Heartless, its gold eyes bulging. He groaned. Heartless were much fewer than they used to be, but that didn’t mean they were gone. Darkness, after all, still existed. Slowly, he stood. “Alright,” he muttered. “Let’s see what I can still do.”

Fira and Thundara seemed to do nothing to the Novashadow’s defenses; all it did was make the creature angry. It hissed and scrambled towards him. What a stupid room to cast a spell in; Ienzo would have to pass it to get through the only exit. So much for being a master tactician. Even an idiot wouldn’t make this mistake. He tried to launch a Stopra spell at it, but all it did was slow it down. Is my magic really this terrible, or is this thing just bizarrely strong? He had no clue. He tried to force his way past it, but its claw scratched his left arm, grabbing it. The grip felt more human than what Heartless were capable of, and Ienzo’s adrenaline-addled mind made the connection.

Not all of their victims had burrowed into the realm of darkness. This one had been watching--waiting, for this precise moment to seek revenge. He tried to pull his arm free, but all this did was slice into it further, a heavy edge of pain making everything dull. He chanced another spell, pulling hard within himself for a third-tier. The Firaga made it possible to free his body, and he ran, blood loss making him woozy; using such a powerful spell only worsened it. He had maybe one or two spells left before he risked knocking himself unconscious, and he had to use one to heal his wounds.

Ienzo was weaker than Zexion in more than one way. Zexion had never been physically strong, but he’d at the very least been in shape, able to comfortably run for long periods of time. Ienzo was an academic who was sedentary most of the time. His lungs seemed to burn as he tried to make his way up the ramp. Adrenaline could only help so much. The Heartless scrambled after him. He could see the door. A bit more. If you don’t do this you will die.

(Would that be such a bad thing?)

He made it at last, sealing the door shut behind him and hearing the Heartless beat and wail against the metal, which had been made to contain darkness (this had happened before, during those days). He dropped to his knees. It hurt to breathe, his vision swarming with dots.

Ienzo realized he was still bleeding. He’d healed his arm, but the Heartless had gotten more than his arm; it had punctured his side, and only now did he feel the pain. The wound didn’t look infected with darkness, but that didn’t matter. He pressed his hand against the wound in a vain attempt to staunch the bleeding. That had been more than careless; it was reckless. If he didn’t get help soon he’d likely bleed out.

Which would mean confessing this stupidity. He groaned. He reached for his gummiphone. The dizziness was only worsening. Without dark corridors, it would take someone at least fifteen minutes to walk to him, time he might not have.

How fragile people really are, he thought woozily. He tried to slip off his lab coat for better padding, but this meant he had to let go of the pressure on his side, and the sight of his own blood caused him to quite literally swoon. He held the cloth against the wound and lay down. He dialed Even and heard the line ringing emptily into space.

Pick up, bastard. But the line kept ringing. So much for promising to protect me. Who could Even be calling at this hour? Did he want to know?

Ienzo was losing time, and he suspected, consciousness. What a righteously stupid way to die, he thought.

---

Something wet and cold was dumped onto his side. He flinched, treading awareness. Even had finally come. But the voice Ienzo heard wasn’t his.

“Ienzo? Can you hear me?”

A jolt of adrenaline and memory forced his eyes open, and his hand snapped up to his throat.

Riku was crouching over him, an empty potion bottle in one hand. The boy’s brows were furrowed in concern.

“When did you get here?” he said dazedly.

“Not more than a few minutes ago--the time differences. I didn’t realize it would be the middle of the night. But none of that matters. What happened to you?”

Ienzo tried to sit up, but Riku forced him down.

“Let the potion finish working. Drink this.” He was handed another. “You really bled a lot.”

He did so. “I suppose I should thank you.” Humiliation broke through his haze.

“Did someone attack you? What were you doing down here, by yourself, at night?”

He scowled despite himself. It was galling to be told off by someone younger than him. “In a manner of speaking.”

He nodded. “Heartless.”

“Isn’t it always.” The potion tasted oily, slimy, but it was making things clearer. “My magic… was not sufficient. I’m quite a lot weaker than the person you faced those months ago.”

Riku was clearly not expecting him to bring that up; his eyebrows shot up.

“I know we agreed to start over… forgive me.”

“It’s okay.” Wound closed, Riku eased him into a sitting position. Ienzo noted with irritation that his own clothes were soaked in blood. “Well, you’re lucky I got here when I did.”

“...This looks like a scene from a tawdry horror novel,” he agreed, wrinkling his nose. He sighed. “Thank you. Truly.” He wished he felt grateful, but mostly Ienzo felt annoyed.

“Least I can do. You’re all working so hard to find Sora--which is more than what I can do right now.”

““Least I can…”” Ienzo repeated. “More like this is the least I can do, after all that. I wish I had good news for you. I’ve been trying almost everything--” Perhaps it was his own vertigo, perhaps it was the thought of Castle Oblivion, but Ienzo thought he felt the beginnings of an idea.

An idea which might help them find Sora. An insane, potentially lethal idea.

“Riku.” He swallowed. “Perhaps your appearance was more than a little fortuitous.”

“Well, we can talk about it in the morning. You’re still weak. You should get to bed.”

“First there’s the matter of--all this.” He gestured to the blood. “I’d have a lot of explaining to do if I merely left it.”

“...You’re pretty level-headed, all things considering.”

Ienzo shrugged. “Must be. I’m sorry this is how you found me. Not very flattering, is it?”

He chuckled. “I guess not.” Riku helped him to his feet. Ienzo nearly fainted again, and while he stayed standing, his eyes must have rolled, because Riku continued, “I should take you.”

“I’ll be fine.” His knees were shaking.

“You lost a lot of blood. Cure and a potion can’t completely fix that.”

“I’m sure you’re tired from travelling--”

“Think I can stay awake long enough to get you home.” He used a water spell to mop up the mess; they both watched the blood vanish into nothing. “Come on.”

Ienzo hated to admit it, but he was grateful for Riku’s presence; he was rather faint, a combination of exhaustion and blood loss making him feel a bit giddy.

“You’ll have to tell me where it is. I can’t remember.”

“Made all the harder by all the collapsed passes. No matter. I could find my way there in my sleep--I practically have.” He shook his head. “I’m sure Kairi will be grateful to see you, regardless of how late it is.”

“...How is she?”

Ienzo tried to think. “Physically well. Mentally exhausted. This is all taking a bit of a toll on her--not that I can blame her. I’m not sure which is worse--to lose all that time sleeping, or to be repeatedly woken to find out it’s been in vain.”

“...It’s early yet. It took Sora a year to recover his memories--it might take a little more than a month to find him.” His tone had darkened. “He’ll come back when he’s meant to. We just have to call out to him.”

“I do not… know him very well, but it pains me, to have him go through all that and then not be able to enjoy the hard-won peace.”

Riku sighed. “You’re telling me,” he said, with a shake of his head. “I used to hate my home… now I want nothing more than to go back to it with the two of them. I think I’ve had enough adventure for one lifetime.”

His droll tone made Ienzo smile. “Quite.”

“We’ve got time, relatively speaking,” Riku said. “You, me. Sora and Kairi. We’ve got the rest of our lives. What’s a little more waiting?”

“I suppose that is wise.”

They made it at last. Ienzo told Riku where he could find Kairi, where a spare room could be found for his own rest. He bathed again, to get off the vestiges of the blood and potion, and forced down a pint of juice, despite its bristling sweetness. He set aside his clothing for disposal in the morning. The only good thing about this injury was that it allowed him to sleep deeply, and without dreams, and he woke up disoriented a little before noon.

Ienzo could not remember the last time he’d slept eight consecutive hours--maybe he never had. He still felt dizzy, but a bit better. He really should spend the day resting and recuperating, but that spark of an idea was starting to burn brighter. He was not even sure it was possible , but if it was, it might solve all their problems. He had to go to the libraries and see what he could find.

He dumped his soiled clothing into the trash incinerator.

“Zo! Sleeping in, I see. Feels good, right?”

Ienzo flinched. He tried to remind himself to be pleasant. His handful of sleep helped. “Last night was a late one,” he admitted vaguely.

Demyx smiled. “You guys all work way too hard. Not good for you.”

Ienzo tried to smother the flicker of irritation. “Well, I’m afraid our leisure time must take a backseat to our work.”

He shook his head. “Hey, listen, I work hard now too. Just ask the boss.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“I really do!” Demyx said. “But, it’s like, you have to take care of yourself. Or else--” He blew a raspberry and waved his hand. “Sora… wouldn’t want you to run yourself into the ground.”

Several thoughts flitted through Ienzo’s mind, but all he could think to say was, “Why is it you care?” Even in this new phase of their lives, Ienzo hadn’t exactly been warm.

He dropped his eyes and rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, we’re roomies, right?”

““Roomies.”” He shook his head.

“And… I don’t know, do we have to be ride or die for me to care whether or not you… die?” He flinched at his own language. “I’m a person now. Empathy, blah blah.”

Ienzo realized too slowly that Demyx was likely reeling from this new life just as he was. “That’s sweet of you,” he said.

He frowned. “Hey, I’m trying to be nice.”

“I’m being perfectly genuine.” It felt odd. “I know I’ve been…” He trailed off.

“All over the place?” Demyx offered. “I think this is the longest I’ve seen you standing still since I’ve lived here. Always running around with books.”

Ienzo was surprised he’d noticed--but why? “I see your reconnaissance skills haven’t atrophied away.”

He shrugged. “You’re all pretty interesting to watch.” A pause. Then, “I was going to go grab lunch. Want to come with?”

Ienzo wasn’t completely sure why, but he said, “Sure.”

The light, when they got outside, hurt his eyes for a moment. The early summer day was warm, warmer than the drafty castle, and he found himself almost sweating. Flowers, more unkempt than they used to be, filled the plaza with color. Ienzo felt tempted to crouch and pick one, just to remind himself it was real.

“How old are you?” Demyx asked suddenly.

“...Why is it you ask?”

He shrugged. “I realized I didn’t know.”

“Nineteen. No--” He tried to think. “What day is it?”

Demyx told him.

“Twenty.”

His eyes widened. “You had a birthday and you didn’t tell me?”

“ I barely knew. Besides. It’s a nonissue.” Odd to realize it. How fitting, to begin this new decade of his life as his old self. To finally be rid of that horrid “-teen” and truly be an adult. He laughed a little.

“...What’s so funny?”

“I’ve been pretending to be a grown up for so long. Now I really am one.”

“What does it feel like?”

“...What indeed.” He shook his head. “I’ll tell you when I know. What about you?”

“Huh?”

“How old are you?” They couldn’t be far apart, Ienzo knew.

“Twenty-two. I think.”

He canted his head. “Don’t you know?”

“Well, I, uh.” He laughed awkwardly and knotted his hands. “How do I put this-- I kind of don’t remember anything.”

Ienzo stopped in his tracks.

“So what are you feeling like? Cause I found this bomb noodle place--”

“Demyx.”

He turned. His face was red.

“I figured…” Ienzo blinked. “Much like Lea uses his old name indiscriminately… but… you don’t remember your old name, do you?”

Slowly, he shook his head. “Even tried to track it down in the Organization’s old files. No dice. It’s all--” He drew a finger across his throat. “Redacted.”

Suddenly Demyx’s previous hesitation to become human made a whole lot more sense. To be a Nobody meant one was strong-willed… a strong will was typically born of pain and hardship. He must not have wanted to risk remembering. “Oh… why didn’t you say something?”

He gave Ienzo a look. “I’m pretty sure this is the longest conversation you and I have had since we’ve been here.”

He had a point. Ienzo turned back to the road. “I’m sorry.”

“What for?”

“...I’m afraid I was judging your choices rather harshly. But in context… it was quite sensible of you.”

His tone darkened, and he looked away. “That’s me,” he said softly. “Sensible Demyx. I mean…” He exhaled. “Why do you think I didn’t go home?”

“I figured your world might still be sleeping.”

“For all I know, it might be.” He bit his lip. “I’ve had worse digs, you know? New place… but familiar faces… Got to get my shit together sometime.”

“...Indeed.” He considered taking the plunge. “Are you happy here?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Loaded question.”

Deja vu, Ienzo thought.

“I…” He looked skyward. “I like my job, I like getting to talk to people, I like not having to hide. To have time for my music. Waking up not dreading every day? I guess that’s happiness. ...I guess. What about you?”

“...You’re right. That is a loaded question.”

Demyx smiled. “Thought you’d be happy, though. You and your dads all in one place.”

He flinched.

“What? Did I say something?”

“I’m afraid our… relationships are rather… complicated, at the moment.”

This wasn’t enough to satisfy him. “Like… how?”

Ienzo found himself wanting to tell him, if so to at least say the words aloud and make them real. At the same time… should he open this one small vein in himself… what else might come out?

“Too personal?” Demyx prompted.

“Of a sort, but…” It took a lot of work. “They… they betrayed me.”

“...How?”

“Ansem the Wise is my adoptive father.”

“...I know that. Guy barely shuts up about you. Thinks the sun shines out your ass.”

“Even, Dilan, Aeleus. Braig too, I suppose, but he’s not here. They… took Ansem, their friend, their king … and forced him into the realm of darkness for the sake of continuing the experiments.” His hands were trembling.

“And then they lied to you about it,” Demyx said slowly, with revelation. “... “They told me you’d gone mad.””

“You have a… rather good memory for dialogue.”

He shrugged. “I’m sorry.”

“You’ve done nothing wrong.”

“I’m still sorry. And now you gotta live with the guys, work with them. Yikes. Big yikes.”

“Perhaps once this Sora business is settled, I will hash things out with them.”

“Tear ‘em new ones. I’ll help.”

This was meant to make him laugh, and it did, chasing away the lump in his throat.

“...You have a nice laugh. I don’t think I’ve ever heard it.”

Ienzo felt the blood rush to his face. “You needn’t flatter me.”

“I meant it.” He winked. “Now, really, what do you want to eat? I’m starving.”

---

Ienzo was still dizzy. The sensible thing to do would be to go to Even, admit his blunder and that he’d needed to be rescued, and have himself examined. Instead, he tried to sit often and ply himself with fluids. Irritating, to constantly have to duck out to relieve himself, but better than the alternative.

He found Riku later that day. Riku, of all people, would understand where he was coming from, was the least likely to say he was losing his mind. He messaged him and found him sitting in one of the castle gardens, with Kairi.

Much like the rest of the castle, the gardens too were in disrepair, overgrown or dying, but for the first time Ienzo noticed differences. Things had been pruned, bags of weeds sat waiting for disposal. Was it Kairi who was doing this, in her spare time? He didn’t know who else would care.

“There you are,” Kairi said. “Come sit outside. It’s nice.” Odd to see them out of their adventuring clothes, in clothes normal teenagers might wear; Ienzo realized he, too, probably looked strange without the frame of his black or white jackets.

In another life we might have really been friends, he thought. “It is, isn’t it?” he said, neutrally. He joined them at the small wrought iron table. They were drinking iced tea; Kairi offered him some.

“Happy birthday, by the way,” Kairi said.

Ienzo huffed. “I suppose Demyx told you.”

Riku laughed a little. “He… certainly is a character. Thought so ever since I spoke to him in the Keyblade Graveyard.”

He shook his head. “An unanticipated addition to our plan, but ended up being a necessary one. Who would’ve thought.”

“He’s been pretty nice to me,” Kairi said, swishing the liquid around in her glass. “I think he’s lonely.”

“I’m afraid I haven’t been an inviting host.” Ienzo sighed.

“A lot on your mind,” Riku said.

“Putting it lightly. Though… I believe I may have stumbled upon something that may be of use.”

The shift in their energies was instant and complete; Kairi’s expression became sharper.

“You recall… in the Organization days, we all had an elemental attribute. Riku, I’m afraid you know this all too well.” He realized his hands were shaking, and he rested them in his lap, out of sight. “I could create complex, sensorily intense illusions. I created these illusions from the memories of my adversaries… as well as my own.”

They were both silent, their attention rapt. It was hard to look at them.

“I was curious to see if… I could somehow regain and use this power to help trace Sora’s heart. Naminé’s power functioned similarly. It’s nothing I’ve ever done… but it’s something I’d be willing to try. With my knowledge of the heart, I feel like… it’s at the very least worth a shot.”

“But you don’t have that power any more, do you?” Riku asked. “I don’t want you to give up your humanity again just for Sora.”

“I’m sure he’d say the same,” Kairi added.

“Oh, I don’t intend to.” Though would that be the worst thing? To let go of this pain but still be of use, still be able to atone?  “I was hoping to see if I could… find it independently. Train it, so to speak. I’m not sure it’s possible… but I would very much like to try.”

“If you think it’s a good idea, then I trust you,” Kairi said. Her wide blue eyes telegraphed hope.

How had he earned that trust? Ienzo tried to keep his expression neutral, all-knowing. “That’s all well and good--seeing as I’d likely have to see your memories. Riku can attest to this--it’s not a pleasant sensation.” He touched his chest. “You two are so closely linked. If I can trace the chains of your memory, maybe I can find his--which would give us some insight as to what’s going on with him.”

“I have nothing to hide,” she said fervently. “I’m in.”

Riku seemed a bit skeptical. “Is it possible?”

“To be honest--I’m not sure. I truly hope so.”

“Well, don’t do anything crazy. Sora did--which is how we ended up here.”

“It’s thanks to him I’m alive,” Kairi said to him. “I’ll do anything to get him back.”

Riku nodded once. “I will too. Ienzo. What do you need from us?”

“I only need you not to mention it to Even or Ansem, at least at the moment. Our relationships are… complicated. The last thing I need is for them to get tied back up in investigating darkness or nothing again. I will do this on my own.”

“Famous last words,” Riku said, with a shake of his head. “Alright. But be careful.”

“I warn you, this may take some time. It might not even be physiologically possible for me. And should I find that power, it will likely take a good deal of time for me to get it strong enough to function as I need it to. Meanwhile… let’s keep going as we were.”

Kairi nodded. “I can do that.”

“You could try asking Merlin or Master Yen Sid about it,” Riku suggested. “They know a lot about magic.”

Different kinds of magic than Ienzo would use. “A good idea. I’ll keep it in mind.”

He turned his new idea over and over again in his mind, as they put Kairi back into her sleep, as they tried to delve into matters of her heart…

“Even?”

“What?” Even’s voice was flat, the same way it always was when he was focusing hard on something.

“Our Nobody abilities. Are they completely, irrevocably gone?”

This got his attention. He locked eyes with Ienzo, smoothing hair out of his face. “I should hope so,” he said. “Why is it you ask?”

“Mere curiosity, I suppose.”

He shot Ienzo a look. “Naturally the use of dark corridors is the first thing to go. We know that retaining weapons is something of a crapshoot as well, being extensions of a person’s will. Magic, too, takes a sharp nosedive, but can be strengthened again. As for our “elemental” attributes…” He sighed. “They are the most concentrated essence of the self, a power mainlined directly from the will. A power so strong it can only exist in the absence of a heart--otherwise, everyone would have it, wouldn’t they?” A shrug. “The power favors entropy, which a Nobody’s body accepts with ease--but should a human try to use that power, they risk melting their own cells and organs, spending their lifeforce itself to keep it going.”

“But that’s merely theory,” Ienzo said.

“All we do is theorize--and often we’re right.” He put a hand on his hip. “This isn’t something that can be humanely tested.”

“That’s never stopped us before,” Ienzo muttered.

“Well I certainly hope now to cause no harm,” Even spat. “Boy, I know you must feel different, missing pieces of yourself. But there’s no need for you to seek such things. What would it accomplish?” He turned and softened a little; the strangeness of compassion on his face brought back a punch of memory from the past. Even, comforting him during one of his many anxiety attacks. Even, talking him through the nightmares. “You don’t truly need such power. Fewer Heartless than ever before, and the town’s defense system will care for the rest. You are safe.”

Ienzo considered the irony of that statement, the still-aching remains of the wound on his side. “Don’t you feel quite a lot weaker?”

Even looked away from him, towards the empty warehouse space beyond the computer. “I feel no need to lose my heart a third time,” he said. “I’ve wasted enough time dallying about, committing crimes against humanity. To atone, I need to be human--that much is clear.” A sigh. “Negative emotion is not weakness, Ienzo. It is natural. Useful.”

“Natural.” He shook his head. “It does not feel that way.”

Even locked eyes with him. For a moment, it seemed almost like the other man would touch him. “Does humanity feel… very alien, to you?”

Anxiety washed over him, coolly. He tried to think of something clever to say.

“...Well, I’m afraid that was a fruitless endeavor.” Ansem’s footsteps seemed deafening. “Merlin couldn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know. His words--we’re the experts.”

“How frustrating,” Ienzo said.

“Research is frustration,” Ansem said simply. “Until you find that spark.”

Even had turned back to the computer, flicking through a few different documents. The blankness of his expression seemed rather composed. The tension in the room had increased palpably, as it always did when they were together. Ienzo suddenly felt very envious of Kairi, in her quiet dreamland. He walked over to her, pretended to fiddle with her IV, the blanket draped over her. It was reassuring to have an ally, even an unconscious one.

I will do everything I can, he thought towards her. Even if it kills me.

What was his life, to save a brighter light?

[alleiradayne]

THERE’S SOMETHING STRANGE A READER/SAM WINCHESTER SERIES

When Y/N Y/L/N escapes to the upper Midwest for a weekend of inspiration to begin her tenth paranormal thriller novel, she never imagined the source of that inspiration to be her own life. Between the old mansion, two peculiar men posing as antiquers, and the mysterious death of the heiress of Hill Manor one-hundred and fifty years ago, Y/N learns the truth about far more than the paranormal.

Part IV - The Betrayal

Summary: The hunt begins! Warnings/Tags: Hunting, fluff, angst, near death experience, a poltergeist, I think it’s scary... Square filled: Author AU Characters/Pairings: Reader/Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester Word Count: 4,895 A/N: For @spnfluffbingo2019, this entire series fills the Author AU square. Super giant huge thank you to @atc74 who beta’d this giant thing for me. I also had to delete and reblog this post because I made some changes that were posted to AO3 and not here.

The door creaked on its worn hinges as Dean crossed the threshold into her room. Over his shoulder he brandished an iron fireplace poker like a baseball bat. “Alright, what have you touched in here so far?”

From behind Sam, Y/N shoved her way into her room and strode past Dean. His feeble protest sounded more like a bruised ego than an actual complaint, and so she ignored it. “Everything,” she declared as she gestured to encompass her room. “I've touched everything in this room. If you can see it, I've touched it. It's kind of hard not to.”

Sam swallowed hard as he prepared to speak. “I warned you. Last night. Why didn't you listen?”

“Yeah, like that basketball player and her reporter friend,” Dean said. “They were smart and got the hell out when I told them to.”

Wait. Sam had been right? “You… weren't trying to fold the basketball player?”

Dean turned to Sam with a flat look. “Fold? Did you tell her to say that?”

“Would you have preferred I use ‘fuck’ instead? Bang? Nail? Drill? Take your pick,” Y/N snipped. “I've got more.”

Dean stared at her for a moment before turning back to Sam. “I hate you and I'm jealous of you, but I'm damn proud of you, Sammy. That's the kinda girl you should marry.”

“Shut up,” Sam hissed. “We need to find this… thing immediately. It might not even be here. Whatever it is,” he added as he looked the room once over.

Y/N looked as well but didn't have a single clue for what it was for which she searched. “Sam, who was that woman in that book? And why do you think her spirit is still attached to this place?”

Sam withdrew the book from under his arm and opened the it to read aloud. “Y/N Hillstead…” he paused as he looked at Dean who in turn looked at her, “of Hill Manor, writing her twentieth novel at her scrivener’s desk in her room.”

Y/N nodded as she frowned. “Okay, I'm just gonna ignore the fact that we have the same first name and we're both authors. Why do you think her spirit is here?”

Sam flipped a few pages ahead as Dean prodded at various pieces of furniture with the iron poker. “Y/N died within days of publishing the novel she was writing in her portrait. Her cause of death was unknown, her body unmarred and in top physical health for the time.”

“So, she had an aneurysm and a 19th century doctor couldn’t figure that out,” Y/N said as she picked at the enameled corner the writing desk. At the edge of her vision she saw Dean squint as his hackles bared his teeth. “There has to be more to this story if you’re both convinced her spirit is here.”

Sam snapped the book shut and his flat stare bore into hers. “What this book omits, either intentionally or otherwise, is the fact that Ms. Hillstead's body was found in the mansion's cemetery lying on her back right where her future grave would be.”

Okay. That was definitely suspicious. “I still feel like there's more missing,” she stated.

“Would you just tell her the whole story?” Dean growled as he slumped into a chair, only to leap out of it after a beat.

Sam rolled his eyes as he scoffed and shook his head at Dean. When Sam turned back to her, he explained. “Ms. Hillstead's body had been found posed. At least that's what other sources say. Given the items found on her person, we suspect she had lain that way on her own.”

He neared the writing desk as his words slowed. A glance between the book and the desk served him one final check before he said, “she had all the ritual components for creating a phylactery.”

Y/N slumped onto her bed. Christ. Real magic. Subconsciously, her fingers tapped her chin as she spoke. “You’re trying to find the phylactery. Before anyone else does.”

Dean grunted his agreement. “Ms. Hillstead was a witch in every sense of the word. A powerful one, too.”

A witch? A real, honest-to-God witch? Y/N wondered what other fairytales might be true. A shake of her head cleared her thoughts, and instead she asked, “How do you know she was a witch?”

“We uh… have contacts,” Sam stuttered.

“You know a witch?!”

Dean waved her off. “She’s been a pain in our ass for the better part of a decade now. Don’t make it sound cool.”

“I would love to meet her,” Y/N started, “I bet she has amazing stories.”

“Can we focus?” Sam asked as he continued to stare at the writing table. “Whatever this phylactery is, we need to find it immediately.”

Y/N stood as Dean inched his way to the door. “Wait a minute,” she demanded. Dean froze at the door, his hand an inch shy of the handle. “Is Y/N Hillstead actually dead?”

Sam and Dean traded a look. “We’re not sure,” Sam started. “Either way, we find her phylactery and get it to the right people, they can handle it. Ideally, they could eliminate that part of her soul and find out where the rest of her is.”

“Rest… of her?” Y/N asked.

Dean bristled at that. “We dug up her grave last night hoping to burn her corpse,” he said.

“With salt, right? To force her spirit to move on.” Y/N added.

He visibility relaxed at that, a small smile quirking his lips. He regarded Sam as he agreed. “Yeah. But her coffin was empty. So, she either isn’t dead, or, if she is, something else was done with her body. We think she’s not dead. She’s a lich and split her soul in two, and put one half in a phylactery. She could be a baelnorn, but that’s highly un—”

Sam backhanded his shoulder and Dean stopped short with a clipped tongue as Y/N paced the width of her room, deep in thought. A thousand questions running through her mind, rabbit hole after rabbit hole spawning more and more questions. But given their convictions, it all boiled down to one issue. “How do you destroy a phylactery?”

Dean rolled his eyes as his chin dropped to his chest. Sam, all too proud, withdrew a decorative vial from his jean pocket. Golden amber liquid glimmered in the yellow lamplight as he spun it between his fingers. She neared him as her eyes narrowed to examine the tiny bottle of crystal-clear glass. Stoppered by a cork in golden metal neck, the liquid swirled in undulating circles far too much for Sam’s steady hand. Inches away, a sudden flash of a violent shade of green startled Y/N so, she jumped back a step. “What the fuck is that?”

“Venom,” Sam said as he returned it to his pocket. “From a basilisk.”

Basilisks, too? As Y/N’s mind raced, it dawned on her. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” she scoffed.

“We’re not,” Dean groaned. “It’s so damn ridiculous. But it works.”

She pinched the bridge of her nose. “Alright, fine. But we still have no clue where this phylactery is, or what it is. It might not even be in this house.”

Sam glanced at her writing desk once more. “We have reason to believe it is.”

“Sam and I were up most of the night doing research after we found her coffin empty,” Dean started as he caught Sam’s look. He hefted the iron poker in his fist as he neared the desk. “The things on Y/N Hillstead’s body included several possible phylacteries. At least, there was a list of items found on her body not necessary for the ritual. We’re assuming she planned to use one of them.”

A slow step in complete synchronization neared the brothers to the desk. “One of those items was a small journal,” Sam started.

“A diamond bracelet her husband had given her,” Dean added as they continued to close in on the writing desk.

“A scroll of parchment with the end of her last novel written on it,” Sam added, eyes still glued to the writing desk.

With each of their steps, Y/N backed further into her room until the dresser met the small of her back. Dean reached the desk first and hooked into the drawer with the poker. Its contents revealed, Dean regarded Sam out of the corner of his eye, then reached in with his bare hands.

“Wait!”

Too late, Y/N's exclamation echoed through her room unheard. Dean withdrew her leather notebook, its modern binding far too obvious among the other items in the drawn.

He discarded it on the bed before returning to the drawer. “The last item was a pen.”

“Like the one in her portrait?”

Sam withdrew a thin purple cloth from his back pocket and unfurled it with a snap of his wrist. A thick swallow stuck in her throat, and the room spun as adrenaline coursed through her veins. With rapt attention, Y/N stared as he reached into the desk, shuffled old paper aside, then froze.

Dean backed away a startled step before recovering with the iron poker bared. “Be careful.”

Y/N resisted the urge to laugh, Sam's flat glare and Dean's healthy fear of the unknown humorous in their own ways. “It's just a pen.”

“We don't know that yet,” Dean argued.

“He has a point,” Sam agreed as he searched the room, then found her empty notebook on her bed. “May I?” When Y/N nodded, he snatched it up and flipped it open to the first page and his brow furrowed. “I thought you said you started writing last night?”

“I… didn’t,” she stuttered. “There was just… too much going on. The mansion, the people. They were all…”

“Distracting?”

Sam’s bright stare locked with hers, and for a moment, the world around them ceased to exist. Dean faded to the blurry edges of her subconscious, as did the pen that Sam held. Empathy poured from him in waves, crashing over her and pulling her under. Damn his perception. Damn his emotional intelligence, too. And damn his enthralling gaze.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, will you two get a room?”

Reality returned in a rush when Dean ripped the pen and cloth from Sam’s hand and scribbled on the page of her open notebook. Y/N gasped despite not knowing what should or even could happen. And Sam nearly screamed as he bobbled the notebook into Dean's arms, where he fumbled it to the floor.

Still as stone, they froze as though that might protect them. Several seconds ticked by on the large mantle clock before Y/N opened her eyes that she had shut in a fit of terror only to find the notebook laying on the floor, unmarked by the pen.

“Piece of junk,” Dean spat as he shoved the cap on it. He tossed it back into the drawer as he handed Sam his cloth, then leaned down for the notebook and handed it back to Y/N. “Thanks. We’ll keep looking.”

“I could help,” she offered as she set her notebook on the desk.

Sam handed her the thin square of purple fabric as he said, “Use that. It’s… it has a Hoodoo barrier on it. Kinda like a… “

Dean flourished his from his pocket and grinned. “A magic condom.”

She almost felt bad for Sam. Almost. As she took the fabric from him, she looked to Dean and said, “Magic condom, hm? Does it make you look bigger when you wear it, Dean?”

The ridiculous grin on Dean's face disappeared without a trace. He looked to the door, then turned and strode out to the hallway, Sam’s cackling laughter following him as he, too, turned for the door.

“Sam.”

He stopped in the doorway, a smile so bright on his face despite the looming danger. “Y/N?”

“What should I do?”

Damn the quake in her voice. She only needed a straight answer from Sam. Not consoling or, worse, pity.

“I'll catch up to you,” he said into the hallway.

“Sure,” she heard Dean say. His heavy boots thumped down the hallway as he said, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, Y/N!”

She laughed despite Sam’s embarrassed blush. When Sam closed her door and turned back to her, she said, “He means well.”

“Yeah, he’s meant well for the better part of twenty-five years,” he said.

She sat on her bed and Sam followed, sitting so close the heat of his presence consumed her in every way possible. “Is that how long you two have been at… whatever this is?” she asked as she gestured to her room.

“Hunting.”

Of course. “Hunting,” she repeated.

“And yes. Dean's been hunting longer. My dad taught us,” he paused as his eyes glazed over, staring off into the middle distance as though reliving too many memories at once.

“Sam?” Her hand found his without thought. “Earth to Sam?”

He blinked at last, and his fingers tightened around hers when he looked to her. “Sorry. It's… a long story. One I don't think I have time to tell. Maybe I could write a book about it all someday. Although, I don't think there's enough ink in the entire world to print that monstrosity.”

The fine hairs on the back of her neck stood on end as gooseflesh broke out along her arms. “What did you just say?”

Sam regarded his feet a moment before responding. “I should write a book about hunting. For hunters. You know, nothing I could really publish given that—”

“No, after that,” she urged as she stood.

Sam followed, his hand still held in hers. “That there isn't enough ink in the whole world to print that book.”

“Ink,” she muttered as she turned back to the writing desk. The drawer sat open a half inch and bright moonlight from the window glinted off something inside it.

“Yeah, ink,” Sam repeated. “What about it?”

“I… I'm not sure,” she sighed. Something about the pen and the mention of ink had snagged a recent memory. But far too often the last several weeks, her more intriguing thoughts fled at the first sign of scrutiny. “I thought I had an idea but, it's gone. Feels a lot like my writing these days.”

The warmth of his hands enveloped her shoulders as Sam squared her to face him. “You'll get out of this funk,” he said, “you've got a lot going on right now, especially with this bombshell of a truth dropping into your lap.”

“I know,” she groaned, “I'm just… impatient. And still so distracted.”

The second those words left her mouth she wished she could take them back. Sam parted from her with a sudden nervous shake as he said, “I'm sorry, I should go. Let you get back to work.”

Had dinner never happened? What of their walk? And the library earlier that afternoon? “I still want to help. Do you have to go?”

He checked the door over his shoulder. “I should. We really need to find this phylactery.”

The sinking sensation in her chest chilled her to her toes. “I… I understand. I'll keep looking here,” she said.

At the door, Sam paused and held up another purple cloth. “Don’t forget to use the one I gave you. And Y/N?”

“Yeah, Sam?”

“After we finish this, we’ll talk, okay?” he said with a small smile. “I promise. You deserve my complete attention and I want to give that to you when people's lives aren't at stake.”

A promise. Better than nothing. “Thanks, Sam.”

He disappeared through the door, its sharp clasp clicking against the wood as it shut behind him. For a long moment, Y/N stood in the center of her room, unsure of what to do for the first time in so many years. Though shocked, she found a sense of comfort in learning the truth, that her novels were not far from fact. Not in the least. If anything, her work demanded a review by the Winchesters. She wondered what her editor would think if she republished any of her books with corrections based on Sam and Dean’s feedback.

Shit. Too many distractions. She had intended to give Sam her phone number in case she found anything. If she moved fast enough, she might yet catch him in the hallway. From the writing desk, she retrieved her notebook. The cover flipped aside with a flick of her wrist, but when she went for her pen in the binding, it wasn’t there. The drawer of the desk came up empty but for the old fountain pen Dean and Sam had found and discarded.

The black glazed finish—wood or stone, she was unsure—glimmered in the lamplight. Thin, faint veins of gold and green shined as she twirled it between her fingers.

“Ink.”

If Y/N Hillstead had written twenty novels with that pen, maybe Y/N could tap into that well of inspiration.

All she needed was some ink.

Her room proved fruitless as she turned it over, using the Hoodoo cloth in most cases to touch anything remotely suspicious. Not a single inkwell surfaced in any of the drawers, dressers, or cabinets that lined her over-furnished quarters. The distinct lack of an inkwell in that room, the room in which Y/N Hillstead had supposedly written her novels, struck her odd. But that faint memory, newly formed earlier that afternoon, bubbled to the surface once more and she surrendered to it completely.

Corded muscle pressed against her entire body, enveloped in his suffocating embrace. How soft his lips on hers, softer than sin as they so gently teased them apart with his tongue and the faint taste of icy spearmint gum filled her mouth again. Gun oil and leather overwhelmed her nose as she breathed in to ease the relentless onslaught of arousal pooling between her thighs. Her bedroom spun as the memory unfolded and she relived it, his hands slipping to the small of her back, smoothing over the curve of her ass, and grasping, nearly lifting her from her feet.

Had Dean not interrupted them, she knew without a doubt Sam would have taken her on that very table in the library. And she would have so willingly wrapped her legs around his hips and let him fuck her cross-eyed.

But in that last moment before the memory faded at Dean’s barking interjection, an image flashed in her mind’s eye and Y/N saw it.

Behind Sam, an inkwell sat on a shelf all by itself. And beside it on the same base stood an identical pen to the one she held, standing tall in its holder.

Her eyes snapped open as she slapped her hand on the writing desk to catch her listing body. When the room stopped spinning and her breathing steadied, Y/N set her notebook and the pen on her bed as her plans took shape. She needed a change of clothes. As Sam had mentioned earlier that afternoon, running in heels begged for a broken ankle.

While she knew Sam would be well on his way by the time she changed into her jeans, t-shirt, jacket, and Chucks, she still wanted to give the pen a shot. Her superstitions about inspiration, muses, and motivation demanded she at least try it. So, she gathered up her things, stuffed them into her messenger bag, and headed for the library.

On her way, she expected to run into other guests, if only one. But no one interrupted her quick stride, not a single soul in sight from the hallway, down the stairs, and into the halls of study in the North wing of the house. Given the hour, she expected to see folks returning from dinner but when she had passed the dining room at the bottom of the stairs, darkness oozed from the doorway.

She darted in and headed for the kitchen door on a whim. If she had learned anything from all her years of research, she needed some sort of defense. In the kitchen, the overhead lights flickered to life when she flipped the switch. Y/N scanned the countertops, then, finding them bare, started in on the cupboards. The pantry proved fruitful; a large canister of salt sat on a bottom shelf and she tossed it into her bag.

On her way out, her eye caught a gleaming object hanging on the wall near the door. A small chef’s hand-torch sat in a mount and she snatched it up to toss it into her bag as she strode from the kitchen. Through the dining room, she returned to the dark hallway and headed for the library.

Around a nearby corner, she happened upon the library entrance quicker than she had expected. Yellow lamplight flooded the room and spilled into the hallway where Y/N had skidded to a stop. Empty but for the myriad rows of shelves, the library beckoned to her, inviting her to curl up in a secluded corner with a good book and a hot cup of tea on that chilly fall night.

One foot crossed the threshold, then the other as a creeping sense of dread crawled up her spine. She paused six feet inside the library doors for a breath and scanned the room as best she could. Too many obstacles obscured the furthest corners of the room, including the table at which she had found Sam earlier that afternoon. And yet, she hesitated. What might be around those dimly lit corners, the edges of shadows through which she could hardly see?

“Oh, get it together, Y/N,” she chastised as she pressed on, willing herself to traverse the bookcases once more.

Around the last row of shelves, she found the table and approached it only to stall in the last foot. She had stood there mere hours ago, lips locked with Sam’s as he all but overpowered her with his hulking frame and palpable desire. She wanted nothing more than to relive that moment again and again until her imagination finished the job and she would, at the very least, have the perfect inspiration for a scene in her novel.

But before she moved any further, her curiosity about the pen burned a hole in thoughts. She inspected the shelving surrounding her spot until at last she found the entire case of writing supplies. Near the top the inkwell sat on its base, the twin pen beside it and surrounded by copious amounts of old parchment and quills.

“Perfect.”

As she approached the shelf, Y/N noted the base upon which the inkwell sat had a second, empty holder beside the twin pen. Made of the same material—she still couldn’t tell if it was wood or stone—she determined the set must belong together.

Eager to reunite them, Y/N grabbed the base at both ends and slid it towards her. A sharp shift jolted the base as it popped free of its decades long resting place surrounded by a thick layer of dust.

Delicate hands carried the inkwell and base to the table where she set them down near a chair and sat. The moment of truth loomed, settled in her stomach like a lead weight as she dragged her notebook from her bag. On its heels, she withdrew the pen and removed the cap, its sharp clip loud as a crack of thunder in the silent library.

Her nerves had gotten the best of her, shaking hands struggling to fill the pen. Damn fragile piece of junk. The sad part, she knew, was that it probably wasn't worth it. The pen had most likely ceased to function properly decades ago.

The nib hovered over her notebook as she imagined how to begin her novel. As a solid drop of thick black ink gathered, Y/N had a second thought to take out her Hoodoo cloth and wrap it around the pen.

Just in case.

Metal met paper and dragged a thick, broad stroke as Y/N wrote in her neatest script.

The Betrayal at The House on The Hill

The last thing Natalie wanted, let alone needed, after the untimely death of her parents was to inherit a piece of property. Least of all the cursed house on the top of the hill at the edge of town. But there she stood in the massive ballroom, surrounded by too many faces with too few names.

Each sentence flowed from Y/N without thought, without any effort at all. She continued, each idea forming and solidifying in a matter of seconds. The words found their way to the page with such perfection, Y/N tore the pen away intentionally to allow herself a moment to breathe.

As she inhaled, the chill she had felt upon entering the library returned. The fine hairs on the back of her neck stood on end, and gooseflesh pebbled the skin of her arms as a numbing sense of dread chilled her toes and fingers. Her heart thumped faster and faster, hammering against her chest, until the rush of blood past her ears drowned out all her thoughts.

Lamps in the hallways flickered once, twice, then snuffed out. Darkness threatened the library as lamps along the walls followed, their brief flickers inevitably stilled. Y/N rose to her feet and reached into her bag, her fingers wrapping around a large container of salt as the last lights sputtered and died.

An unearthly cold gripped her like a vice and threatened to squeeze the life from her lungs. Ephemeral swirls of dust and dirt churned in a gathering mass not a foot before her, taking shape in the form of a hand around her throat. Y/N dropped the pen with a gasp, her scream silent as the grave, and though she clawed at the hands on her neck, she could not grasp them.

The dim light of the moon faded beneath heavy lids, her consciousness fleeing under the unholy strength of the malevolence rapidly forming before her. Before she succumbed to that darkness, the ghastly visage of a young woman—unmistakably Y/N Hillstead—stared back at her, sunken eyes wide and boring holes into her very soul.

Y/N gasped one last breath in desperation as she flung the can of salt at the spirit. Just like in her books, it scattered in a spray of dirt and dust, and Y/N collapsed to her knees as she gasped, choking for breath.

Her reprieve lasted a second before the spirit returned, but Y/N leaped faster and grabbed the pen as she rolled for the canister of salt. A handful flung in its face bought her the one second she needed to lunge for her bag and make the last move she had.

The chef’s torch ignited in one hand and she held the pen a scant inch shy of the flame. The spirit froze, expressionless but for her wide eyes glued to the pen.

“If you move one more inch, so help me God, I'll burn it,” Y/N growled. “You need leave. This is not the place for you.”

The spirit of Y/N Hillstead opened her mouth to speak but only a thin rasp emanated from her. Rage filled her eyes as her lips thinned to nothing, pressed closed as her jaw clenched.

And then everything happened all at once. A banshee wail of a scream rent the air as the spirit threw her head back and her jaw unhinged. Y/N clamped her hands over her ears as she collapsed to her knees and the pen fell to the floor, the most excruciating pain wracking her entire body. Regret plagued her final thoughts as consciousness faded once more, darkness creeping in at the edges of her vision.

But out of that deep, dark nothing, a familiar face brightened, illuminated by a flare of eerie green light. She searched the room for the source of the light and found it on the floor, shining blindingly bright out of the body of the pen. The impulse to grasp it, to encapsulate that power, assaulted Y/N with such relentless force, no amount of her willpower could have resisted. She lunged and clamped a hand over the pen, trapping it on the floor. As though she had covered its mouth, the spirit silenced in a wisp of dust, disappearing into thin air.

Warm, golden lamplight flickered to life and flooded the library in the absence of the spirit. That familiar face returned as Sam Winchester rushed to her side. His massive arms enveloped her with such ease, Y/N blushed despite the pain. She slumped into his embrace and allowed him to scoop her up into his arms, her hands shaking as they gripped at his coat.

He carried her from the library as she finally succumbed to the darkness, heavy lids drifting closed. But before she slipped into that unconsciousness, that infinitesimal space between asleep and awake, Y/N heard a gruff voice ask, “What the fuck just happened in there?”

Sam shifted her in his arms as he strode on, Dean catching up behind him. “I don’t know, man.”

“That wasn’t a lich, Sam! Or a spirit!” Dean hissed. “That was a full-on fucking poltergeist! Why is Y/N Hillstead a poltergeist?!”

A real, honest-to-god poltergeist. That final thought followed her down into the deep, dark nothing as she succumbed to unconsciousness at last.

Son of a bitch.

If you want to be tagged for this series specifically, send me an ask or a DM! If you want in on any of my tags (Sam/Jared, Dean/Jensen), you can ask for that, too!

THERE’S SOMETHING STRANGE MASTER LIST

ALLEIRADAYNE’S SPN FLUFF BINGO MASTERLIST

ALLEIRADAYNE’S SPN MASTER LIST

The Whole Thang:

@atc74  @hannahindie @bevans87  @meganwinchester1999  @plaided-ani-on-hiatus  @oneshoeshort @jonogueira @andkatiethings @elfinmox @wonderfulworldofwinchester @princessofthefandomrealm  @just-another-busyfangirl @jmekitchens @81mysteriouslyme @dolphincliffs  @seenashwrite  @canadianspnhunter  @meowmeow-motherfucker @depressed-moose-78 @staycejo1 @hobby27  @pretty-fortune @mypopculturediva @fanfictionjunkie1112 @sandlee44 @4llmywr1tings @claitynroberts @maddiepants @scarletluvscas @donnaintx @blackeyedangel9805 @rainflowermoon @winchesterprincessbride  @lazinessisalliknow @the-is13 @waywardafgrandma @keymology @sister-winchesters99

Sam’s Sasstresses:

@morganas-pendragons @karouwinchester

There’s Something Strange:

@peridottea91 @amanda-teaches

[whirlybirdwhat]

Sea of Monsters - Chapter 13

Happy Halloween! I made it with an hour to spare!

Usopp has some unique ancestry and he may not be brave or bold or daring - but he won’t let that stop him from following in his mother’s footsteps.

(Because like his father he can see, and like his mother he can protect.)

-

Read the entire series on Ao3 for better quality and authors notes! Gen, creepy, featuring all of the Straw Hats, multi-chapter story.

“The East Blue has a different nickname to those in the Grand Line, and those who hail it as home have a few… unique traits.”

---

Sight - Usopp (and Zoro)

His mother was a Tengu and his father a Feathered Seer, so Usopp sees a lot of things, more than most actually. His mother told him his father could as well (that was his nature) but Usopp doubts the man could have ever seen the world this brightly, seen this golden path fading in and out of existence every moment.

(If he had been able to see it, why did he leave? Couldn’t he see the life draining drop by drop along fevered cheeks from his wife? Couldn’t he see the way her feathers, black, glossy, and beautiful, wilted more with every day that went past?

Or had he been able to see it and instead of his family chose to chase the beautiful sight of the horizon, which danced with every step and promised a thousand worlds to explore?)

(Usopp sees the horizon and fears (knows) he will one day leave to conquer those thousand unending sunny days)

Usopp sees a lot, you see. The world to him is like a painting painted over a thousand other paintings – but he’s able to see each one as he scratches at the layers like one would at peeling wood with his sight. He sees the past and future and present, sees the paths of each person if he chooses to, and knows how the world will end and begin.

(But yet – there is still so much he doesn’t see, shrouded in shadow and dark thoughts. He sees more than others but not all – the limits to his powers are as blurred as they come.)

(Paths are always missing around Luffy – there are only ever two, twisting around each other in a dizzying dance and Usopp is content to follow the one his captain chooses (or doesn’t, in most cases.))

Usopp loves it – loves when his eyes grow hazy and he sees distant warriors of lands of other existences, fighting giants and snakes and gold fish the size of his island, loves when he sees a king with an aim straight and true, from an island far away, loves when he can tell Kaya, his friends, his crew all of these things.

(He loves it when he sees images of his mother, the stories of her life that she will never tell him – Yasopp did not fall in love with the woman lying weak (dead) in bed (though he does still love her); he fell in love with a warrior, a trickster, a woman with a thousand silver tongues and a rage against the world that traps her.

She was once the guardian of this isle – the reason she never followed her husband to sea.)

The point is – he sees a lot, and it’s probably from his father, the one thing left behind by the man. It aids him in his talents – he sees the other realms, other planes, and tells stories from them, he sees how they shift and adjusts his shots accordingly, he sees the future so he lies to save it – and he is glad for it.

However, Just because he can see through all the planes of existence, doesn’t mean he can walk through them to find a directionless swordsman who can walk through all of them by his own ability to get lost so badly that he jumps through realms.

He hates Zoro Duty.

“ZORO!” Usopp calls, irritated beyond belief, “WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU!”

Of course – there is no answer.

He expected nothing less, even if his voice echoes through a thousand different planes.  His crewmate is as stubborn as they come (with their Captain being the only one who could possibly beat him) and he tends to not listen to directions or respond when they are given.

(Hence, the need for someone to be on Zoro Duty, making sure the swordsman doesn’t get too lost. )

Usopp is beginning to wonder if Zoro even knows how directions work – because to the swordsman, north is up, as in up to the sky, and sometimes to the next plane.

(Usopp’s never actually been in these other existences – but occasionally he’ll ask Zoro what it’s like.

It’s one of the few times where Zoro actually attempts to describe something well. Of course, it’s not much - The air felt weird or It felt like I was falling or even The chocolate smell was everywhere what the hell - but it’s enough that he tries.

(But he does have to wonder if Zoro actually recognizes that he’s in a different realm.  He doesn’t seem to think he gets lost at any rate))

He remembers the first time Zoro got lost in front of Usopp.

(A moment there, the next gone, terrifying in a single instant)

Zoro had reappeared after taking a single step, five paces away, turning to Usopp saying

Where were you? and It’s been five hours.

It’s completely bizarre, how time seems to flow around him. He’s like Luffy in a way. So stubborn and headstrong not even silly things like fate and destiny and the laws of physics and time can tie him down.

Which is why, again Usopp hates Zoro Duty.

(Because there’s always a chance he’s going to find Zoro bleeding out after a long search, or find a horrific monster attacking him with Zoro just smirking, or Zoro aged a hundred years, or Zoro starting anotherinternational conflict or even worse – Zoro actually drunk.)

There’s a snap to his left, and a low curse, said in familiar tones (with an even odder tone of three voice speaking at once, only audible to Usopp and few others (those who know a demon’s true presence)) which means finally!

Zoro!

“Zoro!” Usopp repeats aloud, rushing through the greenery.

Finally! He thinks elatedly, before his foot steps on something wet and burning.

(Blood? Boiling blood?)

He steps back, ready to give a comical wail (he’s suffered far worse) when he notices exactly what is in front of.

Oh sswweeet chhhild?

The voice is soft and slithering, as one would expect from the mass of darkness standing in front of their bleeding swordsman.  It shifts and swirls with an unnatural ease, like bones sticking out of skin and being crunched underfoot.

It doesn’t belong – even if he didn’t have Sight he could have seen it - and the way reality bends around the thing strikes shivers up his spine.

(Usopp’s reminded of Thriller Bark, in that moment, watching the gigantean shadows of the fog fade in out of existence as if they were never there at all – so very, very wrong.)

And Zoro’s getting ready to fight the thing.

(There’s something unnatural in his eyes, something unknowing and lost in a way Zoro isn’t typically. Like he’s remembering something, being lured to something, something monstrous from his past like a temptation he never had the chance to take before.)

“STOP!” Usopp shouts, suddenly terrified and full of rage all at once in a beautiful cacophony of emotions.

Because this thing – this thing, this horrible beast from elsewhere, has taken advantage of his nakama, of Zoro, of how he doesn’t know how to differ between planes like Usopp does, how he doesn’t see the paths the world takes (only one – the path to the top (World’s Greatest Swordsman)), and he will get lost and hurt and No.

Usopp will not allow that to happen.

“Zoro! Stop!” He tries again, and this time the swordsman looks away from the beast, from the haunting vision between realms.

“Usopp?” The green haired swordsman mumbles around his sword, wild eyes searching for an explanation.

In the moment of distraction, the being lunges – teeth snarling and rabid – but Usopp is ready.

(His mother was a Tengu, and his father was a Feathered Seer – this means that he sees more than most, and that his feathers will be as ink on paper, telling, dark, and true. It also means that Usopp was born to guide, to protect.

Maybe he’s too cowardly to be as great as his mother was at protecting (a warrior dressed in red with a terrible beast in front of her, slayed with tricks and weapons and the words of a Protector – his mother-) but he can do it, when the need arises)

He was surprised to learn that certain salts (depths of the ocean thrust into the light, the kind from deep waters sunned upon rocks)  burned outside of the East Blue, like fire burning through his bones, the Veil smoking away by its presence. Thriller Bark had taught him much, and especially how to use this to his advantage.

When the salt from his Burning Salt Star hits the beast in the sliver of space attaching it to the world beyond, (a world that only Usopp can see) there is a wicked glow as it gives off an unholy wail...

And the beast burns.

Zoro looks mad as Usopp drags him away, but there is a light in his eyes that Usopp doesn’t like, that makes Zoro’s aura (the fatal oppressing force felt at Ennies Lobby that near consumed their swordsman – the move to that extent was banned by their captain but Zoro still likes to stretch his limbs and scare their enemies with Its essence) grow and darken around him, give faint images of deathless gods about him that Usopp did not like.

“Zoro.” He says, trying to reign their swordsman back in. “This realm – whatever you saw isn’t here.” He can’t say it isn’t real, that whatever Zoro saw in the beast doesn’t exist because Usopp can see a thousand words and Zoro can step through them, meaning it could be real.

“Yeah… yeah…” Zoro says, voice uncharacteristically small and distant. “Not here.”

“Not here,” Usopp agrees.

(He doesn’t know what kind of creature Zoro is, doesn’t know what tethers keep him with Usoppp and Luffy and the rest of the crew, doesn’t know what aura, dark and horrendous, finds its place in his friend’s bosom, but hell if he won’t make sure Zoro stays here.)

It’s quiet on the way back to the ship, but Usopp keeps a tight lock on Zoro’s shirt.

His teeth are sharp and his feathers ruffled, and Zoro’s eyes are still faraway, but he’s mostly sure whatever was dragging Zoro to there is gone now.  He’s not taking chances.

Its tripled, like it comes from three different sources, when Zoro speaks again, but when Usopp looks back there is only sincerity in his voice.

“Thanks Usopp.” – And finally, their swordsman isn’t lost in his head anymore.

(Usopp can see that as clear as he can see a million other worlds – and his friend’s path to the top of thisworld.)

[ancient-artificer]

Treasure Hunters: Morgan’s Lost Chest

A Gajevy AU oneshot mix of Pirates of the Caribbean and The Mummy. 

Two professional treasure hunters clash while they desperately seek the lost chest of the infamous pirate, Captain Morgan. During their excavation, they run into a little dead-end...

Rated M for language and possible frightening descriptions.

4k+ words. Also found on ff.net.

This is what happens when you eat too many chocolate espresso beans and ask chat for a prompt (thanks btw). Up all night writing due to heavy insomnia, unending inspiration, and literal magic beans.’

 Treasure Hunters: Morgan's Lost Chest

'Salty' wasn't a term used in his daily vocabulary, but Gajeel was sure it was a better word than what came to mind for the tiny spitfire currently berating his excavation team on the main deck. With a quick sigh, he tilted his head and emptied the soda can of its last drops.

The Sea Withers' weather deck carried the large various equipment needed to unearth what they all hoped would lead to the fabled Morgan Chest, reputed to have been lost for centuries when the pirate crew's mutiny went awry.

Golden treasure hidden away waiting to be uncovered sung its siren song.

When he approached the crew on deck, the woman - her finger pointed at one of his team member's chest- turned her attention to him. Her eyes darkened upon the sight. "You," she said with a low hiss.

He greatly wished at that moment that like the gold-laden chest, she too could have become lost. 

"May I help you?" He asked. His indifference to her plight was tinged with condescension. His brow furrowed as he put his hands on his hips.

"This is how you treat a colleague!? I worked my butt off to get the rights for this location!" She cried and moved towards him, and though he towered above her, she wielded the finger like a sword.

Gajeel watched the index finger wag at him, almost making him go cross-eyed. He then looked at her reddened face. "Levy, is it?" He started.

Her cerulean locks shook with her anger. "Do not 'Levy' me. I mean it."

He smirked. "I was here first."

Levy all but threw herself at him. "Of course you are! You stole my papers!"

A short sound came from his mouth as he corrected, "I commandeered them."

Levy looked as though she were about to explode. She balled her fists and cocked back ready to throw one when someone came up and redirected her.

Laxus held her away from his team leader as Gajeel called to drop anchor. He let her go to roughly pull herself away from him and righting her t-shirt in the process. A dirty look was all she could muster.

There was nothing she could do about the deranged crew leader and the theft of her hard-earned property. It was by all rights her claim, whatever should they dig up. Taking a deep breath, she tried to calm herself for the sake of their one goal.

"Alright, listen up ladies!" Gajeel called. He pulled his polarized sunglasses down to his face. "A-Team down to ground and scout, B-Team unload the ee-quip. Slow an' steady."

"What about her, sir?" Laxus asked. He gestured to the only woman on site.

Gajeel turned. He didn't want to have to deal with her griping about what he did or did not do. He shrugged. "She stays on the ship."

"I most certainly will not!" Levy shouted angrily.

"Fine," he snapped. He struggled not to roll his eyes. She was a definite pain in his ass and it wasn't even noon. "You can come. But no complaining. Stay on my six. I'm not gonna search for your body if you turn up missing."

Levy was already on the rope ladder on the way down to the small boat below as he spoke.

She, however, rolled hers.

"Gee, thanks. I'll keep that in mind," she said aloud, and then added quietly, "You butthole…"

Once they were on the shore, both teams worked to bring the equipment to solid ground. While they hauled the last of it, Gajeel let the gentle waves lap at his boots as he surveyed the length of the beach.

Most of it sand as far as the eye could see in either direction. Not more than forty yards inland the sand gave way to grass and trees. Further in was a mixed mass of rock and greenery of which the top could not be seen.

He slowly started up the sand towards a fallen tree trunk.

"Where are you going?" Levy asked. When he didn't answer, she pursed her lips and trudged after him, incoherently muttering along the way.

When she caught up with him, he was standing with one foot up on the log looking down at the map of the island in his hands.

"It's supposed to be here," he said to himself. His finger swirled over an area on the unfolded paper.

Levy peered over his arms to see where he was pointing. "How long do you think it'll take?"

"Dunno."

"Well, what do you think we should do first? I mean," she paused mid-sentence to swat at a flying insect crossing in front of her face. "Taking account for everyone on the payroll who follows us there."

Gajeel bit his cheek and then turned his head away from her to spit. "Dunno yet."

"I mean for tonight. For dinner and sleeping arrangements. It's not going to happen over-"

Cutting her off with a huff, Gajeel turned his head to her, the map crinkling in his fists. He seethed, "I don't know, dammit! And I'm not gonna know if you keep runnin' your piehole. I've never been here before, ya know."

Levy scowled at him and at the tone he used with her. She blew out a breath. "Neither have I but I did research before my approved documentation was stolen."

That piqued Gajeel's interest. He calmly looked at her.

"What kind of research?"

Levy opened her mouth to speak but promptly shut it. She gave him a sarcastic look -a wag of her eyebrows and a head tilt- and crossed her arms over her chest. She wasn't going to oblige if her questions would be waved off and ignored.

He shook his head, his eyes narrowed. "Naw, don't give me that bullshit. Since we have to work together, it's in your best interest to tell me everything you know. To help the rest of the crew. For a successful excavation."

She waved a hand out in front of her face and looked at him in her peripheral to see what he would do while she kept silent on her secret knowledge.

He didn't wait long. He breathed a rough sigh and let slip a quiet curse before going back to the map.

And she wouldn't tell him either. If he was going to be an asshole on all fronts, then some secrets were worth keeping to herself. And right now she was the only one she could trust. 

The sun disappeared beyond the horizon when the crew finished settling the main camp. Small tents were pegged in the stretch of green vegetation between the beach and the rest of the jungle-like terrain. The night air cooled the island considerably. It was something which Levy had forgotten to take into account when she bounded off in search for Gajeel's ship.

She sat shivering on the same log from earlier in the day in front of the lively fire. Focusing on the orange flames, she jumped when something soft dropped onto her head.

"Put it on before you freeze." Gajeel sat down unceremoniously beside her.

She uttered her thanks and pulled it over shoulders. Warmth quickly seeped into her bones. A deep breath drew in a fresh manly scent, which told her he had recently worn it.

A coffee mug in his hand, he sipped at it and cleared his throat, keeping his eyes on the burning wood. The two of them sat in silence for some time, listening to the camp crackle with the crew's intermittent conversations and the nightly music of the island's various insects and other wildlife.

Levy looked over at the expedition's captain. Her fellow relic hunter seemed to be the type to hate waiting on others but also refused to ask for help or directions. As much as she hated the idea of him taking her claims for himself, he had a point in that they were now in it together whether it was desired or not.

They had to work as a cohesive team.

"You wouldn't like it even if I told you." Her voice cracked when she finally spoke.

His immediate response to her statement told her he had indeed been waiting on her said research.

"That so. And what would that be?"

"It's said there's a curse on the gold, any who open the chest or touch its contents are doomed for eternal misery in Davy Jones' Locker."

Gajeel coughed down the hot liquid. He snorted back a laugh and caught her gaze, her eyes alight from the glowing fire. He asked simply, "And you believe that shit? Are you an archaeologist or a superstitious historian?"

The woman was slightly taken aback. "Do you really think I'd be telling a made-up story? There's proof in the texts I found in Port Royal."

His hard stare bore a hole into her skull. Ha ha. She was pulling his leg. She had to be. When she stared back just as hard, he knew she was serious. Turning back to the fire, he gave a smile and said, "There's no such thing as curses."

A cold wind brushed through the camp. It stirred the fire and blew the hair from both of their faces.

"The ocean wind from the beach," he said, a matter of fact. He sat back and stretched out his legs.

Levy pursed her lips and stood up. She raised her chin but squinted down at him. There was no way the impossible man would believe it without physical evidence, and there was no way of obtaining it.

He stared back with a smug expression and put his hands behind his head.

"I know what I read, Mr. Redfox, captain," she said, holding her arms tightly over her chest against the cold air. "I don't need or want your condescending-"

In her rush to leave, the toe of her boot caught part of the log that had rotted off. Before she could throw her arms out to catch herself, she stumbled forward in the direction of her broad-shouldered rival.

The coffee mug spilled its contents on the ground beside Gajeel as Levy's weight dropped straight down into his lap.

Standing one moment, the next she was gazing up at the surprise plastered on him. She was well aware of his arms tightly folded over her body.

He gaped wide-eyed. "You ok?" He asked.

"Y-yea," she murmured, still shocked at the sudden change. Her nose briefly grazed his cheek and she could smell the dried sweat on his skin.

And for some reason, it smelled good.

A blush crept into her cheeks. She scrambled to her feet, left as quickly as the dark would let her and hoped he wouldn't bring it up in the morning.

***

Gajeel observed with a heightened excitement as the last bit of debris was removed from the roped-off digging area. Three full days of digging away as much dirt as possible in the humid air had taken most of the remaining patience he had left.

The deep pit revealed what appeared to be broken bits of old pitch-covered wood. Pieces of frayed rope and other non-degradable material surrounded an old, half-buried chest. 

"Break out the cooler," Laxus called out. He stood above on the topsoil. He tossed their leader a glass container which sloshed with golden-brown liquid.

Gajeel untwisted the cap. "A round of Captain Morgan!" He exclaimed, then brought the bottle to his mouth for the first sip. He passed it to the closest man.

As he and the others celebrated their discovery, Levy felt an uneasiness. She had suspected some kind of supernatural boobytrap, but none came to slow down their progress. The lack thereof made her become overly cautious.

"Come on," Gajeel said to her without looking her way. No trace of their brief conversation the few nights before -and what had accidentally occurred between them- appeared to be of any concern to him.

Levy watched from her perch above them on the ground untouched by the digging equipment. Glancing around at the surrounding environment, she couldn't shake the odd feeling. She wanted to warn him again, but would her heed only fall on deaf ears?

"Gajeel, wait," she called anyways.

Standing by the chest and posing for pictures with other crew members, he seemed not to notice her. Only when the pit cleared away did he remember she had called to him.

He put one large hand on her shoulder and said, "We found it."

"Yes, I can see. Please don't touch it yet."

He huffed. "Levy, I'm telling you, there's nothing going to happen."

Despite his rebuke of the truth and reliability of her "research", he took his hand from her, but kept his other hand on his hip. With her experience in professionally recovering lost artifacts for science and the occasional museum, he let her take point to inspect it.

Levy approached the chest, assuming control of the situation. Bending at the waist, she put her hands on her knees.

Behind her came a clearing of a throat. Gajeel shifted his weight. He tried to not notice her short blue jean shorts rising up the underside of her thigh. His gaze averted, but only for a second. An inaudible grunt of slight arousal settled in his chest.

Oblivious, her eyes roamed over the old wooden box. Rusty iron strips were nailed into the decaying wood at the corners. Bugs crawled over parts around the bottom. It looked like anything someone could dig up if one went deep enough. The closer she got to it, the more it revealed of itself.

Walking around it and without physical contact with it, she closely inspected the front side. The standard keyhole lock from the era was missing. Red crumbly bits of rust settled on the iron rest where it would have been. A faint inscription was etched on the domed lid above the iron edging. A black substance stained its surface.

She frowned. Her stomach threatened to empty itself. The ancient documentation in Port Royal had to be accurate.

"What is it?" Gajeel asked.

Pointing, Levy read aloud the message carved into the rotten mahogany, "'Gold, silver, all treasures this chest has carried now lives to tell of souls long dead and tarried'."

Gajeel's brows furrowed. "The fuck," he grumbled. He quickly moved to her side, his eyes on their prize. "What does that even mean?"

He reached out a hand to flip the lid away to peer inside. Levy gasped and caught his arm, pulling it towards her.

"No! Don't do that!"

"Levy!" He roared in frustration.

One of the crew members hopped down into the pit. "If you two aren't gonna, let me, for fuck's sake..."

He quickly threw the lid back.

Levy, still clinging to Gajeel's arm, shut her eyes. Gajeel glanced down at her as she squeezed his limb tighter. Her forehead brushed against his bicep.

The crew member fell silent. No one spoke. The seconds that ticked by seemed more like minutes. Gajeel shifted his weight once again in his impatience.

"Well?"

The crewman's shoulders fell. His tone was one of shock. "It's empty."

Levy's eyes shot open. She spoke at the same moment as Gajeel.

"It is?"

"Come again?"

He shook off Levy's hold and was beside the brave crew member in one stride, dead set on seeing for himself. It had to be a joke. They spent way too much time and effort to come up short.

There was nothing inside. Not even dirt or sand.

Levy had hoped that despite the warning that there would lie some kind of treasure. It didn't have to be gold or other precious jewels or the like. She would have been ecstatic with an old half-filled journal. Or a comb. Or even a spoon.

She looked at Gajeel, defeated. "Now what?"

A dull, dumping sound filled the pit, like a pile of dirt dumped onto concrete. It gradually became louder.

A surprised cry spouted from the only person known to have touched what was supposed to have been a bountiful riches.

Gajeel looked in disgust at the crewman's arm as it turned a pale green with a shattered cracking pattern snaking across the skin right before his waking eyes.

He put his arm in front of Levy and backed them both to the excavation pit's edge. "Lax, are you seeing this?" His voice seemed both distant and as if he were shouting at the same time.

Laxus replied. "Yea…"

The others were watching the scene unfold, not knowing what was going on or what to do; obviously, no one had trained for something such as this.

The first mate hesitantly pulled the pistol from his holster and brought it up. He didn't want to point it at his friends, but what was happening below to one of them was not normal by any standards. "And I don't like it."

The man's skin went from the pale green to gray, the cracks webbing out began to widen, until one of his wrists severed from the rest of the lifeless limb. The man who had opened the chest was decaying at an unbelievably fast rate.

Levy abruptly turned upon the realization. She made a grab for the hanging rope ladder. Her breaths came shallow and hurried, her only thoughts were of getting out unscathed.

The crewman's face began to change colors. He twitched and jerked while the deterioration accelerated. One of his kneecaps slid diagonally down to the side, causing his leg to turn unnaturally when he attempted to take a step. When he moved his head, the gray skin cracking like dried mud broke loose. The mandible beneath unhinged itself from the skull, permanently propping open the man's mouth.

"Climb faster," Gajeel murmured.

The undead stepped out in his direction.

"Faster, Levy," he repeated with more force.

His colleague was halfway up the ladder. He shoved his hand upwards and cupped one of her ass cheeks, pushing her the rest of the way so he could begin his ascent to get the hell out.

Once she was at the top, a gunshot fired once and echoed into the rest of the island. Levy turned to see Gajeel hurrying up the ladder and the undead shipmate now without an arm on his way towards them.

Laxus fired another shot that missed.

"Has anyone else touched the chest?!" Levy shouted. Goosebumps traveled down her arms and legs. She hoped and prayed it was just the one.

If others had as she suspected, no one confessed. A commotion of mixed shouts and warnings came from the campsite. A few crew members cleared out of the way before the same thing that had just occurred in the pit began to eat away at two more.

Morgan's curse was spreading.

Gajeel scrambled to his feet once he reached solid ground. He yanked the ladder out in case the undead could come up after him. The rotted body loosed a sound that would have been a snarl and clawed at the dirt wall.

"So much for buried treasure, shoulda known," Gajeel roughly spat. In two quick strides, he was right next to Levy. 

She gave him a disapproving look. "I tried to tell you."

"Yea, yea." He took her hand and swiftly guided them away from the excavation pit.

The main camp was in disarray. The undead was numerous, turning the others who had ignorantly treated the dig site as every other they previously created.

"We gotta get to the ship before they do."

A half snarl growl from the freshly dead warned Gajeel of its proximity in time for him to snatch up one of the cooking pans by the fire and connect it with the side of its ugly, deformed face. The remnants of their earlier breakfast unstuck itself to snag on the zombie's protruding nasal bone.

It fell to the ground, but of course, nothing could kill an undead in this case, given that it was unleashed via a curse.

He picked up another pan and shoved it into Levy's hand. "It won't kill them, but it'll keep you alive," he stated. He gave her a hard, meaningful gaze, shifting to both of her eyes. "Stay on my ass, Lev."

At her nod, he looked both ways for incoming bogeys and then rushed forward in the direction of the beach.

Gunshots echoed, screams and shouts of men running for their lives met their ears. They lept for the grassy trail which led straight for the ocean. Skinny tree trunks and other tall plants flashed by in a blur as they hightailed it, as fast as the overgrown vegetation would allow.

Gajeel used his pan like a sword and wacked two unsuspecting undeads clear off their broken feet. Bits of dust plumed out in small clouds from the contact made with his makeshift but effective weapon.

When they reached the beach's hot sand, he looked over his shoulder. The fierce little woman abruptly stopped and swung her frying pan like a baseball bat at the zombie following close behind her.

She gave a short grunt with the effort. The bottom of the weapon smacked the unnatural creature, its head popped off and flew back the way they came. Dust clouded the air in her wake. The undead body crumpled in a heap to the ground.

A clean headshot.

The display of power greatly impressed Gajeel.

Her next step onto the beach was a stumble, but he was there to catch her in one of his arms.

"Careful," he murmured. His gaze lingered on her face as he set her upright.

She saw the look in his eyes. A red-tinged her cheeks. Before he could see it, she grabbed his arm with her free hand and gave a tough tug. Her voice was breathless, "We can't stand around, come on!"

They ran for The Sea Wither still at anchor a distance away in deeper water. The smaller boat they came to shore in sat untouched on the dry sand, the motor flipped upside down inside for storage.

When Levy bounded into it, Gajeel started to shove the boat towards the water. They heard a loud shout for them to wait.

Laxus lead a few others out of the fray. They wielded various objects from camp, frantically booking it over the loose sand. The first mate slowed to a stop and immediately helped Gajeel in pushing the large vessel.

The others threw themselves into the boat, breathing heavily, scared out of their wits. Odd weaponry lay on the boat floor: another frying pan, a shovel, a machete, a long stick, a foldable chair. She gave credit for creativity within the group of people still alive.

"Alright, let's get the hell out of dodge," Gajeel said to Laxus and nodded.

Two other crewmen pulled their leader into the boat while Laxus readied the motor by securing it onto its mount. He yanked the pull cord and it suddenly came to life. 

"What about the equipment? Everyone else still out there?" A man asked. He gripped his crowbar white knuckles.

"It's not worth the risk. Not right now."

With the motorboat gaining speed towards their ticket home, Gajeel looked back to see more decomposing bodies now emerging from the cursed island. He took a breath and turned to Levy. "Whoever's left isn't going to last," he admitted aloud for everyone to hear above the motor's roar.

Biting her lip, Levy had to turn away from the beach. She shook from adrenaline still coursing through her veins. The cold sea air didn't help either. She felt the warmth radiating from Gajeel when he sat next to her. What comfort she could feel came from him.

The boat slowed when they arrived at the ship. One by one they wasted no time in boarding the massive ship. The first thing he did after making sure what remained of his crew were safely aboard, Gajeel entered the bridge and created a distress call on the appropriate channels.

Levy sat in one of the main chairs and listened as he successfully made contact with the mainland. In her relief knowing there would be a rescue, her gaze shifted from the ships controls to the beach.

"Gajeel, y-you need to s-see this," she stuttered. Fear was again present in her voice.

He put down the radio and glanced up. He did a sharp double-take. "You gotta be kidding me! These fuckers can swim?!"

[chanzicoup]

A/N: I wrote a lot of this and then my software (*clears throat* Evernote) closed on me without letting me save so it from now on I am using google docs to write everything… I lost so much good material *sad uwu*

Warning: Mentions of previous attack attempts, politics, women’s rights, feminism, plastic surgery

Genre: Smut

Count: 5.0 k

~blake

As a politically outspoken female celebrity in the entertainment industry, you could say you had your work cut out for you. In the beginning of your career, you were known as a high end plastic surgeon's daughter who was trying to make it big as a singer. Quickly you made your way up in the ranks not for your father's money but for your own hard work and abilities you've perfected after ten years of training at your agency. To be clear, your looks were not achieved with the help of your father's tools. You've explained over and over that you were all natural, breasts and ass included in the statements you've given. You've shot down nasty reporters by explaining there was more to you than your body but if they had to know "your secret" that badly, it was a good work out every now and then and love towards yourself is how you kept yourself in shape.

You were used to being a target. Many would think you were asking for it with the little clothing you wore on stage and the form fitting ones you wore in public, your message was that women should be able to wear whatever they wanted without feeling ashamed of. You liked your clothes, but not being the center of attention by every sleazeball that you just so happened to pass while walking on the sidewalk. You thought this was a small price to pay for what you were pulling off. Your fans supported and loved you for that, along with the incredible songs you write and produce yourself. It was one night while making dinner in your apartment that someone threw a brick at your window that would have hit your head if you hadn't bent over to grab a napkin you had dropped. The brick was just a distraction because while you were inspecting the brick a masked man was picking the lock to your front door. It was luck that your security system had alerted the police and the man had been obtained before he could hurt you. Fans found out immediately along with your company and both had begged you to undergo some form of protection for the time being. You refused, not wanting to show that a man had made you afraid. It was stupid, even you could admit that, what if someone else had the same idea and would be successful? You thought it wouldn't happen and stood your ground of not upping security, but that night was the last straw for your father. He refused to let his precious daughter live her life while being at risk. He lost his wife, your mother, when she was giving birth to you and since that day a life was exchanged for another be vowed not to let it go to waste. In that case, he ignored your disagreement and got you a personal bodyguard. One that will stay in your apartment with you and at your side 24/7. You allowed it, but only after your father guilt tripped you with retelling the tale of your mother's life. You've seen photos of her and she looked just like you. That was all you knew of her since your father didn't like telling you things about her when she was alive.

That was how you met Jung Jaehyun.

Jung Jaehyun. A tall man with shoulders as strong as his arms, a stare as poker as a stack of cards, and a vibe so sharp you thought you were going to get a paper cut. It was a warm day when your father brought you to his office, the man who was to now be your knight in shining armor standing at attention in front of his desk, but with the goosebumps travelling across your body you felt as if you were buried under five feet of snow. Many would turn in fear to this mad, but you were the bark to his bite as you two made an odd pair.

The first ten minutes consisted of you sitting in a chair and Jaehyun standing next to you as your father explained the guidelines of the job he was offering. The fact that you and your father were the only ones sitting seemed weird since there was another chair only a few inches away from you, but it didn't seem so out of the ordinary for Mr. Jung, a name you felt obligated to call the older man despite you being his superior, so you didn't question.

What was known by no one was that Jung Jaehyun was a fan of yours.

Jaehyun admired how outspoken you were and your passion for music as well as your political views of women’s rights. His views were on the same page as yours; it was one of the reasons why he became a bodyguard and such a huge fan. He wanted to help keep people safe and didn’t want them to be another headline in the papers. Jaehyun’s original plan was to become a police officer, but after failing the exams he went with being a bodyguard. Much let political backlash in his opinions. He had to keep his impression solid in front of his employers so that no one would find out his admiration. It would be cause for removal of position and that was the last thing Jaehyun wanted.

Therefore, he only shakes your hand after he shakes your father’s. That is to be the first and only time he would be in physical contact with you, it was company policy. It’s customary for bodyguards to escort their bosses everywhere but they are only allowed to hover their arms around their bodies no matter their gender, but it was implemented in the beginning when the female customers were feeling uncomfortable having arms wrapped around them all the time in public. Of course, if the situation calls for it, then the guard may push or pull their boss to safety or out of harm’s way.

He drove you home, as he were to do all day every day from now on. The ride was silent but no one sparked a conversation. You got the feeling that you would only recieve a nod or shake of the head from the man whom was going to be your protector, so you plugged in your earphones and fiddled around with melodies or beats in your head for a new song you may produce. Not much came to mind as you stole quick glances of Mr. Jung’s features.

“If he was more of a talker, we could be friends.” You thought; unknowing that Jaehyun was rattling his mind for things he’d talk to you for hours on end about. He’d ask about upcoming albums or what your next big project was. Or if you didn’t want to talk about work he’s question you on what you thought of the news from this morning. He thought you’d love to watch the news or at least read up on it in the car or while you sit in the chair while stylists groom your hair and do your make-up. The ride ended quickly with both of you occupying your own minds; you with music and he with business he had to tend to. He parked the vehicle and ran over to your side with long strides resulting from his seemingly endless legs, and opened the door for you. You thanked him politely as you began to walk to your door, Mr. Jung hovering not too far away from you.

Being followed, this was a feeling you had been used to somewhat. Fans would follow you at a distance away from you, respecting you enough as to not crowd around you. You wish you could say the same for some idols that are friends of yours. Some of their fans would do anything to touch their clothes or their faces no matter how much security fights them off. But being followed by a man in a dark suit less than a foot away from you, that feeling was brand new. Yes, you felt safe; safer than you imagined you would have. It brought comfort, knowing you had one less thing to worry about.

Your turn to escort came to showing Mr. Jung where his room was, which coincidentally was next to yours. It was the guest room. Walls were the shade of cotton with picture frames of meadows as decor. A queen size bed with white sheets embroidered in pink, yellow, and purple threads making the designs of flowers  covered the mattress. A set of oak wood containing a dresser, nightstand, and a desk was the only other furniture excluding the flat screen television hooked up to the wall for entertainment. There was a door next to the closet which led to the small bathroom baring the only necessities a guest may need to stay for nearly a month or so before you would have to restock when their visit was over and they had already left your residence. It was clear you had no time to change the theme to make it more neutral and less…how you hated the word…girly.

“Sorry it’s like this. I normally have my female friends stay here.” You wanted to tell him that he was the only man outside of your family that has ever set foot into your home, but that statement has a double meaning and you couldn’t risk a miscommunication.

“I think it’s lovely. Thank you ma’am.” Mr. Jung said as he set down the bag you hadn’t noticed he was carrying. It was a black duffel filled to the brim. You had assumed it was his clothes and wondered if more was being transported over, but as he pulled out a laptop and multiple chargers, you concluded that he brought over immediate work material and his personal items would arrive at a later date. Before you could ask about his attire, Mr. Jung unpacked a utility belt with many things hooked onto it. Those items being walkie talkies, earpieces, sunglasses, but the one catching your eye being the handgun in its holster.

“Is my life that much at risk so that you have to carry a firearm?” You meant to think to yourself but said aloud. After Mr. Jung gave you a confused stare but realized what you were looking at, he explained himself.

“It’s only for precautionary measures ma’am. It’s rare the guards use their weapons but it has been deemed better to have it and not need it than to need it and not have it. I can also assure you that you’re life is in good hands.” He’d never let anything happen to you, not on his watch will you even get a splinter.

For some reason you became flustered and desired to change the subject. “Are you hungry? I’ll go cook dinner.” You didn’t give Mr. Jung much of a chance to state his hunger or if he even wanted something to eat in the first place. You ran to your kitchen and pulled out fresh vegetables and thawed meat you were planning on cooking for yourself tonight and saving the left overs to eat again throughout the week. Jaehyun didn’t like having you out of his sight, much like all guard felt with those they were assigned too. He hurried to gather what he needed and he left his room, meaning to properly put his things away when you were asleep.

The way your house was set up, the kitchen, dining and living room were connected and sectioned off with marble counters. Then there was a long hallway that led to the connecting sections of your room, the guest room, and your studio office. Of course, your room and the guest room had a connecting bathroom. Your office was the only room in the apartment that didn’t connect to anything. This was fortunate for Jaehyun because now he can work and keep his eyes on you at all times. In his contract he can not have his clients be out of his view so he’d normally have to wait until then to do his personal affairs or work on his computer. For times that he is unable to work, a rarity for Jaehyun, he would have to have another guard cover for him after receiving permission from his clients and his company executive. Finding coverage is normally harder than getting the job in the first place. Most guards save their covering days for real emergencies that aren’t related to them getting injured or physically being unable to work.

He set his laptop, notebook, and pens on the marble counter with stools set up at them. He opened the notebook to the next blank page, passing many with his scribbled writing of names and numbers he only recognized.

The stools served no purpose until now, you had them just for show. It bothered you having bare spots at the counter you hardly use for meal prepping, but you never had that many visitors so the three stools were purely for the visual aesthetic. You hadn’t expected Mr. Jung to follow you so you distracted yourself with cooking, but you had put on music to help the time pass, which eventually lead to your songs being played on shuffle, and wondered if the music bothered him. Looking over to ask him if he wanted you to turn it down but you saw him absentmindedly murmuring the lyrics of your song that was currently playing.

“Are you a fan?” You brought up casually, making Jaehyun halt immediately. “Normally people come up to me and say they are before asking for autographs or photos.”

Jaehyun yelled at himself mentally and asked how he could’ve made it so obvious. Now he was going to lose his job and his chance to be around you. He tried to explain himself, but in a way that wouldn’t make things harder for himself.

“It’s alright. I won’t tell anyone.” You smiled, reassuring him he didn’t have to worry. You began pan frying the vegetables next to the pan the meat was cooking on. You checked the rice cooker and saw the rice was almost done. Things were fine for now. “Would you like a photo?”

“No, that’s fine ma’am. Thank you for asking.” Again, Jaehyun wanted to smack himself. It was you asking him for a photo, not the other way around. As much as he wanted a picture, he knew it would be wrong professionally.

“What would you have done if you saw me in public? Before you became my bodyguard, I mean.” “And not when you were working.” You added.

“I wouldn’t have come up to you. If you were in public you are just going out and having time to yourself. Who would I have been to disturb that?” Jaehyun replied  innocently.

“Which is what I thought you would say. Most people come up to me anyway and bombard me with their phones or things they want me to have. Obviously I’m grateful and do all I can to make them happy, but it becomes too much at some point. You on the other hand deserve a photo at the very least.” You said while bringing your phone out, turning the front camera on and walking over to Mr. Jung. He was flustered, but didn’t reject. He looked up and smiled like a little kid seeing the ice cream truck. You stuck your arm out for a better angle and moved to do the pose you normally do for male fans that treated you with respect.

A kiss on the cheek.

This looked to have been normal to you, so Jaehyun didn’t act out his surprise. But he couldn’t hide it either. His eyes widened and cheeks reddened. He felt his heart flutter in a way it never has before. You asked him for his phone number, so you could send the photo to him. And he gave you his personal number. He told himself it was so his boss doesn’t find out, he’d be fired on the spot, but the truth was that he wanted you to have his personal number for reasons other than for business.  A minute later you had to return to tending to the food and Jaehyun’s phone vibrated, notifying him that he had gotten the picture. He set it as his home screen, too nervous that someone would see his lock screen and find out.

From that day forward, Jaehyun and you became closer and closer and he let himself loosen and relax a little bit more over time as he realized he’d only be penalized if you complained to your father or the boss himself. That was unlikely because you enjoyed your time with Jaehyun, you learned. Mr. Jung seemed to be too much of a formality now that you two became close. It’s been Jaehyun to you recently.

When you would go shopping for groceries, you’d ask Jaehyun what he wanted to eat or what foods he wants. He would try to insist that he were to pay for his own food, but you would always say you were treating him. He works hard to keep you safe and buying him food is the least you can do. Eventually it became you guys battle over who gets their card out first. Trips to the cafe are fun too. Most people would mistake them for dates between a young couple. Your fans take photos of you guys all the time, and it’s surprising Jaehyun hasn’t gotten a warning from his higher ups about how close you guys seem. What he didn’t know was that you told them it was fine, and that you still felt safe.

One night you were scheduled to perform at this club on the other side of town. It was your first time in that area but you knew it wasn’t the best place to be around, but you didn’t want to decline the show for that. People aren’t their places. Jaehyun was uneasy but his job was to protect you and he knew that the job would get done right because he was doing it. What he wasn’t expecting was a fire in his chest while watching you perform, another perk of the job: free concerts. You’re music was sexy and so were your outfits. But tonight the stares from the men in the audience bothered Jaehyun to the point that even you noticed his frustration. You understood why, he didn’t like seeing you be uncomfortable. But you knew that there would always be fans like that, and that not all of them are bad so you shouldn’t treat them like so.

The concert ended and you changed into a different outfit to attend the afterparty. Another thing you were forced into doing by your company. The dress was short and the heels were high, but you only had to make an appearance, maybe greet other people here and there. If you saw someone you were friends with you’d chat with them a bit before leaving. You knew Jaehyun didn’t like being there just as much as you did so you aimed to leave whenever you found a chance to.

After drinking your third glass of water so that no one would ask to buy you a drink you had to use the restroom. You told Jaehyun and he followed you through the crowd, making sure no one’s wandering hands got to close. When you two made it to the bathroom you asked Jaehyun to wait while you went in. He nodded and stood in position as you left.

The restrooms of the club were just like the set-up of your house in the sense that they are connected to the dance floor but are sectioned off with long hallways. On the left side was the woman’s and the right side the men’s. It wouldn’t be appropriate for Jaehyun to wait by the girl’s room so he had to wait outside both bathrooms. He kept an eye out for anyone who may look suspicious, as his job required him to, but only other woman went to the restroom and they were clearly a bit too intoxicated to pose much of a threat so there was no worry.

Then a man in a leather jacket, dark sunglasses, and bright pink hair began striding towards the bathrooms. He was a singer from another company, notorious for being a ladies man. He seemed gentle to his fans but everyone in the loop knew he was bad news. No one could even tell the world about his true side due to the fact that his popularity surpassed most ten fold and he’s one of the most powerful celebrities on the market; no one would believe a single word spoken against him. You ranted to Jaehyun about this man some time ago and told him that his stage name is Vince but his real name is Vincent, which he hated for it’s vibe it gave off. Recently in an article of an interview given by Vince, he admitted to being interested in you. His fans were going crazy over it, both good and bad, but you made it clear that you didn’t want anything to do with him privately. He didn’t like being told no and said you’d come around eventually.

Jaehyun stopped Vince before he could enter. “No one is to come beyond this point.”

“It’s  a public restroom. Get out of my way.” Vince tried to step past Jaehyun but he wouldn’t let him.

“And it’s my job to make sure no one crosses here.”

“I just saw about three drunk girls stumble their way past you and you didn’t even offer your assistance. Now that a sober man has arrived suddenly it’s an issue? Who’s your supervisor?” Vince clearly wasn’t sober, the stench of alcohol was very pungent. And his anger was rising so that’s another sign. Vince pushed Jaehyun first, but before Jaehyun could act a voice called from behind him.

“I am. Care to speak with me?” Neither of them noticed you’ve arrived since you didn’t make any noise. You had overheard the beginning of their conversation when you were done in the restroom and thought it would be better to see what Jaehyun would do in this situation. It was a surprise that he hadn’t clocked Vince in the jaw the moment he shoved him.

“Miss Y/N, what an honor. Magnificent show tonight. ‘A sight for sore eyes’ you could call it.” Vince winked, causing you to grow more disgusted.

“I’ll be leaving now. Glad you enjoyed the show.” You said sarcastically and rolled your eyes before walking away. Vince grabbed your wrist and in an instant Jaehyun was ripping him away from you and slamming Vince’s body against the wall.

“You are to never place your fucking hands on her again or I swear to god I will pull the gun I have in it’s holster on you so fast you won’t get the chance to see your life flash before your eyes.” You couldn’t hear this, Jaehyun only whispered it into Vince’s ear. Terror covered his vision and Vince feverishly nodded, silently begging to be let go. No one was around, so no scene was cause thankfully. You were shocked to say the least, but something in you liked the way Jaehyun went from sweet to overpowering.

Jaehyun let go of Vince and he ran away, forgetting about the potential one night stands he could have scored in the bathroom. Jaehyun was beyond annoyed and grabbed your hand; something he’s never done before. Even over the loud music playing in the club you could still hear your heart beating in your chest. You looked up at Jaehyun’s face and saw his eyebrows furrowed and jaw clenched. You wondered what he was thinking, since it was hard to tell with him. You squeezed his hand to try and comfort him but he removed it after realizing he was touching you.

“Don’t stop.” You said, linking your arms and fingers with his. You never thought it would feel this good to hold Jaehyun’s hand. How would it feel to have his arms around you in an embrace? Warm, you would assume. But not the physical type of warmth, the kind that raises butterflies to flutter in your stomach and your heart to pound in your ears. That’s how you felt thinking about a hug from your bodyguard, your employee. Wrong yes, but did you stop imagining? Not for a moment.

While Jaehyun brought you to the car he sadly let go of your hand then to go to the drivers side. A hug moved into a cheek kiss, much like the one you innocently gave him before when he was momentarily a fan and not your protector. A cheek kiss escalated into a real one, you would be ashamed if anyone discovered you began to feel wet down there. You cross your legs and pull your shorts down with clenched fists, bringing over Jaehyun’s attention and concern.

“Miss Y/N? Are you alright?” He asked with worry coating his words. ISt took no genius to see that something was on your mind.

“Can you pull over for a minute?” Jaehyun did as you asked swiftly, thinking you were going to be sick and wanted to stop the car to get some air. The moment of silence that came after was unsuspected.

“I something the matter?” Jaehyun asked after he turned the car off to save excess fuel.

“You’re the best, do you know that? My father could not have picked anyone else to do your job.” You began, not knowing where you were planning to go with the conversation. All you knew was that you had to admit what you’ve been holding tightly to yourself or else you’d explode. Before Jaehyun could ask what you had meant, you kept speaking. “I’m sorry that I feel this way but I just wanted you to know that you are the best out there and that if this is going to make you doing your job harder or uncomfortable I completely understand if you ask for a relocation. I’ll be alright if you leave.”

“Why would I leave you?” Jaehyun thought he was being fired and he started racking his brain for things that could have caused you to come to that decision.

“You’d leave because I think I’m falling in love with you.” Like every other man did when you told them your real feelings.

“Think or Know?” Was all he said, as if it were factual.

“Know.” You said truthfully. You kept your eyes on the ground, not daring to meet his eye and watch him reject you. Your heart would break once more.

“You have no idea how long I have wanted to hear those words come from you.” You heard his voice ring, making you look at him with shock. At that moment you felt lips onto yours and a hand cupping your cheek. His lips were soft and tasted like watermelon chapstick. His breath was minty and you would wonder when he had the time to chew a piece of gum or suck on a mint if he hadn’t poked his tongue out to ask for entrance permission. It would be stupid of you to deny something you wanted with all of your being.

It’s a good thing your windows were tinted. Paparazzi would have gotten quite the show if they hadn’t been.

His lips roamed your body before pulling away to move his seat all the way back. “Come here.” He asked, even though his dominance was in the comment his voice was like honey, as if he was a child asking for a puppy. You climbed over and sat on his lap, your chests facing each other. He pulled you for another kiss as your arms began undoing the buttons of his suit and dress shirt. His own hands roamed to your shorts, sliding them off of you with ease. His finger traced your panties, noticing how much you wanted him through the wetness soaking through them. He gripped your hips and pushed you against his thigh. He lifted his leg to increase the pressure against your core, evoking a moan from your throat. He swallowed it gleefully and continued to move you back and forth against his leg. You pulled his hair and watched him bite his lip. You grabbed his hand that he was using to move your body against his and placed it at your core. He Slipped his thumb under the elastic and began flicking your clit, you moved your hips harder against his thigh, feeling the pit of your stomach tightening. Jaehyun pulled his head into your neck and placed butterfly kisses all over. He knew you were close by how your eyes squinted shut and hips bucked faster. He knew he couldn’t be parked her much longer, it was the side of the road for crying out loud, but if he could please you that was enough for him.

Sure enough, right before your orgasm, Jaehyun saw red and blue lights in his rear view mirror.

“Fuck.” He cursed, gliding you off and putting his jacket on your legs, covering your panties. He quickly fixed his shirt and his hair before the officer knocked on his window. After the two of you took a few breaths, Jaehyun rolled the window down.

“Good evening, officer.” Jaehyun said with his million dollar smile.

You’d be lying if you said you weren’t touching yourself under his coat. All you could think was Jaehyun better get rid of this cop soon or else you may not be able to wait any longer.

[geek-patient-zero]

Part 1, Chapter 3 (pt. 2)

Or: Panic! at the (Former) Disco

Blood War: Masquerade of the Red Death Volume 1

McCann and the vamps do not do alright.

Fast Eddie Sanchez–remember him, the guy guarding the door to the members only area?–appears from the crowd, wielding a stiletto knife and quipping about entrance being invite only. He lunges forward to stab the Red Death in the chest.

And gets himself killed right away.

The stiletto melts before it can touch the Red Death. Red D. grabs him by the neck and, despite having scrawny corpse arms like the cover shows, lifts him up one handed. Eddie shrieks in pain. And ignites.

Gouts of flame burst from Eddie’s nose, eyes, ears, and mouth. Tongues of fire erupted from his chest. His fingers blasted into bits like fireworks. Legs and arms exploded like dry wood thrown into a blazing fireplace. His skin blackened and crinkled like burning paper. A blast of incredible heat roared through the chamber. And Fast Eddie Sanchez was gone.

The Red Death laughs “insanely,” which might be too cliche villainish if Weinberg’s going for a “force of nature” theme like his namesake from Poe’s story, as he pours Eddie’s ashes out of his hand.

“He was the first. But not the last. A fitting end to all those who defy the Sabbat. Or challenge the might of the Red Death.”

Alright then, I guess he’s a supervillain.

Understandably, the crowd of nameless vampires and ghouls lose their shit and panic. We’re reminded that fire destroys vampires.

...and though most had existed for hundreds of years, they clung to their unnatural existence with all the hunger of their mortal counterparts. More, for they knew beyond any doubt that they were the damned.

Like what’s going on isn’t already dramatic enough.

They run for the exit, but a mysterious force is keeping the door shut. That or Fast Eddie locked the door behind him when he came in to die. Either way, they’re stuck in the chamber with the Red Death, who’s strolling around killing anyone who gets close enough with fire hugs.

Methodically, it grabbed hold of any Kindred foolish enough to venture close. Clasped the vampire to its chest and turned it to ashes.

Dire McCann, Alexander Vargoss, and the twins, meanwhile, are presumably  still standing in front of their table, posing. Tyrus Bendeict is still seated, and panicking. He thinks the Red Death’s after him and the photos of Baba Yaga from Russia.

McCann shook his head. “Nonsense” he snapped at the wizard. But wondered if perhaps the Tremere sorcerer wasn’t correct.”

McCann’s instinct to be contrary is faster than his ability to think.

I’m starting to notice that Weinberg tends to write two sentences when one sentence with a comma would do. I think it’s supposed to make the narration look deliberate and dramatic, but instead it comes off as stilted and weird to read.

“Attend me,” snapped Alexander Vargoss to his Dark Angels. “He must be stopped.”

Features grim but determined, the Prince stepped forward directly into the path of the Red Death. Vargoss’ body pulsated with raw energy.

A fifth-generation vampire, he was over 2,000 years old and controlled incredible powers.

Jesus Christ, he’s a step away from a methusalah! What the hell’s he doing merely being the Prince of St. Louis? Is he just that bad at the Game?

Many of the important vampires in Blood War are going to be both really old and low generation. As the summary on the back cover states:

“This series reveals many of the underpinnings of the World of Darkness and spotlights the dreaded elder vampires known as Methuselahs.”

This is one instance where having a younger or higher generation vampire in the role might make more in-universe sense.

Raising his hands high over his head, clenching his fingers into fists...

...Vargoss extended his mighty will. “Halt,” he commanded in a voice that never before had been denied. “HALT!”

I guess if the Prince were higher generation, it wouldn’t be as impressive when the Red Death no-sells his Dominate attempts.

The Red Dead laughed in defiance. It continued to advance.

Bet he’s laughing at Vargoss’s Ginyu Force pose more than at his futile resistance.

“Halt,” repeated Vargoss, his voice uncertain. The first traces of doubt showed on his face. The Red Death was very close. It was too late, much too late, for the Prince to turn and run

Sit down, LaCroix Vargoss.

McCann opens fire on the Red Death, but once again the Ingram’s useless. Red D. isn’t even slowed.

Slowly, with great deliberation, the Red Death reached out for the Prince. To the detective, always suspicious of being manipulated, the monster seemed to hesitate for an instant, almost as if waiting for an interruption.

Whatever the Red Death is playing at, the ~*~Dark Angels~*~ step in before things get too awkward.

Moving with inhuman speed, Flavia and Fawn grabbed the prince by the shoulders, spun him around, and sent him flying.

Holy balls, I love this! The twins saved their boss by fucking hurling him away from the fire monster. In my head, I’m imagining them chucking Vargoss “off-screen”, him screaming in his David Warner voice all the way, followed by some cartoon crashing noises and a cat screech.

With Vargoss safe and probably unconscious, the twins turn their attentions to the Red Death.

...they could not resist the challenge the monster presented. Assamite assassins, they thrived on death and destruction. Two sets of matched blades, the finest in the world, slashed in wide arcs.

Yeah, attack the Red Death with blades. That worked so well for Fast Eddie.

To the twins’ credit, their blades don’t melt like Eddie’s stiletto when they try to slice off Red D.’s hands. But they don’t hurt him either. They just pass through.

McCann cursed aloud, astonished. In his entire existence he had never before seen the like. The specter appeared composed entirely of frozen flame. Which meant that nothing physical could harm it. The Red Death was invulnerable to normal weapons.

Like a ghost-type Pokemon. You gotta use special attacks on him.

Tentatively, McCann reached out telepathically with his mind.

...

I’m sorry, he what!? The big bastard’s telepathic too now!?

He hated revealing any hint of his true essence. But there was no other choice. He had to know the truth. What type of being was the Red Death? For a bare instant, thoughts crossed, as minds touched. Then McCann recoiled in shock.

Unable to attack the Red Death in any meaningful way without getting himself killed, McCann instead decides to use his suddenly revealed psychic powers to read his mind and remove some of his mystery just a few pages after his introduction.

With his mind probe, McCann learns that the Red Death is definitely Kindred, not something from a different game like a wraith or, god forbid, an actual mage.

It used a discipline McCann had never before encountered–Body of Fire. Transforming into this form took the combined efforts of several vampires, which meant the Red Death did not work alone. McCann caught a fleeting memory of a group calling themselves The Children of Dreadful Night. Then the thought was gone, swallowed by the creature’s obsession with destruction. In its present state, the Red Death was more elemental fire than vampire. It hungered to destroy life. It existed to kill.

The Red Death immediately detected McCann’s mind probe, closed off its thoughts, and sent back

...a mental stream of hellfire that would have burned the detective’s brain to cinders if he had remained in contact.

Psychically incinerating a dude’s brain if he tries any psychic shit on you. That’s actually an awesome power, if situational.

Let’s talk about this bit with the mind probe. We've just been introduced to this villain, this unstoppable force who came out of nowhere, who even ancient and powerful vampires like Vargoss are helpless against, and what little we learned about him we got from his actions and what he volunteered to tell us about himself. At this point in the story, the effectiveness of such a monster is enhanced by nobody knowing who he is or where he came from, or even his exact motives.

Obviously, we’ll learn more about the Red Death as the story goes on, until all will be revealed. I have no problem with that, and there’re still things we don’t know about old Red D. But thanks to McCann’s previously unhinted at telepathy he immediately confirms he’s a vampire, the name of this disciple everyone’s helpless against, how it’s powered, and the name of the group the Red Death was working with. In trying to show off McCann and further hint at his mysterious nature, Weinberg unintentionally undermined his villain early on. That stuff McCann just learned via mind probe could have been spread out in later chapters, and preferably they’d be uncovered by, you know, actual detective work, maybe with some supernatural help, instead of some sudden asspull power.

By the way, I looked it up on the White Wolf wiki, and there’s no result for a Discipline called Body of Fire, so it seems it was made up for this story. There’s a discipline called Godbody of Fire, but it’s a Kuei-jin power, not Kindred. It works completely differently, and Kindred of the East wasn’t released until ‘98, so don’t expect any plot twists in that direction. Besides, I don’t think the Red Death is Asian.

There’s also a Protean power called Body of the Sun, which transforms a Kindred into “blazing indestructible fire.” Thing is, it’s a tenth-tier power, the highest one. If a character has reached the tenth tier of a power, than they’re probably an Antediluvian or at least a really old Methuselah. Usually the only other tenth tier power of a discipline is an Antediluvian-only power called, I shit you not, Plot Device, which can best be described as “The power can do whatever the hell the storyteller wants.” Obviously it’s for storytelling purposes and not an actual in-universe power. (All that said, most of that I'd typed up before reading the next two books in the trilogy. We'll learn exactly what Body of Fire is in the next book, and why it's unlikely your vampire OC will ever learn it.)

One other thing. McCann doesn’t recognize the Red Death. But the Red Death recognizes him.

Anyway, that little psychic exchange? It took place in only a few seconds, and the twins are preparing their second attack, this time aiming for the eyes. McCann cries “No!” but they ignore him.

When they attack, the Red Death lashes out with his arms in sweeping motions, either trying to grab or clothesline them like the WWE superstar he is. Flavia, the one who hasn’t done anything separately from her sister so far, ducks out of the way. Fawn, the one who killed the fleeing assassin and made fucky eyes at McCann back in Chapter 1, however...

...was not so fortunate. Crimson fingers raked across her face.

The Dark Angel screamed, the first time McCann ever heard her make a sound. Then, an instant later, she exploded in a fireball of white flame. Involuntarily, McCann’s eyes snapped shut.

He hears a gurgling noise behind him and turns around, bumping into someone hurrying away. He opens his eyes and sees that Benedict’s still seated at the table.

Except his head’s been cut off.

And the Red Death didn’t do it, either. While everyone was distracted by the invincible fire vampire, someone went and chopped the poor Tremere’s head off. He instantly starts rotting away, because when a vampire dies their bodies decay to the point they should have if they had died instead of being embraced. The longer they live, the less there is left of them afterwards.

The Red Death has suddenly vanished as well. Post-battle, we’ve got a thoroughly emasculated Ventrue Prince and are down a doorman, a bodyguard, a wizard, and a few nameless cannon fodder vampires and ghouls. The Red Death lost nothing.

Vargoss, presumably covered in a bit of dust and with a banana peel on his shoulder, begins bringing order among the panicked vampires with help from “his overwhelming force of majesty,” which I’m assuming is the high-level Presence power of the same name. With the Red Death gone, the force keeping the exit shut vanishes too (so that wasn’t Eddie’s fault, may he rest in- oh right, damned), but Vargoss won’t let anyone leave until they calm the hell down. He doesn’t want anyone breaking the Masquerade by running past all those goth kids while screaming about fire vampires.

Meanwhile, Flavia, the surviving twin, is having a bad time.

Alone, on her knees in the center of the room, Flavia cried tears of black blood. Dark Angel and Red Death. McCann felt certain their duel was far from over.

Unless someone with a more impressive title comes along to challenge him.

The photos of Baba Yaga are gone, along with anything else Benedict brought with him, his assassin having pocketed them. McCann finds a lone clue, dropped by the assassin when he bumped into them a few moments ago: a green sequin. The kind from the dress Rachel Young, the supposed ghoul singer, was wearing.

Hurriedly, he scanned the crowd. Though no one had been permitted to depart, there was no sign of Rachel Young. The singer had disappeared. McCann was not surprised.

And that’s Chapter 3 done. We won’t see the aftermath of the Red Death’s attack right away. Next chapter we’re taking a break from McCann to focus on a new character in Washington D.C., which has apparently gone to all hell.

I mean that in a World of Darkness way, not the real life bad timeline way.

[refusaltobow]

The Siege of Blacklight: A Letter for a Forgotten Soul

The letter had drifted in on a model boat, calmly resting in the corner of the harbour and laying undisturbed and undamaged for the longest time. The Siege had been mostly over at this point but still it was not entirely peaceful yet. Uneasy councils had been taking place, and no one had any time for the harbour really.

But after weeks of fear, tension was finally falling as the citizens felt more at ease to move about the city. So it was no surprise really that a child found the boat, that they opened the letter addressed to whomever would find the boat requesting that the boat be delivered to the local Temple. That contained within was a letter for a dear, deeply missed friend and an offering.

And so the child did as the letter bid, giving the boat and its objects to the Temple where a young priest read the first letter in the quiet of a small room in the Temple. It was a relief to read a letter like this - rather than having to deal with comforting the endless grieving families. The most painful casualties of any war were always the innocent citizens. The ones who never asked to go to war and yet were always caught up in it.

It was an...odd yet touching letter. Whoever had written it was not fluent in writing Dunmeris, but they had tried, with any words they did not know in Dunmeris being written in the Common Tongue.

To Whomever finds this boat,

For reason I cannot say, I am unable to deliver the enclosed letter and offering in person. I request most humbly that by the Grace of the Three that this boat and its contents be delivered to the Temple.

If you are of the Temple and are reading this I would politely ask of you a favour. I wish for the contents of this boat to be delivered to the Ramarys Family Tomb. The offerings to be burnt and the letter enclosed to be read aloud. I ask that the paintings be placed around the ash pit and the diary also be read aloud when possible.

I hope you understand my anonymity, the consequences of appearing in Blacklight would be too great on my part, though this pains me so.

The one whom the enclosed letter and offerings are for a close, departed friend. I can only beg that you do not speak of the letter’s contents, it is rather personal but I understand the dead can only know something if you speak.

The priest nodded to himself. This wasn't the first time he had had such requests, having dealt with many letters to lost forbidden loves.

Examining the contents of the boat he squinted at the objects. Well… This was a rather unusual assortment. Contained within was a bag of saltrice, some pinkish feathers and a bag that smelt like a mix of spices he could not identify. Additionally there was a reasonably thick small book that must have been the diary and a collection of small oil paintings, containing beautiful depictions of Tamriel’s various landscapes and wildlife. Some were even of Morrowind, the priest found himself chuckling at the painting of two nix hound pups play-fighting.

His squint grew as he read the name on the second letter. The Ramarys Clan were large and it was no surprise that no one could remember any of its members aside from Thetys.

But who was this Ramarys member?

Curiosity and duty caused the priest to immediately head out for the Ramarys Tomb which proved a challenge. Whilst he had lived in Blacklight for many years now and seldom found himself lost, he now found himself double-backing. The Siege had rendered much of the city unrecognisable and navigating the streets was treacherous in itself given all the loose rubble.

But what was strange, was that once the area with the family tombs had been reached the destruction was almost non-existent. It was surprising really that the tombs had not really been targeted at all, or even hit by accident. There were some other areas of the city that followed a similar trend. And whilst perhaps the Thalmor were wary of enraged Dunmer ancestors, surely they did not care about some spice shop? That little spice shop was remarkable, whilst the area it was in had been heavily hit that little shop had remarkably remained untouched.

The priest soon found the Ramarys Tomb and entered to find it completely dark which was no surprise. Given the Siege, family members would not have been coming here and the priests were stretched thin enough as it was, they just did not have time to ensure candles remained lit in all the tombs.

The spirits of this tomb were not best pleased, but the priest had long ago trained to ignore their anger. Instead he began to sing a gentle song in Dunmeris, lighting candles as he went and checking various ash pit. Soon the tomb was licked by the lights of many candles and the stagnant ash-scented air was being pushed away by the burning of whatever spices the priest had been able to find.

The spirits calmed, their presence dimming as they accepted the priest’s apology and went back to sleep once more.

It took a little bit of time, but soon he found the correct ash pit, double-checking the name and frowned. This ash pit was relatively recent and he swore this was the ash pit he saw the Drillmaster often sitting by. What was so special about the Dunmer whose ashes lay here? And how had such a Dunmer been forgotten so quickly and easily?

Murmuring the respective words, the offerings were burnt. And the paintings placed around the edge of the ash pit.

“Hello, someone has sent a letter for you.” The priest settled himself on a chair, opening the letter carefully and stopped. This was three pages! He had rarely received such long letters for the dead before!

Clearing his throat, the priest began to read and soon found tears pricking his eyes as the raw emotion of the letter hit him. The paper was covered in smudged ink from where the author’s tears had hit the paper.

My dear friend,

I would ask you how you’ve been but I'm guessing that when you're dead things change little. But I'll ask you anyway, I hope that wherever you are you are at peace.

I honestly don't know what to say any more than sorry. I am sorry I failed you. I am sorry I couldn't protect you. I am sorry I couldn't save you. I am so sorry for the horror Blacklight has been subjected to. I am sorry I couldn't do more and stop this.

I failed you and your people and I can only ask that you find it in yourself to forgive me. But if you don't I understand and it's honestly what I deserve. I’ve failed you a second time now. Once is forgivable, but two times? I understand if you hate me now.

But at the same time I cling to the hope you can forgive me - you were always the forgiving sort. Such a kind soul. You didn't deserve the fate that was dealt you.

No. Writing about that day only makes me cry more. I can only apologise that I couldn't do more. I should have been able to save you but my Magicka failed me. You were right, that such reliance on Magicka was foolish and yet you had come to realise relying purely on physical means was not enough. Especially when Magicka can form a shield at your back.

You never admitted it, but I could tell you saw its uses. I caught those nods.

But on that day I should have used my sword entirely, I should have saved my Magicka for when it really mattered and you’d still be here.

If anything that was my deepest regret. I do not regret in the slightest coming to Blacklight and even moreso I am deeply grateful you were assigned to me. I do not think I could have grown to appreciate your city as much as I have had I been with anyone else. All those adventures we had…

Do you remember when you bet 50 drakes that I couldn’t eat 10 marshmerrow hand pies in one go? Your face! And remember how I fed a Bantam guar that was wandering around, and how you said I shouldn’t because of what would happen? The next day I had so many Bantam guar outside my door! They were so adorable, oh if only I could have some!

Remember when I tried riding a guar for the first time and fell off? Or how I tried on some Redoran armour and it didn’t suit me at all and how silly I looked? And then you insisted on putting some Redoran war paint on me!

I never really learnt my way around the city, I always ended up getting lost. But I think that was more owing to exploration by the end as opposed to trying to find my way. Blacklight is a city that wants to explored and I couldn’t resist it.

Remember when you took me to that ridge beyond Blacklight to watch the sunrise? Neither of us spoke, it was so beautiful.

I learnt so much from this city and from you. I can only thank you and Blacklight for the experiences.

My only other regret would be that I didn’t tell you more. And sometimes I wonder if I should have told you, if I should ever tell you and yet I think it best if I keep some things to myself.

But back to the current situation, no matter how much it pains me. I have tried my hardest to ensure that the attacks were not directed at the tombs or the temples. I tried my best to have your favourite spots evaded, but I could not save Blacklight entirely. I could not be caught but I hope my actions have saved your city and her people enough. Morrowind has suffered enough already, it does not deserve this and if I had more power I would have stopped this attack. My aunt did what she could, neither of us wanted this. We tried so hard to prevent it but our voices were ignored, I can only hope that our actions were enough to reduce the bloodshed.

But this letter was not just to bring you and I sadness. I want to tell you some other things.

I did promise you I would show you Tamriel and it breaks my heart I never could. That we were so close and yet we never got there. And whilst this isn’t the same, it is the nearest I can do - the paintings I’ve provided are of the various landscapes I’ve seen throughout my travels. I hope these paintings allow you to travel a bit (I am not sure how much you can travel Tamriel from the afterlife).

After I left Blacklight I did not exactly go straight home. I was home for a few months but then I knew I just had to travel, I decided to travel for you, I had no idea why at the time but now I know - so that I could document as much of Tamriel as I could for you. I had already seen a fair bit of Tamriel but that had been on missions, never at a more relaxed pace where I could explore. (I have included a small book, in there are my most interesting diary extracts I thought would you amuse you! Maybe a priest or priestess could read you one every so often?)

Each of the paintings I have included do have an accompanying story in the diary, but I think I’ll include one in this letter.

The picture with the Orisimer was painted from within the stronghold looking out at the stunning view of the mountains. It was a funny story that one. I approached the stronghold, thinking it better to ask the orcs first if they would mind if I sat a little way off and paint the mountains with their stronghold. I wasn’t too sure of Orisimer, and wanted to keep on their good side. They simply asked that I keep a good distance, they couldn’t figure out why anyone would be out here painting! ‘Paint only goes on the body!’ I remember clearly was what one of them said. And so I got myself comfortable and started painting. A few hours went by and I looked up to find one of the womer just standing there watching me. She had a child with her, they were curious but reluctant to approach.

I smiled at them and turned my painting around so they could see. After some persuasion, they approached and the child was so excited! The womer was fascinated by the painting and wanted to know what there was to be gained from painting and so I explained. I told her how painting allows me to capture scenes that could be gone one day. It allows me to show others who have not travelled or cannot. I told her it was something I had always enjoyed.

Then she asked me why I wanted to paint the stronghold. “I’ve never painted one before and the Orsimer do fascinate me. You are a very resilient people.”

Whilst she could not understand how I could enjoy painting, by the end of the day I had several Orisimer children sitting about me as I did a painting of them fighting a sabrecat (they really wanted me to paint them fighting something and they were so adorable I couldn’t say no!). They loved it! I have them to thank really, they ran back to the stronghold, encouraging me with them and showed my painting to everyone.

After the Chief decided I was not a threat, just odd, he permitted I could stay a few nights in the stronghold for safety. He was so taken by the painting I did of his children he requested I do a portrait of him. He was very pleased with the result and I enchanted it so it would not be damaged.

Orisimer have a curious way of life, and yet for a race known for being violent those days in the stronghold were peaceful. The Orisimer did spar but the general atmosphere of the Stronghold was oddly tranquil. There was no one else around for miles, I guess that’s why they had built their stronghold there.

I stayed a few days in that Stronghold, I ended up painting them a giant portrait of Malacath as thanks. In return I was given a sword which was magnificently crafted as to be expected. It really does have the perfect balance and has served me well thus far.

There is one other thing to add, that you have to know. You were such a dear friend to me, such an honest and noble person. You represented House Redoran truthfully and I don’t think I will ever again meet someone as selfless as you. Gods how I miss you! And whilst I cannot be here physically to talk to you but in a letter and provide you with an offering and paintings, there was one other thing I could do for you. When I returned home I ended up getting married, my husband is a lovely man - I think you would have got along well with him!

Just two years ago we were blessed with a baby girl and even then I knew what I was going to name her! I insisted that she be named after you!

She’s already very inquisitive, and already showing signs of Magicka! I have no other explanation of how she managed to get a jam jar from one of the highest cupboards! I walked in to find her covered in jam, she’d eaten most of the jar would you believe?! And she was smearing it absolutely everywhere!

She’s got my hair but it’s really curly, gosh she’s adorable!

In a few years I’ll tell her all about you and Blacklight! You really were the person who made me see everything differently and I thank you. I can only do you justice by passing on such knowledge, and of course, naming her after you.

I just hope that things will change so that one day I can bring her here and perhaps I could talk to you? I don’t quite understand how getting ghosts to appear works in the tombs but I’m sure it can be explained.

Even though you cannot reply I am grateful I could write this. I can only hope this letter finds you.

And thank you for everything once again,

Thank you so so much,

An old and dear friend who visited Blacklight fifty or so years ago.

The priest sat utterly still as he finished the letter, his throat painful from the lump that had grown there. His face was streaked with silent tears. For someone who had seemingly been forgotten they had not been by this person. And what they had said and how they clearly were not Dunmer… The letter seemed to suggest that they were with the Thalmor, surely that was impossible! And yet it made so much sense…

This person had been to Blacklight before and had clearly fallen in love with the city. So much so that they had returned to take part in this Siege, not to cause suffering but to try and prevent it. Now it made sense, why some places had been avoided. Could it have been that that little spice shop was special to this departed Dunmer?

It was only now that the priest noticed the air around him was warm as the ash pit was tinged with a blue light.The spirit had indeed heard the letter and was incredibly happy. A soft smile lifted the priest’s lips as he blinked away the tears and wiped his face.

Focusing on the paintings, he tilted his head as he decided how best to display them. Nodding to himself, he ambled off for a few minutes, returning with an armful of ash yams. Given he had nothing else, he was using the spare ash yams stored in the tomb.

“I’ll just get these paintings into a better position for you…” Kneeling down he picked up one of the paintings and set it gently on the rim of the ash pit to lean it against the ash yam. This he repeated until the pit was ringed in paintings.

Finally he opened the box at the side of the ash pit where other offerings were sometimes stored, placing both the letter and the diary carefully inside.

Standing up, the priest surveyed the pit once more. Yes, the paintings were in a good position he thought.

“I’ll leave you in peace now. Whoever you are, you sound like you are an incredible person. I’ll come back tomorrow and read you another story from that diary.” A soft smile graced the priest’s lips, nodding as the blue light flared before it fractured and drifted away in faint wisps. Even in these dark times, some happiness could be found.

Sighing, the priest turned about and left quietly knowing soon he would have to be dealing with the grim nature of funeral arrangements and comforting families. But at least he had been able to offer a forgotten spirit comfort that they were not so forgotten.

[frangipanidownunder]

Dearest Dana

Written for the amazingly talented @scull-dog and the prompt: Mulder is cleaning out the attic when he finds the email Scully printed out in trustno1. Look on her blog for the drawing created especially for this story. Tagging @today-in-fic

Set pre season 10. 

Several boxes of photos, his original FBI badge, rolls of film, two old Kodaks, a pair of binoculars with a lens missing, shoelaces knotted in a ball, piles of yellowing newspapers, a Tamagotchi, an old Nokia flip phone, a tie with ghost skulls floating on it, and wedged underneath, a matching pair of boxers. He couldn’t remember who’d given them to him. Probably Frohike. He pulled all the items out, even the blow-up alien doll complete with red hair, and a bag of old VHS tapes labelled ‘property of FBI’ which was a sure sign they were not. He rifled through his booty but couldn’t find what he was looking for.

He climbed over the mess and lifted up the old Aztec blanket that was draped over a chest. Dust jittered into the already stale air and he sneezed as he lifted the lid. The chest used to sit at the end of their bed, a relic from her apartment. He could still hear her curses when she walked into it at night, blaming the dark, the long days, the wine or him.

“I never used to do this, when it was at my place,” she said, climbing back into the bed.

He kissed her grazed shin. “Everything is bigger and bolder at our place, Scully.”

She breathed out a smile and let him run kisses over her tummy, running her hands through his hair and pulling him up so that he lay between her thighs, pushing against her. “Everything,” she said.

 Now everything was just a mess. The floor, his files, their future. He pulled the contents of the box out along with the musty smell of old memories. Wrapped in tissue paper was a wad of clothes. Scully’s old suit jackets. Assorted cuts and colours. He held them up to his face, breathing in the raw essence that still clung to them. On the shoulder of one, a dark maroon, was a strand of her hair. Mid-length. About the time he was away. The time he told himself that being apart was for the best, for their safety. He’d often tried to put himself back in that frame of mind, those desperate times, when it seemed that the world was collapsing in on them, that the future offered nothing but the looming fear of death, that the past had finally overtaken them. But he’d never been able to recapture it, never been able to fully justify that decision. And now he can see that it was wrong. Plain and simple. Being apart would never be for the best. That much was clear.

           He unfolded the jacket and imagined Scully filling it; her curves and lines, the shape of her transmuting over their years together - soft to hard, hard to soft, and everything in between. He spread the sleeves on the floor, swiping them flat. He straightened the collar, pulled the ends down. He wondered why she kept them. They marked her working life, just like his ties. A fashion parade of years. He looked at it for a long time, the stitching, the buttons, the length, lines that ran through it. It was well-made. Smart. He couldn’t remember her wearing it. It must have been something she bought when he was missing. A buzz of emotion stirred in the pit of his throat. He coughed it away. The jacket held the moments in her life that he didn’t know about, that he was not a part of. He began to fold it back up when he noticed a stub of paper sticking out of the pocket.

           It felt soft in his hands and he thought of her skin under his fingers, the way she shifted and moved under him. The paper was worn, tiny threads on the surface, distorting some of the letters, along with the creases. He blinked as he read. The words jolted through him with such ferocity that he felt it like a blow to his guts. He doubled over.

Dearest Dana.

How long had he looked at the blinking screen trying to find a way to start? How many words had he deleted before he settled for that greeting? What had she felt when she read them, her name, used so rarely but always with the weight of intimacy behind it?

He read on. Inside him the fear he’d lived through then scorched its way along his veins, so real, so familiar. Those months of not knowing anything but the desperate need to be right, to validate his quest. He spent every day unsure that his son and the love of his life were safe. He spent every day hating himself for putting them in that situation, hating her for being able to kiss William, rock him to sleep, whisper to him, tell him stories.

           I’m lonely, Dana, uncertain of my ability to live like this.

           His own words reached inside his chest and opened it wide, exposing his heart, leaving him breathless. More than ten years since he wrote those words and never had they been more real, more cutting.

She packed her clothes in a suitcase that seemed too compact for the task. But everything about Scully was compact. Not just physically, but in the way she was restrained, closed off. She wheeled it to the door and all he could hear was the squeak of the roller and the roar of dismay in his ears. She stood for a while, eyes cast down. Like she was waiting for permission to leave. Or maybe a reason to stay. He held the back of the chair watching his own fingers turn white as she walked through the door and started the car, the scrunch of the tyres on the driveway as mournful as any funereal anthem. Funny how he hadn’t noticed before that there was a different pitch when a car arrived. He’d stayed there, hands on that chair, for the longest time. Suspended in a hellish state of disbelief that she had left. Left him.

           He knew she spent every day unsure that the love of her life was safe – she phoned him morning and night to make him tell her he was doing okay. And he spent every day hating himself for putting her in that situation, hating her for being able to go to work, talk to colleagues and get out of bed in the morning.

           Her phone calls became nightly ones. Then Sunday ones. Then, when he hadn’t heard from her in a couple of weeks, he phoned her. There was noise in the background, a male voice. Laughter. He hung up and poured a large shot of whiskey. He watched the amber liquid splash around the glass, the reflections of the soft glow of the lamp Scully bought from an antique shop in Maine. He lifted it to his nose and inhaled the warm grains. He held it tight in his fist then launched it across the room, revelling in the shattering glass. He watched the liquid fall down the wall in streaks and he laughed and laughed until he cried.

           She found him like that, hunched on the chair, tear-stained, silent. Her face was calm but her fingers trembled as she checked him over. She called him morning and night, never missing her time. She visited more often. She brought him books and music and fruit and plants for the yard. She brought him hope.

           I want to come home.

He read that email over and over, like she must have done all those years before. Trying to find the meaning behind the words. What would he write today? What would she write? Dearest Fox? Never. Her intimacy towards him was never captured in the spoken. Only in the way she watched him, the way she touched him, the way she let him in.

I want to come home.

Darkness shrouded the bedroom, their room. He flipped on the lamp and unfolded the email again. He read aloud this time, hearing his own intonation, the desperation in his words. When he’d finished, he folded it along the original creases and held it in his fingers until sleep took him. The phone woke him. The email was lying on his chest. On his heart.

I want to come home.

           “Mulder?” her voice ran through him in golden waves.           

He tucked the email in an envelope and pushed it into his bedside drawer.

He sees her standing on the busy street, sharp in her blue jacket and spike heels.

           “Uber?”

           “Hitch-hiked. Relax, Scully. I’m kidding.”

[ireviewbooksstuff]

1. Genesis Alpha (Rune Michaels)

.Genesis Alpha was recommended to me by a friend in high school who said it 'messed her up' and she needed someone to understand the mental journey it took her on. With an introduction like that, how could I possibly pass it up? I read this book in one sitting. Once I picked it up it was impossible for me to put it down again. This book is combination adventure, action, science fiction, and mystery without ever really seeming to be any of those at any one time. It is an indescribable combination but definitely one that made the book super thrilling. I was at times literally on the edge of my seat reading it, even turning pages so fast that I got paper cuts. It's one of those books where you really want to know how it's all going to turn out, and the ending is so unbelievably, satisfyingly surprising. This book, while being an awesome book to read just for fun, is also capable of sparking some actual meaningful discussions. I won't spoil the topic, but this book is mindblowing and so were the thoughts I was able to share with my friend who recommended the book and then with my friend who I forces to read it.

2. Raven Boys [Book 1 of the Raven Cycle Series] (Maggie Stiefvater)

. I LOVE the entirety of the Raven Cycle series. These books technically fall into the young adult category, but the themes are meaningful and the plot is mature enough that it is a fine read for anyone who identifies with an adult level of reading as well. These books are not only fun to read with an interesting, fantasy- based story, they also incorporate elements of Welsh mythology, a genre that is not common explored but is definitely worth looking into. The book follows an unlikely group of friends and has just the right balance of hard fantasy- ranging from physic mediums to secret magical forests- and real problems that make the characters likeable and even relatable. These books are categorized as heavily science fiction, which fits but not in the sense of aliens or space travel. It is almost like two great stories in one- the story of a group of friends who the reader follows on the path of discovering how they all fi together as a group, and the story of adventure and danger that travels across all of the books.

3. Shatter Me [Book 1 of the Shatter Me trilogy] (Taheri Mafi)

. The Shatter Me books take place in a post- apocalyptic world, so if you are a fan of the Hunger Games or Divergent, you'll probably like these books. I was unsure about these books at first because in the beginning, the protagonist Juliette is one of the most unlikeable and weak female characters ever put to paper. However, if you persevere through some of her more ridiculous moments, Juliette undergoes what is singlehandedly the most incredible character arc of any book I have ever read. She is a true badass, and she does what is right for her, not necessarily what others think she should do or what you would expect her to do as the presumed 'hero' of the books. She easily, in the end, puts both Triss and Katniss to shame. These books are also a bit more fantasy than the Hunger Games or Divergent books, in that they do encompass some aspects of high fantasy such as certain special powers of some of the characters. I was skeptical about this, but it wasn't at all overbearing and didn't have much of a hold over the story as to be ridiculous. The different powers and their implications are also very symbolic and sparked some great conversations between myself and my friend who recommended the series to me in the first place, also promising me as I am promising you that even if she seems hopeless in the beginning Juliette is anything but.

4. Cinder [Book 1 of the Lunar Chronicles] (Marissa Meyer)

.The Lunar Chronicles are for the most part guilty pleasure reads in that there isn't all that much substance in them. While they do explore some heavy topics in different ways (such as talking about the differences in people and how they are treated by having the main character, Cinder, be a cyborg surrounded by human beings who discriminate against her) they are mostly just plot books. Sometimes I like a little bit of plot, and these books had me so totally hooked that my friend and I went to meet the author when the last book came out. They also include some aspects of fantasy but what is probably the best part about them is that each book is essentially based off of an old fairy tale (Cinder is Cinderella, Scarlet is Little Red Riding Hood, Cress is Rapunzel, and Winter is Snow White) It is interesting to see these characters set in a futuristic world that addresses more of how they would fit in today and on their flaws than on the 'perfect princess' archetype.

5. The Night Circus (Erin Morgenstern)

.The Night Circus is one of those stand- alone books that really needs to be read to be understood. There is really no way to explain any of what goes on in this book. It is part adventure, part action, and minimal part romance that definitely makes for an interesting read. This book basically falls into every category of every genre, and is one that I feel can be enjoyed by anyone. At times, it is hard to follow, but rather than make it difficult it just makes the book more interesting to read because I know that all I wanted to do when I was reading it was to finish it and see how everything came together.

6. Joyland (Stephen King)

.While Stephen King generally focuses on more fictional scenarios for his books (such as vampires or killer clowns), Joyland is more of a traditional murder mystery with very, very little of any of that brought in in the form of a ghost who barely makes an appearance in the novel. This book is fast paced and exciting, something that I hate to say I don’t usually think about King novels, which I feel are usually unnecessarily long and drawn out. Also contrary to other King novels I have read, this one actually has an ending straight out of a slasher film or murder mystery movie that is opposite the often anti- climactic endings to King's novels. If you are a fan of mystery novels, you definitely can't go wrong with this one.

7.  Everything, Everything (Nicola Yoon)

.This book recently became a movie, which of course I went to see. I have never seen a movie that stays so true to the book before. It was so good and incorporated everything that I loved about the book. This is incentive enough to read the book, but before I even knew the movie was in progress I was in love with the book. The relationship between the characters is entirely emotional, which allows an insight into the characters and how they work. Each of the characters is a good model for thought reflection and the book touches on issues in a way that makes them easy to understand while also contributing to make the plot better. They act not as a detriment but as proof of something that can be worked around.

8. The Sisters (Claire Douglass)

.This book was a trip from start to finish. It follows an unstable young woman who finds herself living in a house with a two girls, one of whose brothers lives with them. The four young adults are left to their own devices, but soon discover that mysterious, sinister events that live the newest member of the household feeling targeted. This is a story of jealousy and taboo with a twist that left me with chills, not only because it was unexpected but because it was beyond unusual as compared to anything I'd ever read before. Definitely give it a go if you like mystery books or if you like stories where there is no extreme plot, only a story that seems realistic in a place that anyone could visualize themselves in, giving the book a creepy vibe with its sense of reality.

9. Station Eleven (Emily St. John Mandel)

.Station Eleven was recommended to me by my Lit teacher, and it was one of the only books that a teacher has ever told me to read and that I've enjoyed this thoroughly. Station Eleven takes place in two different worlds: pre- and post-apocalypse. The characters are shown separately from each other and are followed through their times in the before and after of the apocalypse. I like the presentation of a post- apocalyptic world in this novel. Rather than the typical zombie apocalypse or the Hunger Games- esque type of dystopian world, this apocalypse is a flu or cold that literally just wipes out the majority of the population and leaves only those who are immune. There are no lingering effects like in a zombie setting and a government does not form like in many of the dystopian novels I've read. Instead, we see the lives of these people as they were before, and then how they were once these people need to live in abandoned villages foraging for their own food and trying to stay out of the paths of other groups. It incorporates everything I love about the Walking Dead without the typical zombie nature of apocalypse books. It is an exploration into what the world could really be like when people are left to their own devices.

10. Inkheart (Cornelia Funke)

.Have you ever wanted to be drawn into the world of your favorite book? To be among your favorite characters- heroes and villains alike- and see the events first hand right in front of you? For Mo and Meggie of Inkheart, they would do anything to stop the crossing of worlds that turns their lives upside down. Mo binds books. He has always done it and he's very good at it. What he's also good at is making the books he reads aloud come alive… literally. When Mo reads free the characters of the book Inkheart, he and his daughter and his late wife's aunt resolve to set the world to rights and be rid of Capricorn and his men forever. This book incorporates action, fantasy, and adventure while also showing an appreciation by the author for books and the craft of writing.

11. Hamlet (William Shakespeare)

.Almost everyone knows the story of Hamlet, even if they don't know they do. A man and his father, the King, torn apart in tragedy by an Uncle who seeks the throne. Sound familiar? Disney's Lion King is based heavily off of the main points of Hamlet. The original, of course, is much more extreme in the depictions of vengeance, passion, and madness. Before reading Hamlet, I thought I didn't like Shakespeare. Then I realized I just wasn't reading the right books. Hamlet is truly interesting, as is the modern retelling Nutshell by Ian McEwan, which I would suggest reading after. Having a modern retelling of a book only makes me more excited to read the original and then to see how the characters I have grown attached to are incorporated into today's world.

12. The Girl on the Train (Paula Hawkins)

.When I think of this book, the first word that comes to mind is suspenseful. This is one of those books- and now one of those great movies- that depicts a character who has dug themselves into such a hole that they are no longer taken seriously… even when they're telling the truth. No one believes Rachel, hardly even herself. Is she making everything up, or did she really witness a murder through the window of the train she takes every day? No one can be trusted and no one can trust. The characters are put into positions of peril that are incredibly fascinating and dangerous and nerve- wracking. This book to movie adaptation is also incredible, which was incentive enough for me to read the novel in the first place and I' glad I did.

13. Enchantment (Orson Scott Card)

.You know the story of Sleeping Beauty, but you don’t know it like this. Card explores a classic fairytale through the lens of Russian mythology in a tale of adventure, magic, and romance that only increases my love for the Disney movie. The story is explores more as an adventure and less as a romance following a male protagonist who has a lot of help from independent females who are empowering and admirable. It is a great version of the story and has all of Card's usual excitement and interest.

14. Dexter (Jeff Lindsay)

.Dexter is one of my favorite TV shows. However, as funny as the characters are on screen, they barely hold a candle to the hilarity and depth of the characters in the books. Dexter's dark humor is constantly on display in the book, as his thoughts are a running commentary throughout everything that happens. It is rare that a 'hero' shows so many signs of villainy as Dexter does. It is not often- or ever- that I find myself sympathizing with and rooting for serial killers. The reason I like Dexter is because there are essentially three stories going on at once: Dexter helping his sister at the police department solve crimes, Dexter keeping his identity a secret with his relationship with Rita as a disguise, and Dexter following the 'rules' to figure out who his next victim will be. There is never too much focus on any one area of Dexter's life and it keeps the book fast paced and interesting.

[dustycelt]

Hope - Chapter 3

Universe: Supernatural, season 12

Genre: canon divergence

Characters: Wren Krieger (OC), Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Mary Winchester, Castiel

Summary: Wren Krieger was saved by the Winchester brothers two years ago. They took her in and she now hunts with them. However, Wren has fled the bunker which leaves the Winchesters scrambling trying to find her.

Word count:  1770

Warnings: Minor spoilers are possible, Dean is going to be angry in this chapter (I’m warning you just in case)

A/N:  Sam figured out which car Wren took from the garage. Dean gets upset about her choice. They find the letter that Wren left. Words in italics are from Wren’s letter.

Hope Masterlist

Previously:

“I figured out which car Wren used,” Sam said with a slightly mischievous grin. Dean just quirked an eyebrow at his brother.  Sam continued to look at Dean and waited for him to catch on. This caused Dean to take pause. Why would Sam look at him like that?  He slightly lowered his head while he closed his eyes. He hated it when Sam did this and he knew that Sam was leaving him to figure it out on his own.  That meant something. Suddenly it hit him.

-Dean’s POV-

Dean snapped his head up with a scowl on his face, “No, no, no, no, no.” He turned to Sam. “She. Did. Not.”

Sam tilted his head slightly to the right and simply lifted his eyebrows. Dean continued to look across the table silently praying that Sam was pulling his leg. There was no way that Wren would touch that car. Not that car. He couldn’t believe it. Wait. Oh yes, he could. Wren had her eyes on that convertible for months. She had begged on more than one occasion to take it out even just for a spin a mile down the road and back. Dean had kept trying to put her off the idea. He didn’t trust that car. If something happened while in that sardine can, Wren or anyone else for that matter would be crumpled beyond recognition. They didn’t disagree often except for that car. That damned car. It was a long-standing battle between the two of them.

While Dean was processing what Wren had done in the garage, Sam returned his focus back to his laptop.  Dean was quickly approaching livid. He also felt the worry for Wren increase. He hated this.

This was beyond needing a drink. He didn’t want to be numb. He wanted to make something hurt. He needed to punch something or someone. The only person around was Sam and he wasn’t going to hit him. His only other option right now was the punching bag down in the gym. He turned and was going to directly to the gym so he could at least relieve some of the tension. That’s when the white envelope propped against one of the table lamps in the corner of his vision seemingly called out to him.  

He walked over to the far table and just looked down at the stark white envelope. It was addressed to “The Winchesters”. He knew that handwriting. There was no mistaking it. He had seen it dozens of times on grocery lists, notes for cases and post-its stuck to seemingly random places in her room. Little notes to herself so she wouldn’t forget something that suddenly popped into her head. Wren. Dean’s heart dropped into his stomach.

The sequence of events started to play through his mind. She purposely stayed back from a case. She made sure that she was alone. She had left them. She had finally had enough of either the Winchester men or the hunter’s life. Possibly both. His mind reeled at the thought. It was one of his deepest fears.  Losing someone else he had considered a family member. He hated watching his family grow smaller and smaller over the years. Now it had happened again.

Dean slowly reached forward as if the envelope would burn or sting him the moment he touched it. He knew it wouldn’t physically harm him. He was afraid of the emotional pain that this letter was sure to cause him. He picked it up and just stared at it.  He couldn’t bring himself to even open it. Just the thought of rejection from her was too much.

“Sam.”

-Sam’s POV-

Sam’s thoughts were flying around inside his head.  He was trying to reach out to other hunters to find out if they had seen or talked to Wren in the past couple of days.  Maybe someone had called for backup on a case. That was Sam’s best scenario and he wasn’t going to let go of it unless something presented itself to indicate otherwise. Wren would have thought nothing of going to help another hunter that she trusted.  Not that she trusted many but there were a few that had her number. He had contacted the hunters that fell into that category. Most of them had gotten back to Sam already but so far none of them had good news. They did promise to let Sam know if they saw or heard anything.

He picked up phone up intending to call Jody about tracking the car.  As he unlocked the phone he heard Dean call his name.  “Yeah?” He looked up from his phone towards his brother across the room. He noticed that his head was bowed and shoulders were slumped. Dean looked defeated. This surprised Sam. It wasn’t often that anyone saw this side of Dean. Not even Sam. That’s when the cloud of doom descended.

Sam put his phone down on the table and sat up straighter in his chair, “Dean, what’s going on?” That’s when the eldest Winchester turned and held out an envelope.  Sam looked back and forth between the object in Dean’s hand and the devastated look on his brother’s face.  Sam swallowed thickly and approached Dean across the room.

Dean pushed the envelope towards his brother as he approached. “Here, I can’t open it, man. I just can’t.” Sam took it and slowly turned it over. Sam didn’t want to read it either. He didn’t know it but he was thinking the same things that Dean had upon finding the letter. He recognized the handwriting as well and immediately the feeling of rejection washed over him. No, this was worse because it was Wren. And that killed him.  

With a quick glance up at Dean, Sam opened the flap and pulled out the letter. As the paper pulled free, something fell to the floor. A bounce and a slight ting sound, it rolled on the floor towards one of Dean’s boots. Dean slowly crouched down and carefully picked it up. Sam watched as Dean stood again and opened his right palm for Sam to see.

“No,” Sam breathed out. He couldn’t believe it. There was one object on this planet that Wren was fiercely protective of and wouldn’t let out of her sight ever. Yet, there it was. Wren’s ring. That circle of silver was Wren’s most precious possession in the world and yet Dean now held it in his palm.

The brothers locked eyes. What did this mean? Why would she take off but leave this behind? There was only one way to find out apparently. Sam took a deep breath and opened the piece of paper that had been folded up with the ring. He began to read aloud:

Dearest Winchesters,

I’m sure that I have made you worry and I’m sorry about that. Something came up in New Hampshire that I need to handle.

“New Hampshire?!?” Dean yelled interrupting Sam and began pacing around the room, “Seriously?!? A case? She went on a case? Why would-”

Sam returned the favor to Dean by interrupting him. “Dean, would like me to finish the letter or not? I’m sure there’s a perfectly good reason as to why she did this. It’s not like her to just run off on her own like this. She’s too smart for that. We trained her better than that.”

Dean held up his hands in surrender. Sam raised an eyebrow at his older brother and continued…

I'll text one of you when I get there. I promise. Don't worry about me. Yes, I know that was futile to write but I did it anyway. I’ ll handle this on my own. You guys have given me the confidence to do it.

I will never be able to tell you enough how much that means to me. I literally owe you guys my life. You could have left me behind after saving me, but you didn't. I was able to find myself again with your help. It was a rocky road. For all of us. On top of everything else, you gave me hope again. And a family. A real one. It doesn't meet the definition of a normal family, but I wouldn't have it any other way.

Dean slammed his hand on the table and filled the room with his booming voice, “What the hell, Sam? Family? If we’re such a good ‘family,’ then what is this bull?” Sam started to wonder if reading this letter out loud to Dean was such a good idea anymore. However, when he looked down and saw the next line, he knew that he had to keep going.

Dean, please stop yelling and listen.

Dean jumped out of the chair he had just sat in moments earlier,  “Don’t tell me to stop yelling, Sammy! She could get herself hurt. Or worse.” He started pacing around the library again. It showed that he was trying to get a handle on the anger inside of him right now.  All because of Wren. Neither of them wanted to think about all of the gruesome things that they knew could happen to her out there.

Sam looked at Dean across the room, “I didn’t say that.” Dean whirled around to look at his brother. Sam pointed to the letter and grinned slightly. “Wren did.”

Dean narrowed his eyes and approached Sam. He glanced down at the letter in Sam’s hand. “Son of a bitch. She really did write that down.”  This seemed to take some wind out of Dean’s sails as he dropped into the chair across the table from Sam. He then wearily gestured for Sam to continue reading. Satisfied that Wren in her own way knew how to calm Dean down even just a little, Sam began the last of the letter. Sam cleared his throat.

Just to prove that I am planning to return once this is over, I'm leaving Lark’s ring with you. You know what it means to me and that I wouldn’t leave it behind lightly. I expect you to take care of it too. I mean it. Talk to you soon.

With love, Wren

Sam lowered the letter to the table. While he was relieved that she hadn’t left them, it still stung that she left without at least talking to them. He decided to push those questions to the side. They could wait until later. He needed to focus on finding her. That was the best use of his energy right now. He picked his phone up again and resumed placing a call to Jody.