#surely i have to work at least as hard again to condense it without losing some rlly valuable stuff.....

[tyrannuspitch]

11,500 words into this project. still four chapters to go. gnawing on the bars of my cage. the next four will be FUN but i want to be FINISHED......

[turtle-steverogers]

i was thinking but do you know the unsent project? it is this website where you can write a message to your first love that you never sent to them. now imagine steve writing one (or multiple) to bucky after he came out of the ice after nat told him about it... yeah

hello hi anon this broke me and it was too perfect not to turn into a ficlet klafjldskjfalskf thank you

-

Unsent Letters

To:

Steve’s fingers freeze over the keyboard, the cursor blinking at him. It feels like it’s taunting him-- teasing him with the burden of choking out a name. What should he even say? The sender is anonymous, but how many people are named Bucky out there? Would anyone even care?

To: Bu

Steve huffs and backspaces, his hands trembling as he curls them into fists. He isn’t sure what provoked Natasha to tell him about this website. It’s a cruel tease to everything he wishes he could say-- wished he could say before Bucky slipped through his fingers. And now his only option is yelling into an abyss. The text box is black and daunting. He turns it yellow. No, too happy. Green. Yes, that’s fine. Bucky’s favorite color was always green.

His gaze wanders away from the screen of his hefty Dell laptop and out the window of his apartment. DC’s low rising buildings span out in front of him. His gut aches; he misses New York already. But he knows being there would only mangle his soul further, seeing his already alien home torn to shreds by literal space whales. He huffs, thinking of Bucky’s comics. His stories came to life after all. Bucky would have probably vibrated out of his skin if he knew there was other life out there.

To: My astronaut

How’s space treating you? It’s treating me pretty badly, if I’m being honest. If only you could see what it’s done to Brooklyn. I think you’d be pretty mad at it if you knew…

Steve hesitates, reading back over what he’s typed. It’s stupid as hell, and he cringes, but he doesn’t backspace. His fingers find the keys again.

I miss you something awful. I don’t think that even encompasses how much I’m hurting without you. I feel so lost right now-- space is much bigger and scarier than you’d think. I know you’d love it. I wish you could see bits of it, but god, I just want to go home. I want you to come home.

Steve freezes again and finds the screen blurry where tears have welled in his eyes. His jaw clenches as he pictures the way Bucky would laugh at him-- teasing him for his dramatics and ruffling his hair. He wishes he could be there now, rolling his eyes and nudging Steve’s shoulder.

“What’re you upsetting yourself for?” He’d say, gently closing the laptop and coaxing Steve into his arms. “I’m right here, pal.”

And if Steve closes his eyes, he can almost feel Bucky’s warmth enveloping him. But he’s not there. He’s dead, and Steve’s a goddamn ghost, drifting through a future that doesn’t know him.

He opens his eyes and stares at the text box, then clicks submit.

The screen loads, and his message is gone, his pain forever documented in the abyss.

-

For someone who fought aliens two weeks after waking up from his impromptu seventy year sleep, Steve’s life is pretty monotonous. He contemplates this unfortunate fact as he stands in front of his toaster, hair sticking up on the back of his head as he nurses a mug of coffee and waits for his toast to pop.

It’s 5:45 in the morning and he tries to remember a time when he didn’t rise this early. Before the war, perhaps. Though, he’s always been a bit of an early bird. His home life was sporadic to put it lightly and he’d learned from an early age that the sooner he was awake, the better it was for everyone. Vigilance is not a new concept for Steve.

He hasn’t always stayed up late, though. That’s certainly new, and he feels this fact viscerally as he catches sight of his reflection in the microwave. There are bags under his eyes that will be gone by mid-morning thanks to the serum. Dermatologists hate him, Natasha says. Steve thinks he’s pretty lucky that the serum more or less equipped him with a built-in anti-aging agent. His father had started balding by thirty.

His toast pops and he starts a little, blinking blearily at the slightly burnt bread as he pulls it out of the toaster with his thumb and forefinger. He spreads on the same raspberry jam and butter that he uses every morning and tries not to think of how bland it tastes in his mouth as he eats it standing at the counter. Another routine.

He tries not to look at last night’s dishes in the sink as he stacks his plate and silverware on top and doesn’t bother sorting out his hair before pulling on his sneakers and slipping out of his apartment. The sun hasn’t quite risen yet, only the beginning tendrils of light sneaking over the low tops of the DC buildings, and Steve vaguely regrets not grabbing a sweatshirt before he left. It’s not quite Summer yet and the mornings could still get pretty cool.

He’s about to take off down the street when he freezes. Natasha is sitting on the steps of his complex, wearing a pair of pink tinted sunglasses and tossing up and down the keys to her car. Steve blinks, rubs his eyes, then blinks again. Nope. She’s still there.

“Nat?”

Natasha looks up at him and smiles. “Hello.”

Steve shifts, uncomfortable. “Hi. You need something? Is there a mission?”

“No,” Natasha says lightly, standing. “You’re not running this morning, though. Come on, I’m taking you to Starbucks.”

“What?”

“Starbucks. You’re going to try it.”

“I don’t want--”

“Steve, you do the same thing every day. Step out of your comfort zone a little.”

Steve frowns, but Natasha’s right-- he really doesn’t ever stray from his routine.

“Fine,” he says, and twenty minutes later, they’re strolling into the nearest Starbucks.

He’s only been in one before, and that was to use the restroom while on a run. He’d bought a water bottle in an attempt to not be rude and use their facilities without giving them any business, but he hadn’t even considered the expansive menu. All the fancy names were too daunting.

They’re just as daunting now as he stares up at the board, heart hammering out of his chest as he’s faced with indecision. Natasha takes one look at his face, and reaches out to squeeze his arm.

“I’ll order something for you,” she says. “What kind of coffee do you like?”

Steve gives her a pained look. “Um… just coffee?”

Natasha quirks a smile and orders him something called a caramel macchiato. He’ll take it, he guesses.

The drink is too damn sweet and sugary and he almost gags. Still, he was always told to finish what he was given, so he drinks the whole thing.

-

To: Mr. Sweet Tooth

You’d fucking love it here. Everything is packed with sugar and sweetness-- enough to make even my teeth rot. I had something called a caramel macchiato today and it tasted like someone took your ma’s caramels and condensed them into a cup. I couldn’t stand it, but I know if you were here, you’d want at least twelve. I hope you’re enjoying all the sweets you can up in space.

Love, Mr. Boring

-

Steve’s fingers are stiff and frozen as he works at the straps of his stealth suit. The tangy taste of saltwater still sits heavy on his tongue, and he clenches his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering too harshly as he finally peels off his suit. It’s not much better, being naked, but at least the wet fabric isn’t clinging to him anymore.

The mission had been pretty straightforward until some alien tech managed to blast the quinjet to kingdom come, and they all free-fell straight into the freezing Atlantic.

Steve had managed to keep it together as they took down the goddamn mad scientist that fucked them over, but now that he’s home and alone, he can feel the adrenaline crashing.

He’s shaking from more than just the cold as he draws himself a warm bath, and he pulls his knees up to his chest, trying to breathe through the panic that wants to engulf his entire being.

He loses time for a bit, and comes back to himself lying in his bed, burrowed under several thick layers. He feels so cold, down to his very soul-- a chill that he can never seem to truly shake, even when he’s warm.

Not for the first time, he wishes Bucky were there to hold him. He slips off to sleep thinking old, comforting thoughts of Bucky rubbing his hands between his own, coaxing his head under his chin to engulf him in that natural warmth of his. He always was a fucking furnace.

But when Steve wakes an hour later, shaking hard enough to move the bed with the force of the nightmare he’d dropped into, Bucky is not there to soothe away the ice.

-

To: JB

im so cold and i cant breathe ever and nothing feels right. I dont know what to do, u were always the problem solver between us and i cant think straight right now and i just want you here please. I cant do this anymore, im so tired please come back. I need you please

-

The Winter Soldier file sits in front of Steve-- a horrifying nightmare wrapped up in a neat brown folder. Residual nausea swirls around in his gut as he comes down from the horrible high of reading through the contents. His hands shake where they grasp the thick paper. His heart clenches hard in his chest.

Bucky is alive. Bucky is alive, and he’s been unmade.

Steve doesn’t know where he is-- if he’s escaped, or if Hydra found him again. It’s been three weeks now since the helicarriers, and he’s only just gotten the courage to sit down and wade through the shit that is Bucky’s reality.

He just hopes he’s safe. God, he hopes.

Sam says he’ll help him look, and Steve needs to know he’s at least out of danger, but he barely knows where to start.

And he’s sorry. He’s so fucking sorry.

Blinking out of his reverie, Steve looks at his laptop. He feels strange and detached as he reaches for it and logs in.

To: Bucky

And yes, that feels right. He should use his name, since he suspects no one has for a long, long time.

I’m so sorry for what happened to you. I’m sorry that you’ve been hurting so quietly for so long. I understand if you’re not ready to come home-- I understand if you never are. I just hope that you know that there will always be a place with me that is safe. I love you so much and I’m here, forever and always.

Love, Steve.

He’s not naive. He knows it would be dangerous to submit that particular message, so he doesn’t. But that’s okay. That one’s just for him-- for them.

-

“Steve? What is the… Unsent Project?”

Steve frowns and pokes his head out of the kitchen. Bucky is sitting on the couch in the living room, using his laptop, because his own is having storage issues.

Bucky looks at him. “It’s one of your saved tabs. What is it?”

And oh, fuck. Steve had forgotten to remove that from his homepage-- it really wasn’t needed anymore. He blushes all the way to his ears.

“Oh, it’s-- nothing. Not anything important--”

But Bucky has already clicked on the tab.

“The Unsent Project,” he reads aloud. “A collection of unsent text messages to… first… loves…”

He trails off as he processes what he’s looking at, and Steve can’t quite read his expression when he looks at him again. His eyebrows are furrowed, and he’s looking at Steve like he’s some sort of kicked puppy. Steve shifts, uncomfortable.

“Were you sending me… messages? While I was dead?”

Steve swallows. “Um…” and now that Bucky says it out loud, it really does sound quite sad. He shrugs. “It’s Natasha’s fault?”

Bucky shakes his head, clicking on the search bar. He starts to type his name, but Steve shakes his head.

“I didn’t use your name.”

“Oh,” Bucky says, then frowns at him again. “What did you use?”

Steve blushes harder, sitting next to Bucky and taking the laptop from him.

“Um…” he hesitates, then types what he was sure he used as his first alias.

My astronaut

The screen buffers and loads, then fifty or so messages pop up. Steve scrolls down-- it doesn’t take long to find his.

They’re both quiet as they read, and Steve cringes. Jeez, he really had been pretty dramatic. Next to him, Bucky makes a hurt noise.

“Oh, honey,” he murmurs, taking the laptop back from Steve. He reads the message again, then once more, and reaches out for Steve. “Aw, I’m here now.”

Steve huffs, embarrassed. “I know,” he says. “That was way back, like, three weeks after I woke up.”

Bucky stills. “You fought aliens three weeks after you woke up?”

“... More like two.”

Bucky hums. “Are there others?”

“Yeah,” Steve says, reaching out to type on Bucky’s lap, because Bucky is holding him now and he’s quite reluctant to move. He thinks for a moment, then types in the next one he remembers.

Mr. Sweet Tooth

Bucky laughs, and Steve finds himself smiling.

“I find this funny,” Bucky says. “Because caramel macchiatos are definitely one of my favorites now.”

Steve laughs, too, and butts his head against Bucky’s shoulder.

“If only I could tell that to myself back then-- he’d be thrilled.”

“I’m sure,” Bucky says. “Any more?”

Steve hesitates, thinking of the one he’d sent after that nightmare-- when he was low and hurting. Incoherent. He isn’t sure he wants Bucky to see that particular side of his soul, but Bucky has been more than generous in letting him in on his pains nowaday, and it’s not like Bucky hasn’t witnessed Steve’s own current nightmares.

He bites his lip and types in JB. That seems to yield a lot more results, and it takes a while for Steve to find the message.

He hides his face in Bucky’s neck as he reads. Bucky’s arms gradually tighten around him, and a moment later, he feels him kiss the top of his head.

“Honey, I hate that you were hurting so bad,” Bucky mutters against his hair.

Steve shrugs. “We both were,” he says, and it’s true. There’s something to be said about the guilt they both feel for not being able to save the other person at their lowest, but life hasn’t been kind to them. The vitriol, Steve thinks, should be directed at the goddamn universe for keeping them apart, not themselves for fucking dying. They’re working on it.

Bucky’s quiet for a long time. “Yeah, I guess you’re right,” he says. “Is that it?”

Steve shakes his head. “But I never sent the last one.”

“Why not?”

“I wrote it after DC.”

He feels Bucky squeeze him again, and he squeezes back.

“Oh.”

“I just-- I wanted you to know that you didn’t have to come home. That I just wanted you to be safe; needed to know you were safe, but it was up to you. I just needed you to know I was here, if you needed me.”

Bucky pulls back then and cups his face, kissing him soundly. Steve’s surprised for only a moment before he’s kissing back.

“I did know that,” Bucky says against his lips. “I needed time-- I was lost-- but the first thing I knew when I remembered who you were was that you were a safe person, because you’d never force me anywhere.”

Steve kisses him again, then pulls him into a hug. “I’m glad you knew that.” It’s warm, where their chests meet, and Bucky is solid beneath him. Real. He isn’t speaking into an abyss anymore.

-

There’s a sticky note on Bucky’s pillow next to his head when he wakes up the next morning. Steve’s side of the bed is already vacant, and he can’t hear him downstairs. He must have already left for a run.

Propping himself on an elbow, Bucky plucks up the sticky note.

To: My Bucky

Thank you for choosing me to be your home, and thank you forever, for being mine.

I love you with everything I have.

Love, your Steve

Bucky smiles, heart light as he folds the notes. He’ll keep that one with him, he thinks. A little bit of home to bring wherever he goes.

-

anyway yeah fslkjflaskjfls i-- ouch. anything to do with letters w these two hurts me immensely

[wakaoujisenhime]

Hello there! I love your writing so much! ❤️ And I have a request! Scenario with Kirishima on a mission with his fem s/o, whose quirk is solar energy, she can absorb the suns energy, store it within her body for use when it’s needed, and use it to attack either with bright light to temporarily blind an enemy or condense the energy tightly together to create burning physical attacks. She saves a citizen but gets badly hurt for it. It almost kills her but in the end she survives and fully recovers

A/N: Thank you for your sweet words! This is a really cute scenario you came up with and I hope that you like what I made of it! Please enjoy! (*⁰▿⁰*)/

Tags: Kirishima x reader ✅  SFW ✅  fluff ✅  angst ✅

━━━━☆ ━━━━☆ ━━━━☆

My light - Kirishima x reader

Big hands wrapped around your body as they adjusted the creme-yellow belt of your hero costume. With an amused gaze you watched as your red-haired lover struggled to perfectly align every single detail of your clothing with his big hands until you couldn’t help yourself anymore and began to giggle.

“Don’t laugh (Y/N), you know that I’m not good with this!”

“And yet you still insist on helping me with it,” you answer with a smile on your lips as you softly remove the man’s hands from you an squeeze them. As if to return your gentle touch he brought your hands to his lips and made sure to kiss every single knuckle, making you blush in embarrassment in the process.

“Are you ready?”

His sudden question took you by surprise, but after a couple of seconds you nodded confidently.

——

Both, Kirishima and you stood next to each other slightly nervous about what your superior had called you in his office for. The blond man in front of you looked over some documents before finally lifting his gaze, a grin immediately spreading along his mouth.

“Well hi there you two, there’s no need to be that nervous, you know? C’mon, loosen up a little!”

The two of you did as told and relaxed your tensed up muscles, after which you spoke up, asking the pro hero in front of you why he had wished for a meeting in his office.

Usually, Fat Gum wasn’t one that sticked to formalities, such as calling his workers - or in your case, heroes - to his office for a talk. He preferred to casually bring it up whenever he met with the person(s) in question, and that’s why Kirishima and you were so surprised when Tamaki had asked you to go to the main office for a talk with the boss.

Luckily, he was quick to realize that you both were pretty nervous so he immediately began explaining. It was truly a relief to hear that all he wanted to share with you were the details for a joint mission the two of you would be taking care of the following day. He gave you all relevant details and as always asked you to be careful and try to not get yourselves injured. With a promise to watch out for each other and be as careful as always Kirishima and you left your superior’s office and began reviewing all the relevant papers he’d given you. You were motivated and happy to finally have a mission with your beloved, since not only were you a great team but just being by his side during dangerous missions made you feel safe and somewhat relieved. While you looked at the red-haired man’s profile as he scanned over the paper in his hands, you promised yourself to make this mission a success.

——

Ah! It’s Red Riot and Sunshine!

E-Excuse me Red Riot sir, can I have your autograph?

Thank you two for always watching out for us!

Miss Sunshine, can I have a selfie with you?

After answering all questions and attending to everyone’s requests the two of you resumed your walk. Being stopped by people who treat you like some famous actors was nothing new to the two of you since this wasn’t the first joint mission you took on and yet you were always overwhelmed by the amount of love and support everyone showed you. But what made you even happier was seeing how Kirishima reacted to it all.

The way his cheeks became redder, his slightly stuttering but nonetheless loud voice, how big his eyes got whenever a fan of his showed him the merch they’d bought, and many other small and adorable things you noticed were simply heartwarming. As his lover you knew more than anyone how much effort he puts into his hero career and just how ambitious he follows through with the goal to step into Crimson Riot’s footsteps, so seeing his hard work being rewarded made you extremely happy.

A couple of minutes passed and you slowly had to resume your patrol, so you unobtrusively signaled your red-haired companion to wrap his talk up. The disappointment of his fans didn’t last as long as you’d presumed it would, but who could blame them when Kirishima flashed that sharp but angelic smile instead of bidding them a proper farewell.

“My bad (Y/N), I got quite caught up talking with them about their t-shirts!”

You giggled and pat his shoulder a few times before answering: “There’s nothing for you to apologize about, in fact I can’t really blame you since…the new collection of yours looks pretty cool”

Even though you had whispered the last part of your sentence, the man next to you heard it nonetheless and couldn’t help but smile broader than he already was. The moment he parted his mouth to give you an answer, a sudden explosion some meters away from you interrupted the wholesome moment you were having. You two immediately ceased your idle chatter and switched over to your hero personalities. While you began to evacuate the nearby pedestrians, your boyfriend rushed to the explosion site and helped the injured people out. Your eyes followed the backs of the innocent citizens as they ran away from the smokescreen that was enveloping the massive frame of Kirishima, who was holding onto staggering and hurt pedestrians as he brought them to safety.

Before you could go and help him out a figure caught your eye and just as you were about to call out to them, they turned the corner and ran into an alleyway. “Hey! Hold it!“ you shouted and almost immediately took chase, ignoring the young man’s worried screams behind you, pleading for you to at least wait for him and not do anything too rash. You heard him and nodded to yourself, repeating his warning inside of your head as you continued your chase.

Surprisingly enough, the person before you wasn’t as quick as you had expected so it wasn’t that hard to keep up with him and just as you were about to take a hold of their arm they cut the corner yet again. You spit out a curse before following the new route of the suspicious individual and that’s when the worst case scenario happened.

Just a few steps in front of you was a young school girl who was talking to someone over her mobile phone and because of that she failed to notice the two of you approaching. You shouted out a warning but her reactions were unfortunately too slow and allowed the suspect to grab her and hold a knife to her throat.

“D-Don’t come any closer or else this girl’s death will be your fault!”

Without much hesitation you obeyed and stopped, using the moment of silence to asses the situation as well as take a proper look at the person you had just chased. It appeared to be a middle aged man and judging by his wide eyes and slightly trembling hand you deduced that he wasn’t used to threatening people like that.

Perfect, I just need to calm him down and hope that words will be enough…I’d really like to avoid using my powers

As you thought that you glanced up at the sky where the sun was shining brighter than you’d ever seen it in the past few days and if you were being honest, it worried you a little. Your quirk was the accumulative type and allowed your body to store solar energy, allowing you to use it at your discretion, but it came at a cost. To put it simply, the brighter and stronger the sun shone, the more dangerous and taxing your power was on your body. You took a deep breath to calm yourself and began reasoning with the man who faced you.

“Sir there is no need for you to get other people involved, we can clear this misunderstanding between us, ok?”

You spoke slow but with a firm voice so that neither the man got more agitated than he already was nor scare the innocent girl any further. And indeed the man relaxed his grip ever so slightly but the moment you wanted to continue with your plan of calming him down the young girl screamed out for help and began struggling desperately.

“No…! Don’t-”

But before you could warn her to not make anything rash it was too late. The girl’s thrashing about ended up hitting the man behind her a few times, which resulted in him finally losing his patience and the moment you saw him raise his hand, in which he held the knife, you immediately activated your quirk and shouted: “Close your eyes!”

Fortunately for you, your message reached the recipient it was meant for and when you confirmed that the female student had obeyed your order, you released a portion of the energy you had collected from today’s sunshine and blinded the man. While he was stumbling back screaming, you used the short timeframe to grab the girl’s hand and start running.

“Ok I need you to listen and obey everything I’m about to tell you, got it?” you asked and waited for her affirmation first before you continued, “Run as fast as you can back to the main street and there you’ll meet the sturdy hero Red Riot, a muscular, tall, and red-haired young man, who’ll keep you safe while I take care of that man, ok? Now run!”

You normally would’ve gone with her, but your previous move took more out of you than expected, so you chose to leave her safety to your trusted lover while you won them some time.

The man’s quick and heavy steps were closing in on you, so you prepared yourself to attack once again if necessary. With the plans to either stun him a second time so that he can’t see where he runs or inflict a burn on one of his kneecaps to slow him down, you turned to face him.

“O-Oh my god…why didn’t you….? T-This can’t be happening! I-I….I have to g-get away from here!”

“Not s-so fast…” you utter as you hold onto his hand and your body temperature begins to rise. In a swift and quick motion you kick his shin, causing his knee to buckle and used that small timeframe to bring this man down, ultimately pinning him to the ground with your leg on top of his chest, and your hands tightly gripping his wrists. In order to make him surrender completely you released your powers and that energy caused slight burns on each body part you had come in contact with. You had to use and control your power which was pretty taxing to your body. Your vision slowly grew blurry and that’s when you remembered the small “promise” your loved one had made to you as you ran off.

Aah…Eijiro, please hurry up..

“(Y/N)!”

Hearing the familiar voice echo behind you just mere moments after you had thought of him made you smile in relief. You took one last glance at the knife which was deeply buried inside of your lower stomach before closing your eyes and embracing the darkness that had tried to claim you this entire time…

——

P-Please, you need to save her! I-I’ll do anything, so please-!

Sir I need you to calm yourself down, you’re bothering the other patients.

We first need to perform a checkup on her, s-

I don’t care what you have to do, j-just please!

That’s enough out of you shitty hair, let the doctors handle it and meanwhile we’ll wait outside!

While your consciousness drifted back and forth you could make out a couple of voices near you and one of them belonged to none other than Kirishima.

“E-Eijiro…”

You felt a big hand tightly wrap around your own and squeeze it slightly, but before you could do or even say anything else, your vision once again blackened.

——

Calloused fingers caress the back of your hand as the tall man kisses your bandaged knuckles. His empty stare fixated on your sleeping form and the peaceful way you just lied there managed to put him at ease for at least a couple seconds before once again realizing the harsh truth of how grave you had been injured by that man and your own quirk.

“You idiot…I told you to be careful and not overdo it, didn’t I?” he silently whispered in front of himself as he used his free hand to stroke your cheek ever so gently. Since your hospitalization he remained practically glued to your side, refusing to miss even a single update on your condition, if it weren’t for his friends to literally drag him out of your room so that he gets something to eat or simply see the summer sun he would be in an even worse condition than right now. He was aware that he was a burden to others and that he behaved immaturely, but every time he tried to cheer up for their sake or simply try to worry less, he’d remember that day of the incident.

The scene of your back facing him while you were apprehending the man who had ran off seemed normal at first, but as soon as he was merely a couple of steps away from you, you had fallen forward right on top of the other man’s chest. He began panicking and apologizing frantically, saying stuff like I didn’t mean to do it or why didn’t she dodge, and that’s when he noticed the abnormal amount of blood that had stained the other man’s shirt…

While your lover recalled the unpleasant and rather traumatizing event, he failed to notice the way your facial features tensed up and your eyes slowly fluttering open. At first you couldn’t really feel your body, so all you did was glance around and quickly came to the conclusion that you were in a hospital room. All you could hear except the silence that surrounded you were the steady breaths of someone who most likely stood pretty close to you. Just as you were about to try and move your body a sudden voice stopped you in your tracks.

“I’m sorry (Y/N) for being late…I-I should’ve hurried up and come to y-your aid quicker, t-then you wouldn’t have had to use your ability to that extend and e-even wouldn’t have gotten stabb– god, forgive me…”

His shaky voice was full of sorrow and guilt and as if that wasn’t painful enough for you to hear, Kirishima even squeezed your hands tighter than before and put them up to his forehead. The man continued muttering apology after apology and with each one he got sadder, so you finally decided to speak up.

“If you continue squeezing my hand like that it’ll never recover, you know?” you joked with the most cheerful voice you could muster and even though it ended up sounding more raspy, it achieved the surprise effect you were going for. Wide red eyes, filled with nothing but relief stared at your smiling face.

The man next to your bed got up so quickly that his chair fell over, he was so overwhelmed with the fact that you were awake that he didn’t know what to do first. Call the doctor and the nurses over? Ask you about your condition? Embrace you? Lecture you? Cry?

In order to take most of his nervousness away, you gently tugged on his hand and smiled up at him with glassy eyes.

“Ei, I missed you.”

One single tear rolled down his cheek and as realization slowly downed on him the stream of tears didn’t stop flowing down his face. He bend down to you and as gently as he could wrapped his arms around you, hiding himself in the crook of your neck.

A couple of minutes had to pass by until he was capable of properly talking to you and knowing just how worried he had been you figured that he’d most likely start lecturing you, but as you saw him push the button next to your bed that was supposed to notify the hospital staff in case of an emergency, you gave him a confused glance.

“(Y/N), I’m pretty sure that you know what I want to tell you and I hope that you’re aware of just how mad I am, but,” he paused and looked directly at your face, but to you it seemed like he glanced at something beyond you. After what felt like an eternity of torturing silence he finally resumed his initial thought with a somewhat sad smile: “…the only thing I’m most thankful for is the fact that you’re alive and well.”

A gentle knock on your door and the entry of the nurse interrupted your discussion. After she checked in with Kirishima you watched as he slowly left your room…

——

“Ok, then Miss Sunshine one last sign and you’re free to leave.”

You sign the last document she’d given you and smile, thanking her for everything they’d done for you. She simply smiled and humbly shook her head. “Miss I’m simply doing my job…just like you. Thanks to every hero’s efforts I can feel safe…and if by treating your injuries I can contribute to your well-being and performance then I’d gladly do so.”

With flushed cheeks, you chuckle at her words, and just as you were about to leave she stopped you.

“But if I may give you an advice for the future…please refrain from such reckless actions again. This wasn’t the first time you came here because of your quirk’s effects on your body…but this time was the worst. I don’t know what lead you to drive yourself beyond your body’s limits, but you standing right here in front of me in such good condition is nothing short of a miracle.”

Silence.

“She knows that.”

The two of you turned to the person who’d just butted into your conversation and as expected it was none other than your boyfriend, who was standing behind you. He carefully wrapped one arm around your waist and held out a beautifully arranged bouquet to you with his other one. You took the flowers and blushed as you whispered a short thank you to him. With his usual broad grin, he kissed your cheek and took the bag you were carrying, slumping it over his own broad shoulder.

The two of you bid the nurse and her colleagues farewell as you slowly headed for the exit. She watched your backs as you walked past the entryway and focused on the man’s smile which seemed to never falter, as she recalled his words the day you had been rushed to the hospital right before his blind friend had brought him away…

I know that it’s not my place to say this, but please save her…

I’m begging you…

Please save my light…

[buglife]

Shh I got inspired by those doodles I did of Monomon and sick bby Quirrel so I wrote a ficlet.

----

It had been a few months since Monomon found a tiny pip rolling around the trash in the City of Tears. She thought at first that it was some sort of ball that some child had lost. Then it sneezed, which scared the hell out of her. She had looked closer and she was surprised to see a nearly transparent pip crawling around the garbage. The poor thing was dented up and was attempting to eat a discarded cloak. When he saw her, he hissed and curled up into a ball, thinking that if he couldn’t see her, than she couldn’t see him. She had picked him up, this little shivering ball of tenacity, and took him with her.

One thing lead to another and she had found herself as an adoptive mother to a baby isopod. The doctor she took him too told her that he shouldn’t even be out of the pouch, let alone being all by himself. Either he was abandoned or something unfortunate happened to his mother, and having the guard investigate gave her no answers. She decided that it was probably going to be a mystery forever, and decided to focus her energy on raising her newly acquired son.

She had named him Quirrel, after an old philosopher who often wrote about the beauty of the world. She somehow knew he’d be able to see the world for the beautiful thing as it is and not be focused on the doom and gloom of it all. She was a scientist, so of course she could find beauty in even the smallest micro-organism and all the way to the desolate wastes. Something told her he’d see it too.

Her high hopes proved to be true, as he turned out to be a rather clever little pip. He was still far too young for speech, or even to be roaming about by himself, so she decided to conduct a little experiment. Sign language wasn’t uncommon in Hallownest, but most non-hindered bugs tended to learn it after they have mastered speech and not before. What if she taught Quirrel, a little pip, some sign language now?

Her experiment bore fruit, and he learned some signs quickly. It was only a few words now that were simple to sign. He was still a baby and lacked the fine motor control for the more complex signs, but he could at least tell her when he was hungry or if he wanted something. She imagined that this experiment could do a lot of good in the end.

What concerned her however, was the lack of actual noise he made.

Quirrel was an incredibly quiet baby at he beginning. He simply refused to make much noise at all, and when he did, he flinched as though expecting to be punished for it. It had taken weeks of positive reinforcement before he started making the noises a little pip was expected to be making. It was very endearing to see him babbling and having her students babble back at him. His tiny eyes would light up and he’d wiggle in excitement before continuing the ‘conversation’. Even with all the encouragements from both her and her students, he still preferred to be quiet, napping through most of the day whilst in her pip pocket. That was normal for an isopod this young, but it was still concerning that he felt that he had to stay quiet.

That changed early one morning when he started to audibly fuss. Usually he’d just try to escape when bored, writhing about and trying to climb out of the pocket. But today, at the most ungodly early hour, he was making noises, squeaking and hissing in what seemed to be discomfort. Monomon had at first though he was hungry, but he outright refused his usual leaf paste. She tried tiktik bits, sliced fruit, and even a cookie, but he refused it all and grew increasingly more frustrated with each rejected food item.

She had tried asking him to tell her what was wrong through sign language, but he was either unwilling or unable to bother with it.

Finally he had enough, and began to wail, loudly. She had never heard him make a noise that loud before and it startled her enough to spill the juice she was trying to tempt him with all over herself. He only stopped loud enough to take a breath before belting out another heaving cry, little eyes overflowing with tears as he made his discomfort known.

“Shhhh….shhhh...it’s okay, my little one.” She attempted to try and comfort him, but he just wailed louder.

Concerned, she picked him up and tucked him under her chin, trying to soothe the sobbing pillbug, when she noticed what could be causing all this pain. His forehead was burning hot, and he was faintly shivering as he bawled into her veil. It wasn’t hard to figure out that her pip was ill and she plucked him out from her embrace to take a better look at him.

There were bags under his eyes and his face was tinged blue with heat. He had his mandibles open wide enough when crying that she can see some swelling in the back of his throat. She gently palpitated his belly and could feel the organs within twist and with every movement he cried harder. So, he was nauseous, which made sense on why he would refuse a cookie. Fever, chills, sore throat, most likely he picked something up from one of the students. She mentally kicked herself, she should have made her students wash up before picking him up as they liked to do. She should have not allowed them to give him little smooches and hugs. She should have not brought him with her at all when among the masses of students and archivists that swarmed about her. But she couldn’t bear the thought of leaving him all alone, not after what he’d been through.

The fact of the matter is that no amount of hindsight was going to change the fact that Quirrel caught something and was currently not having a very good time about it. His wails were starting to sound raspy and wet, no doubt that his sinuses were starting to be affected too. The sheer amount of screaming wasn’t helping matters and her thoughts raced on what she should do.

“Modern Manca Medicine, Chapter Seven, pages nine through ten,” She recited out loud as she recalled one of the many books she absorbed after taking Quirrel in, “Common treatment options for sickly manca and juvenile pillbugs include swaddling and standard fever reduction tactics for most invertebrates. Hrm... Grubs and You: A New Mother’s Guide, Chapter Nine, page twelve. When a child refuses to eat, honey is a suitable way to provide needed nutrition and slip in medication without upsetting the stomach. Hrm... that would work, wouldn’t it?”

Quirrel continued his crying, rapidly losing his voice, and she brushed a kiss on the top of his head to comfort him. His antenna twitched and his sobbing died down just a teensy bit, but it was enough for her to notice. He must have smelled her and realized she was going to help him, his eyes were too full of tears to be much use to him at the moment. She grabbed a spare blanket and wrapped him up tightly to deal with the shivers. He instantly stopped wriggling so hard and she managed to slip him back into the pip pocket without much incident.

Next, a cool cloth was needed. She needed to bring down his fever so he could rest. That wasn’t too hard to find. She ended up tying the wet cloth on his head like you would a kerchief, pinning down his antenna so they can cool down as well. She was quite happy to find that after she did that, he had stopped his wailing. He was still making noises of discomfort, squeaking and hiccupping, but he wasn’t outright screaming anymore. Her auditory organs was most happy with that turn of events for sure.

“Herbal Remedies for the Modern Bug, Chapter two, pages one through twenty.” She floated quickly to her herb cabinet, selecting dried bundles here and there. Lemon balm for fever, mint and ginger for his stomach, marshmallow root for his throat, maybe licorice root too? Lavender and Chamomile to help him sleep so he can focus on getting better, yes, that should do it. She mentally ran through the list, using a free set of tentacles to rock Quirrel gently. For now he seemed content to stay in his pocket, squeaking here and there as he braved through his illness. Poor little pip...she resolved to give him extra cookies once he felt well enough to eat them.

She put a kettle to boil and threw her selected herbs inside to seep and condense. She would have used her alchemical equipment to do this faster, but she didn’t feel like taking him downstairs where there would be students and workers showing up. When Quirrel started fussing again, she replaced his now warm cloth with a freshly cooled one, and he quieted down again.

Finally, the kettle had boiled enough and she strained the liquid into a bowl. Next, she took out a jar of honey and began the delicate procedure of making medicine that won’t be instantly spat out by a fussy grub. She calculated that a 2:1 ratio should work the best as he would be less likely to spit up something that tasted relatively good. Eventually, she mixed up a small cup full of her makeshift medicine and retrieved a clean eyedropper. Calculating body weight, she drew up half a measure, and with that finished she went to attempt to give it to Quirrel.

He, of course, put up a fuss, and began screaming again. She understood why, he wasn’t feeling well and his belly was hurting. The last thing he would want right now was something to go down into said hurting belly and she was not surprised when he tried to bite her a few times. Unfortunately for him, Isopods are not known for being able to do much more than nibble. Using that to her advantage, she let him latch on to the end of one of her tentacles, letting him get nice and occupied, and then shoved the end of the eyedropper into the corner of his mouth. The medicine was squirted down his throat before he could do anything to stop it and for that he bit her harder. He even hissed a little and it would be adorable if he wasn’t feeling so poorly.

He let go to scream again, but then stopped and stuck out his tongue. He was obviously tasting the honey now, and he loved honey. Monomon sighed in relief, at least next time she gave him a dose she wouldn’t get bit for her troubles. He opened his mouth a couple times and blinked, looking up at her face. He lifted up his hands and wiggled them.

“Abah?” He sniffled, trying to clear his throat and sinus.

“Hrm, what do you want, my little scholar?” She was pleased to not longer see him screaming. “Use your hand words.”

He made two fists and bumped them together. <”more,”> he signed.

“Of course, you can have more honey. I think you deserve it, after putting up with all that.”

He seemed happy with the idea, and she was able to give him another teaspoon of honey before he signed ‘done’ at her. His little belly could only take so much now and she took the time to wipe his face clean. He fussed at the cleaning, but yawned once she finished. Clearly the medicine was starting to work, his breathing was better and feeling his gut showed that it was settling down. She gave him a nuzzle and a kiss and tucked him back into his pip pocket. He was asleep nearly instantly and she gently strapped the pocket to herself once more.

Once he was secure she floated downstairs and was once again, swept up into the chaos of the Archives. Someone had accidentally released the charged lumaflies and they were setting books on fire.

Thankfully, Quirrel slept through the whole thing.

[ahkaahshi]

lucky [oikawa tooru x reader]

pairing: oikawa tooru x fem reader

genre: smut (18+) with some fluff :)

warning(s): explicit sexual content, orgasm denial/edging, roleplaying, penetrative sex, implied deep throating, swearing, alcohol consumption, mentions of gambling and casinos, and oikawa being a lovable dork as always

word count: 5.4k (a monster of a fic compared to my usual writing. whew)

overview: after a long weekend of work-related conferences, you’re desperate to let off some steam at the hotel bar. however, you don’t realize what you’re in for when you take to eyeing the man you couldn’t keep your attention off of when you arrived.

From the first moment you set foot beneath the sea of twinkling fairy lights adorning the patio of the luxurious hotel bar, you haven’t been able to take your eyes off him. Like a star, he shimmers in the gentle glow—his crisp, white button-up reflecting every hint of light that falls upon his figure. That bright smile of his he flashes the bartender as the two enjoy a casual chat is radiant, threatening to set your heart ablaze. With the warmth that his demeanor exudes, it’s impossible for you notto notice his presence in spite of all the other patrons chattering, swaying to the music, and enjoying a good laugh with friends in the large, outdoor space.

Oikawa Tooru. You already know his name after seeing his face on national television countless times, but you never could’ve expected that you would bump into him during the last night of your stay at this hotel in particular. Even from afar, he’s just as stunning—if not more so—than he appears on the volleyball court, and the instant attraction you feel to him is what has you carefully weaving between the throngs of guests to make your way over to the bar.

The seat next to him is open, but you think twice about taking it. Doing so would quickly put you in a rather intimate situation, you assume, given how close each stool is located to the next, so you settle on leaving a bit of distance between the two of you by perching on the plush cushion of a one a few seats away. Once you’ve placed your small purse securely on a hook beneath the counter, you flag the bartender with a small wave of the hand and a smile, making him abandon his conversation with the professional volleyball player to attend to you.

There’s a brief moment when your gaze meets his brown one tinged golden by the lights as he glances over to see the source of his conversation’s interruption, and, in that short span of time before your eyes dart away from his, you swear you catch a glimpse of a smile playing on his lips. After you’ve placed your signature drink order, you focus your attention on the man behind the counter instead, watching him grab and combine the ingredients necessary to fill your request. However, you can’t shake the feeling that you’re not the only one having a hard time keeping their eyes to themselves.

And your own inability to do so is what has you sending another glance down the bar in his direction, (e/c) eyes trailing along the intricate detailing beneath the counter’s resin surface as they make their way over to his. Trying to withhold the smile that almost instinctively spreads across your lips at noticing the one already gracing his when your gazes meet again is futile. There’s something about his radiant presence and the barely noticeable glint of rapture shining in his eyes that has your heart fluttering in your chest—and its pace soon increases when he lifts his glass, grabs the jacket draped over the hook by his knee, and stands so he can close the distance between you.

A giggle tinged with both delight and nervousness escapes your lips before you call out to him, “You don’t have to come over here!”

“Oh?” he questions coyly, raising an eyebrow at you as he ducks beneath the counter for a moment to place his jacket on the hook beside your purse, “What was I supposed to do, then? Just sit and stare until someone else came to chat you up?” His teasing remark fills you with warmth, as does the realization that only a few inches separate you from the impossibly attractive man you’d been admiring. As bold as you were to look him in the eye before, you find the feat to be a challenge now.

“Not exactly,” you suggest, suppressing your nerves enough to deliver an equally playful response of, “But I thought I’d receive a message from the bartender that my drink’s already been paid for by the handsome loner at the other end of the bar before he gathered the courage to approach me?”

His fingers swim through his brown waves of feathery hair as his lips quirk into a devilish smile. “Mm, but then I would’ve been doing exactly what you expected me to do! And where’s the fun in that, huh?” You follow his chestnut gaze to the man behind the counter when he sets the drink you’d requested down on the coaster near in front of you. Your hand’s journey to your purse is stopped by a light touch on your arm and the words, “You can put anything she orders on my bill,” leaving your new drinking partner’s mouth.

Traces of heat skitter along the skin his fingers graze like stray embers that have escaped the fire. Somehow, in the coolness of the night with not a drop of liquor in your system, there’s not a single goosebump on your body.

“Thank you…”

“Tooru.” He sticks his hand into the small void between you in a formal greeting.

You return the favor, sliding your palm against his and giving it a gentle shake. “(F/n).” A thought about how soft and gentle yet firm his grip is passes through your mind, bringing familiar prickles of warmth to your cheeks. “I appreciate it.”

Chuckling, he mentions, “Didn’t wanna ruin the little fantasy you seem to have all put together in that pretty head of yours by making you pay for your own drink.” The degree of rapture in his gaze, as if he thinks your face is the most enticing subject in his field of vision, slowly melts away your hesitation, and you find yourself raising your glass to his after it’s been refilled once more in an amicable toast.

The first taste always burns the most, but Oikawa’s presence seems to sweeten it ever so subtly. “So,” you hum after taking a deep breath to collect your thoughts, “what brings you here tonight by yourself? Thought someone as famous as you are wouldn’t be a moment without an entourage of adoring, female fans.”

He snickers, lips curling up into a grin that reflects his amusement. “It’s quite a large burden to bear, if I do say so myself, but I managed to escape their clutches just moments before you got here. Pretty lucky if I do say so myself,” he explains, his flirtations accompanied by a small wink. After taking another sip of the dark liquor in his glass, he adds, “As far as what I’m doing here; well, I’m here on business. But there’s no harm in mixing in a little pleasure, right?”

You shrug. “Might as well.”

“How about you?” Your gaze only leaves his for a moment to watch the way his fingertips graze the height of his glass, collecting droplets of condensation rolling down the sides. The silver rings he’s wearing on his right index and ring fingers shine when they catch a hint of the soft light pouring over your forms.

Returning your attention to his eyes, which appear to relax at having the pleasure of meeting yours once again, you elaborate, “Same reason. Wanted to find at least one fun thing to do after a long weekend of back to back work-related events.”

“In that case, feel free to have as many drinks as you want—on me,” he offers. However, before you can protest and tell him that you would never be so cruel as to exploit his generous offer, he comments, “But, if you’d rather sink money into something a little more rewarding and exciting than the frankly overpriced alcohol here, what do you say to joining me in the casino?”

You bat your eyelashes at him from over the rim of your glass while you take another sip as an indication that you’ll give him an answer when you can speak again. The invitation’s rather bold, you think, considering the fact that the two of you have only known each other for a grand total of about ten minutes. In any other situation, you’d most likely say no and do anything you could to shirk your conversational partner’s advances—depending on how they’d approached you, that is. But you find that you don’t want to say no to him.

Whether it’s the way his inviting gaze threatens to keep drawing you closer and closer to him so you can see the glimmer of the fairy lights in his eyes, or the air of warmth surrounding him that makes you feel as if you’ve known him forever, you don’t know—but you just can’t say no. You don’t want to. Sure, you’d gotten dressed up and taken a trip down to the ritzy hotel’s bar with the intentions of alleviating your boredom, but if you left with him, it would be because you wanted to be in his company rather than because you wanted a solution to your issue.

So, you answer him with a nod, but delay your next course of action for a while longer by asking, “Is it alright if I indulge in just one more of these overpriced drinks before we leave, though? I don’t know about know about you, but I only just got here.”

His smile doesn’t falter as he obliges with a dip of the head. “Really trying to bleed me dry, here, aren’tcha?”

“Might as well leave the bar knowing that you spent your money on something worthwhile before losing it all at the slots.”

“In that case, I’ll order myself another too.”

The two of you share a much-needed laugh, considering your long weekends of work, and continue your conversation over another refill. Though you’re sure the time the two of you spend on the plush stools at the bar top is relatively short, it feels much longer, and you find yourself abstaining from finishing your drink too quickly to prolong the moments you spend together—since you don’t want him to splash more of his hard-earned money on another rather average drink hiding behind a fancy name. In spite of all the commotion surrounding you as people dance, fill up the barstools on either side of you, or raise their voices to be heard over the chatter and music, his figure is the only thing you can see, and his voice the only thing you can hear.

You do snap back to reality once more, though, when you both come to the realization that your glasses are empty, but you’re happy that his idea to visit the casino means this isn’t the end of your night together. Once he’s slid on his jacket and you’ve slung your purse over your shoulder, the two of you head back into the hotel and stride down the ornately designed carpeting towards your destination. The slight sensation of the alcohol buzzing in your veins fills you with warmth that he seems to localize and intensify with his light touches to the small of your back as he guides you over towards the glowing slot machines.

Oikawa notices your hesitation when you sit down in front of one of the money-guzzling contraptions, and teases, “I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but you have to pay to play, princess.”

The affectionate nickname that leaves his mouth makes your heart jump in your chest and nearly takes your breath away. Quickly regaining your composure and dismissing his comment with a wave of the hand, you simper, “Of course I know that, Tooru. I’m just trying to decide if this is really worth it, since I never seem to have the best luck with the slots.”

A reassuring smile forms across his lips, and his eyelashes flutter ever so slightly as his eyes flit over your figure. “Well,” he sighs, leaning against the seat and nonchalantly slinging his arm over the back of yours, “you never know. Tonight might just be the night you get lucky.”

His comment seems innocent enough, but the seduction laced into his voice as well as the confidence behind the smirk that replaces his sweet grin has you believing otherwise. And his intentions soon become clearer as you make your rounds around the casino together.

At first, you think his advances a figment of your hyperactive imagination projecting your own desires onto him. That every bumping of your knees together while lounging in the cushioned seats at the machines is an accident, and that every graze of his fingertips along your arm is just a polite way of grabbing your attention. However, as the evening wears on, you stop second-guessing yourself. To be fair, it gets fairly challenging to deny that something more than just camaraderie is present between the two of you when his hand wraps around your waist as you make your way to the blackjack table—and eventually ends up running along your thigh beneath the cover the polished wood provides.

His touch ignites your entire body with sensation. It refuses to be ignored, just as his presence had when you’d seen him at the bar earlier, and it fuels a desire within you to have his hands on every inch of your skin. Oh, how sad they must be, only being able to travel the short expanse between your knee and the hem of your dress’s tight skirt for the sake of politeness, you think. But pity is the exact opposite of what you should feel towards him, since you know better than anyone else that you want more than anything to give into him.

He seems to sense—given the way your own hands never move to reject his advances and you lean into his touch when he experimentally puts an arm around you—that you’re on the same page as he is, and decides to beckon you closer to him for a chat before you reach your next destination. “Hey, whaddya say we make things a little more fun?” he suggests, tucking a loose strand of your hair behind your ear. Thankfully, the shuddering breath that escapes your mouth is lost beneath the ringing of the slot machines and upbeat music.

“What did you have in mind?” you wonder, feeling excitement course through you at the limitless options that he could be imagining.

“How about—” he pauses for a moment to lean down closer to your ear—“we make a little deal?” You follow his gaze over to the roulette table a few feet away before fastening your attention on him once more as he offers, “If the ball lands on an even number, I’ll give you a special prize.” He retrieves a small, plastic card from his coat pocket that you instantly recognize as a room key, making your breath hitch in your throat and your eyelashes flutter with shock.

You swallow thickly and ask, “And what if it doesn’t?”

The grin that tugs at the corners of his mouth is one you’ve seen before many times on television when he’d one-upped his opponents with an unexpected play, but being exposed to it in person and in such close proximity to him has your heart racing. “You’ll have to be willing to take the risk and play in order for you to find out the answer to that question, sweetheart. Trust me, you can’t lose.”

There’s a long moment of silence that ensues his proposition before you nod in agreement and strut over to the table to try your luck. After placing a bet on all even numbers, you watch with bated breath as the tiny ball whizzes around the outside of the wheel. Oikawa chuckles at your clear desperation, earning him a roll of the eyes from you. Because of your previously held belief that you’d probably end up losing more than you’d earned tonight, your heart leaps with excitement when the ball rolls into the slot with the number 22 etched into it.

“Well, look at you! What did I say earlier?” Oikawa muses, giving your shoulder a pat as you collect your winnings even though they’re not at the top of your mind like his hotel room key is. The sensation of the card’s smooth edges running along your fingers when he slides it into your awaiting palm gives you an instant adrenaline rush. “Off you go, then. I’ll be up in a minute.” Before you can even ask him what the alternate option to the deal would’ve been, he’s giving you a gentle nudge in the direction of the tiled floor leading towards the lobby. The parting words he whispers in your ear have your core flooding with heat: “Oh, and I’d really appreciate it if that dress was off by the time I got there.”

In an instant, he’s sauntering in the opposite direction, leaving you to walk to the elevator by yourself on shaky legs that continue to quiver the entire ride up to the eighth floor. Part of you wants to curse yourself for being so susceptible to his irresistible charm and sugared words, but there’s no point in doing so now. You’re going to get what you want, after all.

As you step into his room, you’re greeted by the subtle yet delightful scent of his cologne wafting from the suits in the closet on your way over to the foot of the large bed you see peeking out from around the corner. Nervous tingles travel down your spine as you kick off your shoes and reach for the zipper of your dress, making your skin erupt in goosebumps, but the sensation doesn’t stop you from slipping the garment off and settling down against the plush duvet.

Luckily, he doesn’t keep you waiting long, and you’re leaping to your feet when you hear the heavy door open, letting in the conversations of other guests wandering down the hall nearby. For a split second, you feel self-conscious and wish you had more covering your body than just a lacy bra and panties, but, when you see the way his steps come a halt and his gaze traces over the entirety of your figure, drinking in the beautiful sight before him, your hesitation immediately dissipates.

Slowly, he approaches you, shrugging off his jacket before placing one hand on your bare waist and using his other to tilt your chin up so he can look into your eyes. “You’re gorgeous, (f/n),” he breathes, pupils dilating as they trace and retrace the path from yours to your lips parted with anticipation and desperate to be kissed, “I got lucky too. So, so lucky.”

Your eyelids flutter shut as he presses his warm lips against yours. They’re soft and gentle, molding to fit the shape of yours as if they were created to be interlocked. As his tongue runs along yours after tentatively prodding your lower lip in a silent request for access, his fingers dance along the bare skin on your back. Soon, your kisses are becoming more and more heated, and your hands are moving to his shirt to undo the buttons keeping it clasped together.

“Lemme take these off, yeah?” he murmurs against your lips, tugging at the back of your bra with one hand and at the waistband of your thong with the other. All you can do is nod, since you’re too breathless to give a verbal response, and allow him to undo the clasp around your back. A gentle push towards the bed sends you toppling down atop it with a playful giggle before he finishes your job of ridding himself of his shirt and tugs your panties down your legs.

Through half-lidded eyes, you can see the strain of his erection against his trousers, making your mouth water. He smirks at your mounting desire for him and kneels down on the carpet, grabbing your hips and pulling you closer to the edge of the bed. As teasingly as you’d expect from him, he drags a long finger down your slit, dragging the juices seeping out of your core up to your clit and rubbing the sensitive bud experimentally, delighted by the loud moans he reaps from your vocal cords in response.

“Tooru…” you utter needily, arching your back, “More… please.”

Unable to resist your gentle plea, he brings his lips to the plush skin of your inner thigh and mumbles, “Keep saying my name just like that, princess.” His low hum of contentment sends vibrations through your entire lower region as his mouth presses against your entrance so he can lick a broad stripe from there to your pearl.

The sensation’s nearly too much for you, but you soon melt into it, your hands reaching for his head of soft, brown hair to bring his face closer to your heat as he pleasures you with his tongue. His fingers splay across your thighs and give them a tight squeeze before he moves them up to your hips so he can hold you in place when you begin rocking them against his tongue. The sound of his name leaving your mouth in more desperate cries encourages him to delve the wet muscle deep enough into your core to make you squeal and tighten your grasp around the strands woven between your fingers.

It only takes a few minutes for him to have you at the brink of your first orgasm with how skilled his tongue is in working your sensitive bundle of nerves. “Right there—ah—Tooru!” you whimper at feeling your stomach fill with heat, “Please! I’m… I’m gonna cum!”

You expect to feel your body succumb to the pleasure, but, upon hearing your words, he retreats from you completely and licks his lips. “So soon?” he questions in a manner that’s almost mocking. Chest heaving and glistening core still fully exposed to him, you watch him with dismay. “C’mon, I know you can last longer than that.”

Inadvertently, you clench your thighs together and complain, “Don’t tease me like that.”

Shooting you a devious smile, Oikawa rises to his feet once more and quips, “Whine all you want, baby; but I know you’ll be changing your tune when I make you cum harder than you ever have before.”

Your breath hitches in your throat, but you’re quick to regain your composure under his perceptive stare. “Quite a bold promise to make, considering you don’t have a single clue about my sex life, whatsoever,” is the comment that leaves your mouth in a grumble while you shift your position so that you’re sitting up on your knees. Intent on getting payback for being robbed of your orgasm at the last second, you reach for the belt holding his trousers up and task yourself with undoing it.

He chuckles wryly. “It’s not a promise—it’s a guarantee.” Your throat goes dry at his words and at the sight of his large cock when you free it from the restraint of his pants. “Besides,” he mentions, his voice taking on a low tone that has you looking up at him as you lean forward onto your elbows, so your mouth is level with the leaking tip of his erection, “it doesn’t matter who you’ve been with before. You’ll forget them all after tonight.”

With that statement made, he eases his hips forward as you open your mouth invitingly so he can slide his cock along your tongue. A gentle groan rumbles in his chest when you close your mouth around him and move further down his shaft at a painstakingly slow pace until the tip is nudging your throat. You don’t intend to keep him there, but you want to tease him with the sensation just enough to make him lose a bit of that cool composure of his. Spurred on by his gentle sounds of pleasure and the look of fascination he’s regarding you with, you bob your head along the length of his shaft, dragging his tongue beneath it in long, deep strokes.

“Fuck, (f/n), that feels good,” he hisses, gaze wavering as he struggles to keep his eyes from rolling back at how good your mouth feels enveloping his cock. A gentle hum of appreciation you let out in response to his compliment has him thrusting into your mouth in an effort to feel the vibrations along every inch of his length. The slightly bitter taste of his precum catches on your tastebuds when you swirl your tongue around his throbbing head. “So fucking good.”

Your needy pussy clenches around nothing at his praise, and you moan teasingly while picking up the pace, taking him closer and closer to your throat with each thrust. His hand comes down to brush a few strands of your hair away from your face in a surprisingly tender gesture before his fingers clench around them to keep one of his hands occupied. The other rests on the bedside table nearby, fingertips turning white beneath the pressure he’s applying against the hard wood.

Though it’s clear he’s enjoying every moment of this with the way his cock twitches appreciatively in your mouth, the last thing he wants is to finish before he’s taken care of you. “On your back, princess,” he commands, his voice gruffer than usual as he indicates he wants you to stop by tugging your hair in the opposite direction to his body. Obediently, you let him slide his cock out of your mouth and fall back onto the bed, spreading your legs wide open so he can see just how ready you are for him. Your core has been ablaze with yearning for too long for you to be shy now.

The shadow his body creates in the soft light falls over yours when he crawls onto the bed and hovers over you. The desire to be closer to him that hasn’t left since the moment you first saw him resurfaces once again, prompting you to throw your arms around his shoulders so you can unite your bare torsos. His lips dive down towards yours once more, pressing passionate kisses against them that—in combination with the feeling of his cock pressing against your clit—have you moaning into his mouth. Your fingers pressing into the muscles along his back indicate your desperation to have him inside of you, so he obliges; plunging into your warm, velvety core as he takes his lower lip between your teeth.

A wanton mewl escapes your lips at feeling so, delightfully full, and you wrap your legs around his back, adjusting your hips so he can reach deeper inside of you. The stretch is somewhat painful at first, but every sensation you feel quickly melts into pleasure when he begins thrusting into you slowly and gently. Soon, it feels too slow and too gentle, and every nerve ending in your body is screaming for more. “Faster!” you cry as he nudges your head to the side so he can litter the tender skin on your neck with love bites.

He listens and indulges you, but not for long. Each time he hears your breathing become more erratic and feels you clench around him tightly, he eases off, ignoring the whimpers and complaints that leave your mouth at each orgasm he prevents you from reaching. As he teases you with shallow thrusts or riles you up even further by pulling out of you, he moves his head down to your chest so he can take one of your pert nipples in his mouth while his fingers pinch the other.

“Tooru, please. Please, let me cum!” you find yourself begging after being edged to what you feel is damn near the point of insanity with how little you can focus on anything else aside from chasing the high he keeps within inches of you. You open your eyes to give him a look of longing that you hope is enough to convince him to finally finish you off.

“Don’t worry,” he breathes, sending a wave of fresh goosebumps along your skin glistening with sweat, “I’m gonna make you cum so fucking hard.” The sound of his gentle voice transforming into a low growl dripping with lust fills your entire stomach with heat. “Turn over.” His hands on your waist help you flip onto your stomach and bring your hips up into the air as he kneels behind you to position himself at your entrance.

In one, swift motion, he pushes the entirety of his length back inside of you, making you cry out at the feeling of every ridge and vein in his dick dragging along your hypersensitive walls. The plush duvet and high thread count sheets muffle your screams of pleasure enough to keep them confined to his hotel room alone as he pounds into you mercilessly, sending your body charging towards what you hope is the release you’ll finally be able to experience. With all the pressure that’s building up inside of you, you can hardly withstand the pleasure overwhelming your senses.

A few more thrusts that target your most sensitive spot have you finally toppling over the edge of your orgasm, and warm waves of ecstasy crash over you as your body shakes and stars fill the edges of your vision. Your pussy spasming erratically around his cock has Oikawa snapping his hips against yours at a maddening speed until he’s filling your core up with the warmth of his release. He moans loudly between the praises and expletives that roll off his tongue as you ride out your highs together. Though you hate to admit it, he had been right—while merciless, his edging had intensified your pleasure in the end.

The strength of your orgasm leaves you unable to do anything else aside from flop onto the mattress and let your eyelids flutter shut while you regain your breath after Oikawa pulls out of you. The bed shifts beside you as he lies down at your side, taking a minute to steady his own breathing as he runs his hand along your back gently. There’s a few, long moments of silence that fill the warm air of the hotel room before a gentle chuckle from your mouth permeates it. Without speaking, he knows exactly what the source of your amusement is, and he ends up snickering as well.

“You really do say some of the corniest shit, baby,” you remark, amusement glimmering in your eyes when they find his after you roll onto your side to face him, “But I guess you’re a decent actor. Just don’t go quitting your day job, now.”

He grumbles and nuzzles your chin playfully, pressing a kiss against your jaw before pulling away and defending, “Oh, come on. You have to admit that at least some of the things I said were pretty hot.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

His arms snake around your body to pull you against his chest. In one ear, you can hear the sound of his strong heartbeat, and, in the other, you can hear him answer, “Like the whole using roulette as a gamble to win my room key instead of just money situation. C’mon. You liked that. I know you did—I saw your eyes practically burning with desire at that point.”

“Mm? And how do you know I wasn’t just acting as well?” you retort, throwing one of your legs over his and shifting your position so you can see the face of mock irritation you know he’s making at you. Sure enough, his eyes are narrowed, and his lips pursed as he squeezes them shut. After planting a kiss against his lips, you reassure him, “I enjoyed it. You’re very creative, as always, my love.”

“So all the money we spent on this little sexcapade, so to speak, of ours was worth it, then?” His hand on the back of your head keeps your faces within close proximity as he gazes into your eyes expectantly.

With a nod, you answer, “It was. But, any time we get to spend together is always worth it.”

A gentle smile forms on his lips to mirror your own, and his nose brushes against yours when he brings you closer to another kiss. This one’s deeper and more sensual than the last, and it makes your heart flutter in your chest. “I love you so much, (f/n).”

“I love you too, Tooru.” The two of you take some time to bask in your mutual and deep feelings of adoration with your foreheads pressed together and hands tracing over each other’s features before you speak again. “Now, how are we gonna be able to top this roleplay, huh?

That very familiar, devious grin of his returns to his mouth as he answers, “Oh, don’t worry, baby girl, I have plenty of other ideas.”

treat me to a coffee! ⭐︎ kinktober masterlist

taglists (see pinned post on my blog for form)

general: @dinablossom, @newfriendjen​, @devlovesramen, @ohbyunhunn, @aftcrlust, @mister-future, @kyleclxin​, @kac-chowsballs​, @osamusmiya​, @nit-sir-hc​, @arixtsukki​

oikawa: @why-aminot-dead​​, @lotsoffandomrecs​, @atsunakaashi​, @heyhinata​, @cuddlysoftbear​

[watermelonlipstick]

Dreams, Chapter 4

If you haven’t read this series before, you might want to start on Chapter 1, or check out the Dreams Masterlist! Here’s the series description:

When Dean dies for good leaving Sam and his girlfriend (the reader) behind, they must figure out how to carry on without him. Alone, reeling, and unsure what to do next, trying to honor Dean’s memory and follow their hearts gets even more complicated when their nightmares become dreams that feel a little too real.

If you have been reading this series....things are going to start happening....

Title: Dreams, Chapter 4

Pairing: (past) Dean Winchester x Reader, (eventual) Sam Winchester x Reader

Word Count: 3773

Summary: For Sam and the reader, a winter night working together leads to an uncomfortable confrontation and a confusing dream.

Warnings: angst, fluff?, alcohol, swearing, slow burn, I think that’s it!

           The tree was still up a few days later when you were throwing together sandwiches. It was a gloomy afternoon, stealing from the already meager offering of sunlight you got each day, but at least you could see the Christmas lights as you worked in the little kitchen and listened to Me Talk Pretty One Day. Brushing crumbs off your hands, you ducked your head into the bedroom to tell Sam lunch was ready.

           He was sitting on the bed with his legs crossed under him, looking surprisingly young with his long limbs folded. He glanced over at you briefly with a noncommittal nod before turning his gaze back to the wall. You walked into the room when you understood; following his eyes to the photos where you’d taped them up. Toeing off each of your boots, you climbed onto the mattress with him and gently put your arm around his broad shoulders. “He would’ve loved this,” Sam murmured, and it was almost too low for you to hear.

           “Which part?” you asked, trying to match his tone.

           “This cabin, the bar, Christmas.”

           “I think you’re right.”

           You looked over at the pictures, a tight row intentionally placed a little too low so you could see them as you fell asleep. Sam tilted his head to rest on yours.

           “We had a lot of fun though, didn’t we?”

           You considered the memories and the heat coming off of him under your cold fingers. “Yeah, we did.” After a beat you opened your mouth again. “Getting that tree was fun.”

           Sam pulled back and you looked up at him. A sad smirk was tugging at the corner of his mouth. “That was fun, wasn’t it?”

           You curved your head back into him. “Dean would’ve liked that too.” He was silent for a moment.

           “There’s no way he would’ve worked at the bar and not made every night a party.”

           He was right. Even just passing through, bars like the one you worked at were Dean’s favorite—no frills, honest people, décor not so nice it couldn’t tolerate some spills in the name of a good time. In the right mood Dean would’ve been everyone’s best friend in an hour, taking shots with the owners and playing pool with anyone who had a spare minute.

           You sat upright and tucked your hair behind your ears. “Okay, then tonight’ll be a party.”

           Sam looked at you in surprise. “Uh, what?”

           “You heard me. Tonight, we’re doing tequila shots and dancing on tables and talking to people longer than to take their orders.”

           “It’s a Monday.”

           “Wouldn’t have stopped Dean. Now come eat this sandwich I slaved over, you’re a lightweight on an empty stomach.”

           Sam’s smile was tired, but he obediently untangled his legs and got off the bed to head to the kitchen. You padded after him, letting a deep breath out through your nose. Dean would be so pissed if he saw you weren’t being strong for Sammy, just a little tougher, come on. By the time Sam sat down at the tiny breakfast bar to eat, you’d screwed your face back together.

           In some ways, it was better that you’d had this sudden change of heart on a Monday, when there weren’t so many customers to watch you crumble if it came to that. You had a propensity for being a sad drunk even in the best circumstances, and this first time truly drinking around people since losing Dean was about the worst circumstance as you could imagine.

           A few shots in Sam’s cheeks were flushed and you could feel the heat in yours as you sucked hard on a lime wedge. He was pretending to know about some football controversy with the over-shoulder towel that was ever present when he worked, his legs crossed and accentuating the long, relaxed line of his body. It was an especially cold night and condensation clouded the windows of the bar where hot air met the freezing glass. You watched as a woman about your age—you were pretty sure her name was Megan but had only served her a handful of times—traced lazy shapes in it before replacing the moisture with a hot breath and starting over. It was almost hypnotic and you didn’t know how long it was until you snapped back to reality when Sam’s warm hands wrapped over your shoulders.

           “You okay?” he asked, low and private, straight into your ear.

           “Uh, yeah, sorry. Just tired,” you lied.

           Sam gently and half-consciously kneaded the muscles in your shoulders. Before you realized what you were doing, muscle memory bobbed your head to the side, kissed his rough knuckles, and pressed your cheek to his hand. You both froze.

           “Aw, so cute,” Steve sang out from across the bar top.

           You took your chance to step forward out of Sam’s grip. “Yeah, yeah. Refill?” Steve nodded, and you snatched another Miller High Life out of a mini fridge under the bar and popped the cap with a fluid practiced motion. About a week ago you’d realized that the twist-bottle callus you had just below the first joint of your index finger had come back, a recurrent souvenir that had lasted years after you’d quit bartending last time. You were thankful for it as much as the distraction from your bizarre reflexive step over the unspoken boundary between you and Sam. It wasn’t that the contact was unprecedented, obviously, you could only catch even chunks of sleep tightly wound around Sam and kept your fingers wrapped around his forearm as he drove, but Dean was the last person whose skin your lips had touched. Until now, you corrected yourself. It was a very specific kind of closeness in a relationship already stretching the limits of what appropriate intimacy could possibly be.

           You jammed a cold metal scoop into the ice machine to break up chunks and buy some time. The same grief-hungry part of your brain that searched Sam for facial tics and habits that Dean had couldn’t stop repeating how much those hands felt the same, dry and warm and firm under your lips, under your cheek, and you wanted to clutch at them, a phantom of Dean’s that first stitched you up in Bobby’s kitchen all those years ago when life was easy and bloody, so nervous to touch you his hands shook and the scar still remained to this day. You crashed through those thoughts with a solid thump of This Is Sam Not Dean Sam Your Friend Sam The Only Thing You Have In This World, and how cruel it was to triple distill him down to only the parts that were reminiscent of someone else. Sam, who chopped wood to keep you warm, who restocked beer in the little life you’d created here. Sam, who in his own unfathomable sadness let you latch onto him as a steady point in a storm and kept you afloat just as you had him.

           “Hello?” Joe repeated, a touch of concern peeking through his annoyance.

           “Yeah, sorry! What’s up?” you asked, hearing the shrillness of your voice as you tried to overcompensate.

           “I’m trying to buy you a drink, hon. 5 shots, dealer’s choice.”

           “You, me, Jake, Steve and who?” you asked, racking up 5 sturdy shot glasses.

           “Your Paul Bunyan over there, unless you’re trying to take his too. I’ve never seen you guys really drink before, gotta jump on my chance,” he winked.

           “Oh, okay. Uh, Sam—” you called out across the bar. He was wiping up a spill you knew didn’t exist from the way he focused too hard on the bar top, trying to look busy. He looked up at his name and walked over with his hands jammed in his pockets. His unease was palpable, and your heart sank as you let go of any possibility that he wouldn’t have registered the fleeting kiss and the shift was only in your head. “—Joe’s trying to get you drunk.”

           “Careful, Joe, you think you can carry me home?” Sam joked, and you thought you would be the only one who’d be able to detect the tightness in his throat underneath it. He rubbed a lime wedge on the web of his thumb and poured salt over it before handing you the shaker. You almost dropped it when your fingertips grazed his.

           “To the only people dumb enough to move up here in the winter,” Steve proclaimed, touching his glass to the counter before shooting it. You all followed suit, politely chuckling at the teasing. When you took the lime wedge out of your mouth, Sam had his palm open in front of you. You dropped the rind in his hand and let him take the stack of glasses to the sink.

           It didn’t get as crazy as Dean likely would’ve gotten which was probably good for the bar’s bottom line and your drive back to the cabin, but Sam did end up somewhat accidentally hustling Jake for $100 over a game of pool and singing along to Shania Twain when you put it on. You were careful not to touch him or stare too long the rest of the evening, and by the time you were flipping chairs up for the night you had almost convinced yourself that nothing was different save for a little softness around the edges of the ever-present bolus of sadness in your stomach.

           Sam had two cases of Miller Lite from the basement in his grip, the veins on his forearms popping out as he set them on the ground in front of the beer cooler and crouched to replace the ones that had been drunk that night. You double checked that the cash drawer of the register was even and hopped up to sit on a spare spot of counter.

           “That’s the last one?”

           “Yeah, I already did the Coors and Bud.”

           “Are you good to drive or do you want me to?” You wiggled your toes in your shoes, feeling the ache of standing for hours in the balls of your feet.

           “No, I’m good to drive,” Sam said, shaking hair out of his face. He looked up at you, hazel eyes hard to read with fatigue or fear or pity or some murky combination thereof. You drew tight spirals over orders you’d taken that night, feeling the pen press impressions into the small notepad. The absence of words spread out to close the distance between you, feeling cloying and claustrophobic even as the Nate Bargatze standup you’d cued up piped out through the bar’s speakers.

           “Hey, I—”

           “Are you—” Sam started at the same time. You held out a palm to signal for him to continue, not truly wanting to speak yourself. “Uh, sorry. I just…I—I’m not Dean. I can’t be Dean.”

           The words and deflation in his shoulders made you wish you’d been set ablaze. Stunned, you felt your mouth open and close around words that weren’t materializing, just collecting in your throat and hardening there, the backup starting to choke you.

           “I, uh—I know,” you finally managed to squeak past the lump.

           And part of you wondered if he was right in thinking you were using him as a stand-in. As atypical as the whole situation was, you couldn’t imagine that it was normal to sleep in the same bed and spend virtually every minute together. You began to feel sick at the thought that Sam would be out living up to his potential somewhere if it weren’t for you, back to law school or righting the wrongs of the world rather than in a Northwoods dive bar restocking domestic beers at 2:30 on a Tuesday morning. The selflessness of it seemed unfathomable and yet so entirely something Sam would do. Suddenly it felt like the walls were collapsing around you.

           The moment stretched out and Sam stood up, leaning on the counter across the bar from you. His jaw was set hard and he tilted his head the way he did when he was trying to stop himself from teetering over the edge of tears. “Sam, I—I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

           He cleared his throat but looked down at the nonstick mats on the floor. “No, ah, you don’t need to apologize. I just need you to know I can’t be him for you.”

           You didn’t dare look up in case you met Sam’s eyes as you nodded, so eviscerated and humiliated you were having a hard time taking a deep breath. After a long minute you heard the clink of bottles as Sam finished restocking, grabbed your coat to mumble something about warming up the car, and went to the small parking lot. You managed to make it into the Impala before your vision started swimming and the potential enormity of the situation crashed against you; was this the end of your carved out hideaway, full of grief and memories and comfort and little moments of affection and joy you had just barely started to accept? All for some stupid thought that Dean would be happier if you were out getting wasted, an idea that reduced him to a drifter barfly instead of the complex man who’d been more loyal and loved more deeply than anyone you’d ever met. The tears dried up quickly as self-disgust rolled over you and started ringing in your ears. You didn’t hear Sam coming and jolted when he opened the door, recoiling against the passenger side to give him as much space as possible. He glanced over at you with eyes so pitying that you couldn’t bear to look at them, staring out the window at the abject darkness the rest of the drive home.

           Sam didn’t turn on the stereo.

           Back in the cabin, you quickly shucked off your coat and snatched what you needed out of the bedroom before barricading yourself in for a shower. You didn’t bother taking your makeup off first, allowing the sting of mascara to get washed away in the water. It was too hot and you didn’t care; you only came out when you realized you were going to leave Sam in a cold shower in the last week in December.

           You brushed your teeth in the mirror and took a few deep breaths before sliding out, heading past the open bedroom door straight to the kitchen in order to gulp down a panicked glass of water. Mercifully, you heard the bathroom door lock when Sam entered it quietly. You took the opportunity to grab your pillow out of the bedroom, tossing it on the couch and pulling the throw off the sofa’s back to cover yourself. Your eyes were closed tight and ramming up against your racing mind when Sam came out.

           “You don’t have to sleep on the couch,” he said softly from behind you.

           You opened your eyes but didn’t move your head to seek him out. “It’s okay.”

           Sam appeared in front of you, legs bending severely to perch on the short coffee table. His bare chest still glistened a little from the shower and you knew the green flannel pants he was wearing were soft and thick to the touch. Earnest hazel eyes meeting yours, Sam braced his elbows on his knees.

           “Sam, I’m really sorry. It was a weird reflex and it was unfair for me to—”

           “No, I, it—it wasn’t that. It’s just like, sometimes when you look at me, you look like you’re seeing a ghost. I’m just—I need to know you’re not staying here because I’m the closest you can get.”

           If your heart hadn’t been shattered and re-shattered over the last almost- two-years and today, the fear and resignation in his eyes would’ve sent you to pieces. You pushed up to sitting in order to give Sam the respect he deserved.

           “I can’t—I won’t lie and say you don’t remind me of him, but you’re my best friend—been my best friend since I first met you guys—and I am so, so, sorry I made you feel…I could never try to replace him, Sam.” You were barely making sense, having a hard time stringing together how you felt. “The only place I want to be is with you. You’re all I’ve got.”

           It felt desperate and needy but it was true and Sam deserved the truth. You didn’t shy away from him, stayed there holding his gaze until he seemed content having searched your eyes for anything hiding from the light. After a moment he nodded tightly against lips pressed in a firm line. “Okay.”

           Sam stood up, the broad planes of him catching the glitter of the Christmas tree lights. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet and tentative. “Can you, uh, can you come back?”

           It took a moment to process before you nodded, standing up and snagging your pillow before following Sam into the bedroom. You climbed into your side of the mattress, close to the wall and your tiny precious gallery, and Sam folded around you, his warm skin seeping through your t-shirt onto your back. You felt tense and comfortable all at once, safe and uneasy. The two of you sat there for a long time, the relatively light weight of Sam’s arm over you betraying that he wasn’t asleep either. When drowsiness finally began to tug your eyelids closed, he pressed his lips to a spot on your shoulder exposed from the looseness of its sleeve. The last thing you remembered was his arm going heavy like an anchor across yours.

           The sun is hot and delicious on your cheeks, baking the cotton of your jeans and t-shirt into you and turning the roof tiles under you into a frying pan. Wispy clouds move with no urgency across the sky above you and you can’t think of anything better than this, glancing down to worn laces on Dean’s boots undone to give his feet some air as his t-shirt clings half-humid to him. You know his freckles are going to be darker by dinner and it makes you smile to think about it but you’ll never tell him—it makes him shy to be reminded of the spray of pigment that makes him feel alternatively feminine or juvenile but never stunning the way you think it should. You press up to your elbows, barely registering the sting of heat and grit of the roof underneath you and kiss the spot on Dean’s arm where his shoulder slopes into his bicep. He smiles down at you, a lazy half-open smirk perfectly framed by the blue sky behind him like a painting.

           “You’re so weird,” he chuckles. “Who kisses someone’s arm?”

           “Then come down here,” you toss back, exaggerated pout ready for him. He ducks down to you, the warmth of his lips on yours like a cookie fresh out of the oven, like sliding down the hallway on new fuzzy socks, like the summer’s first plunge into water.

           Sam’s head peeks out from under the gutter. “Bobby’s putting brats on the grill, do you want any?”

           “Hell yeah, extra onions,” Dean yells down, grinning smugly when you make a face.

           “Me too!” you call out, watching Sam squint up at the roof. 

           “No onions though, right?”

           “You’re the best, Sam.”

           Sam beams up at you, dimples almost high enough to reach the squint-crinkled skin around his eyes. He nods and ducks back out of sight.

           “Come on, I’m thirsty,” Dean says, standing up. He reaches a hand down to you and takes a half step back to brace himself, stepping on the lace of his other boot. He stumbles and it’s a quick shuffle and you realize he’s too close to the edge his next step is into thin air like Wil E. Coyote and you’re grabbing at that same thin air and you can see his face change when he realizes and some part of your subconscious that’s even deeper than this can feel it’s happening again and the sound is so final, such a wet crack but you scrabble to the edge anyway because you have to see and Dean’s lying there.

           He’s clutching his left leg bent against his chest like a stretch. “Son of a bitch, what the fuck!” he mutter-yells, and you hear the thump of Sam and Bobby running through the old house and skittering to a stop in front of him as you carefully shimmy down the porch post with your hands tearing on the gutter’s rusty edge, jumping down when you feel the railing beneath you.

           “Dean! Are you okay?” Sam yells over Bobby who’s cursing out the goddamn idjit told you not to climb up there it’s like having a bunch of teenagers in this goddamned house and Dean winces and nods angrily.

           You’re lifting up the hem of his jeans and gingerly taking off his boot and Dean hisses when you peel off his sock, but nothing is poking through the skin and that’s better than you expected. “Can you stand up?”

           He nods again and you can practically taste him biting back the string of expletives when you and Sam each take an arm and lift him to standing. You snake a hand into his pocket and grab the keys to the Impala, leaning behind Dean to say to his brother, “I’ll take him to the ER.”

           Dean doesn’t argue and it’s yet more evidence that it’s pretty bad, but you feel fine, elated almost, that he’s still warm under your palm and against your side, that he still smells like fresh laundry and domestic beer and a little bit of salt and engine grease. Sam’s long arm opens the door when you get there and slides Dean in and you promise to text when you know how bad it is as you round the car and get to the driver’s side. You turn the key in the ignition and throw your arm around Dean’s seat to reverse out of the driveway. Dean’s looking at you as you throw the car back into drive, staring almost, and his face is soft even around the broken ankle.

           “I’m always going to love you,” he says, smooth and sure of himself. You tug your eyes away from the road with half a question on your face but Dean doesn’t explain why he’s saying this now. “I’ll be okay and I’m always going to love you, no matter what.”

           It doesn’t make any sense and you open your mouth to tease this unexpected sappiness, remind him the ankle is just one more in a long string of injuries he’ll owe you for, and then Dean’s gone, the car’s gone, and the heat is coming from Sam’s chest in front of you. 

-

Continue to Dreams, Chapter 5

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[vannahfanfics]

Opposites Attract

Category: Mild Romantic Fluff

Fandom: Naruto

Characters: Shikaku Nara, Inoichi Yamanaka, Choza Akimichi, Yoshino Nara

Shikaku’s heart fluttered as he gazed at her, a dreamy lilt to his smile as he pressed his fist further into his cheek. She stood across the bar at one of the many small round tables littered with slurring drunks; one hand clutched her hip, bunching up the soft red fabric of her dress, while the other wagged a finger threateningly at the patron who’d attempted to grab her rear while she passed. He could hear her berating yells and curses even from his seat at the counter. Her cheeks flushed pink as pure vitriol spilled from her glossed lips, making the drunk man slide lower and lower in his seat to try to escape the angry woman. 

What a sight, Shikaku thought with a lovestruck sigh. He’d never seen such a domineering woman, and damn, did it look good on her. Like a war goddess, she conquested this bar to lay low all the unruly drunks and vagabonds that dared rise against her. As she whipped around with a snooty huff, her nose upturned, her long brown hair slapped the poor man’s unwitting friend across the face. Her heels click-clacked across the wooden floor while she marched back to the bar, holding her notepad to her chest. 

“Wow,” he whistled appreciatively. “What a woman.” 

Inoichi raised a blond eyebrow at him, then craned his head to follow Shikaku’s hazy, adoring gaze to the waitress. She was yelling through the small window in the back of the bar to the kitchen now, calling off orders for small plates of food that the drunkards were ordering now that they had the munchies— or their considerably less drunk friends were ordering to try and sober them up before they attempted to totter home. Inoichi observed the women for a minute, and when she grabbed a bottle of alcohol straight from the counter to tip it back and pour a stream of the amber liquid into her mouth while eyeing the bartender challengingly, he looked at Shikaku questioningly. 

“You’re joking, right?” 

“You know what they say, Inoichi!” Choza chuckled, licking grease from the octopus balls he’d just devoured off his fingertips. “‘Opposites attract,’ right? A spitfire like that is the perfect woman for the biggest lazybones around,” the redhead snorted and elbowed Shikaku in the ribs. The dark-haired man snorted at the stinging pain that bloomed across the bone, prompting him to rub at the tender spot making a home in his intercostals. He snatched up his sake cup and drained the contents, wincing slightly as the clear, fiery liquid burned his throat. His eyes remained on the waitress, watching the sway in her hips as she fiddled at the register to charge up all the orders she’d just placed or added them to the patrons’ tabs. 

Many others would miss it, but not Shikaku and his trained eyes. As one of her coworkers walked up behind her and gently touched her on the shoulder, the woman turned around with a bright smile. Tenderness and joy existed beneath that tough exterior, he could see; her warm brown eyes shone with delight as she conversed with her friend, punctuating their conversion with cute little gestures of her hands. Softness and hardness existed in tandem in this woman, something that Shikaku found immensely fascinating. 

Too bad he’d probably never speak a word to her, he thought with a small sigh and refilled his small white cup to the brim with the clear alcohol. 

“Oh, no,” Inochi growled, furrowing his eyebrows when Shikaku raised the cup to his lips with a conspicuous look. “You’re gonna just moon over this woman all night, not do anything about it, then complain about how much of a drag it is that you let her slip away,” he predicted disdainfully. Shikaku’s mouth twitched into a frown, both at his teammate’s condescending tone and the painful accuracy of his statement. 

“Talking to women is a drag,” he mumbled into his cup and then downed it in one shot. Yet, he found his gaze drifting back to the woman. She was catching a quick break, leaning against the bar chatting amicably to the bartender. It seemed she’d abandoned chugging liquor from bottles for a club soda, which she was twirling around with a straw. The ice clinked against the glass, causing the little dewdrops of condensation to quiver before slipping down the side to bleed into the coaster. 

Somehow, even just the small swirling motions of her hand seemed magical to Shikaku. 

“Hello? Earth to Shikaku?” Inoichi sighed, snapping his fingers in front of the daydreaming man’s face. Shikaku scowled and shoved his hand away, nearly knocking the bottle of sake over. Thankfully, Choza’s quick reflexes averted disaster; he snatched up the teetering bottle and slid it further down the bar, away from Shikaku’s angry shoves. “Seriously, go talk to her.” 

“Are you kidding? She’ll bite my head off,” he grumbled. The thrill in his heart, however, belied the fact that he would probably enjoy it more than he ought to. 

“Come on,” Choza crooned, laying a big hand on Shikaku’s shoulders. The ponytailed man’s eyebrows scrunched suspiciously as he looked over his shoulder at the larger man. “You’re always complaining about how much time Inoichi and I spend with our girlfriends!” 

Hell, yeah, Shikaku did! It was such a drag, listening to those two bleat on and on about their significant others. Shikaku had been trapped in the middle of a sap session more times than he could count, just listening to the two praise their honeys to the high heavens. More than once, Shikaku had considered taking a kunai to the jugular to end his suffering. 

“What, and you think getting me one is the solution? How about you two just keep me out of your ‘who-can-praise-their-girlfriend-the-most’ competitions instead?” he snorted and reached for the sake. He scowled when Choza pushed it out of reach, obviously intent on keeping him sober enough to court the pretty waitress. A kunai to the jugular was looking pretty good right now, he thought, looking down at the equipment pouch strapped to his thigh. 

“Please, we all know that once you net a woman, you’ll be praising her more than either of us praise our partners combined!” Inoichi guffawed and slapped him on the shoulder several times as he laughed into his sake cup. Shikaku did not appreciate the joke, and showed such with a very unimpressed glower. After snickering at his expense for well over a minute, Inoichi leaned over his shoulder with a raised eyebrow and a smirk— a mischievous look if there ever was one. 

“What if I told you that she’s been making heart eyes at you since we walked in?” 

“You’re a liar!” Shikaku snarled, but took the bait and looked at the woman anyway. His heart nearly jumped out of his chest when he caught her gaze; she had been staring right at him! Her eyes widened in surprise as their eyes met, and then she looked away, pink rising to her cheeks. She pressed a hand to her lips, but despite her efforts to hide her coy smile, he could see it peeking out from beneath her fingertips. Shikaku’s heart played his ribcage like bongo drums while he gawked stupidly at the pretty waitress, who was hurrying off to take more orders on the floor so she wouldn’t get caught staring again. 

Slowly, Shikaku turned to look back down at the bar, not sure how to process the flurry of emotions whirling around inside of him. 

“Okay, so she was looking,” he said finally. 

“She’s into you, man!” Choza grinned and smacked him on the back. If the woman’s shy smile hadn’t stolen his breath, the redhead’s massive palm slapping into the middle of his back would’ve knocked it right out of him. “Come on, go for it! What do you have to lose?” 

“My dignity?” 

“So nothing, then?” Inoichi snorted into his sake. Shikaku scowled and shoved him in the shoulder again. However, he still found himself turning on the barstool to gaze longingly at the young woman. She had momentarily forgotten locking eyes with him, smiling pleasantly as she scrawled down an order from three young women who had just walked into the bar. He found himself melting at that simple upturning of her lips and the sheen of gloss shining under the dull lights. Shikaku had always found beauty in simple things— the trees rustling in the wind, the clouds drifting across the sky, the deer of Nara Forest grazing peacefully in the clearings— but this young woman working her humble bar job was the most simply gorgeous thing he’d seen in all his life. 

Thus, he found himself rising from the stool without realizing it when she began her meandering strut back to the bar. 

“Is the bartender not refilling your sake fast enough?” she quipped when he approached the register. Despite the harsh connotation of her words, he read through the playful lilt in her smirk and the glitter in her eyes as they peered at him from beneath her long lashes. She was pretending to process the newest orders; her fingers were uselessly fluttering over the buttons, never pushing hard enough to do any actual good. “I’m afraid that’s not my job, and you’ll just have to wait your turn. We’re quite busy tonight.” 

“I imagine you are, with such a beautiful woman working the floor.” He wished he sounded as confident and suave as he wanted to; instead it came out as a nervous probe, a desperate plea to continue the conversation. The woman still smiled at the compliment, at least charmed by the attempt. However, he had no idea how to follow that one-liner up. “I’m not great at flirting,” he admitted after wracking his useless mind. Exhaling shakily, he ran a hand over his hair. God, was he sweating already? “But, be that as it may, I was wondering if I could at least know your name.” 

“Yoshino,” the woman answered within a breath, slightly startling him. She grinned at his slight jump, and then reached over the counter to seductively run a finger over his sternum. All the gears in his brain screeched to a halt with that simple trace of her finger pad down the flat bone and the flutter of her eyes, gleaming with mischievousness. “And you, handsome?” 

“Sh-Shikaku Nara,” he spluttered after far too much time. The woman chuckled at his bashfulness. He gulped as her finger slipped down, down, down his sternum and then suddenly was gone as she retreated back over the counter. Holy shit, this woman will be the death of me and I’m grateful, he thought, a little lightheaded. She resumed pretending to play with the register, looking up at him through her lashes again. 

“You’re not good at flirting,” she acknowledged with a laugh. He smiled sheepishly and rubbed the back of his neck, strangely endeared by the statement. 

“Well, I just don’t believe in telling a woman what she wants to hear,” he shrugged, “just what I think.” 

“And what do you think, Shikaku Nara?” she asked, tipping up her chin challengingly. He swallowed again, wondering if he should immediately balk on his statement and tell her what she wanted to hear. He thought better of it, though; if he was anything, it was an honest man, sometimes to a fault. 

“I think that you’re the most enthralling woman that I’ve ever met and that I would love taking you out to dinner after your shift ends.” 

Yoshino stared at him a minute, somehow still surprised at his answer. Slowly, a smile worked its way onto her face. She stopped fiddling with the register to cross her arms and lean fully into the counter. His heart stuttered at the smoldering look she gave him; sweat bloomed on his skin, making him compulsively tug at the neck of his shirt as it stuck uncomfortably to him. Yet for not one second did he fear rejection, because her warm brown eyes were a chocolate galaxy bursting with excitement and joy. 

“I get off at eight,” she informed him plainly before pushing away from the bar and strutting towards the back. She did give him a little wave of farewell, however, and put an extra saunter in his hips. Shikaku smirked at her cheekiness, unable to keep from biting the tip of his tongue as he watched those hips disappear around the corner. After making sure no one was looking, he chanced a small fist pump and hissed “Yes!” to himself. 

“So?” Inoichi asked expectantly when he meandered back to the barstool. “Crash and burn?” he joked and poured Shikaku a glass of sake. Shikaku picked it up, but gave his friend a wide grin. 

“Nope. I’m afraid you two boys will have to walk home without me.” 

Choza and Inoichi exchanged excited whoops and both rapped him on the back. Shikaku winced, closing his eyes as he screwed up his face in pain. If these two keep it up, I won’t be able to walk home, he thought with a pained smile. He cracked an eye open to see Yoshino waltzing back around the corner. This time she didn’t shy away from his gaze, instead flashing him a smile and wink. Well, at least I’ll have company, he thought in amusement and sipped at the sake. Not too much, though— with a spitfire like Yoshino, he definitely had to keep his wits about him. 

Enjoy this oneshot? Feel free to peruse my Table of Contents!

[greenninjagal-blog]

To Know It By Name

Hello my lovely followers! Who’s ready for one last story for 2020?

I bring you this cute au that I wrote for The TSS Fanworks Collective Gift Exchange for @making-stuff-up! Hold on tight because I had a lot of fun making this and I might turn it into a series.

Summary: It knows exactly the reason why the Scientist threw another kid into Its container. It also knows exactly what It is NOT going to do, no matter what the cost to Itself. It’s not going to eat the new kid.

Words: 12072

TW: Unethical Experimentation, starvation, oxygen deprivation, dubious science stuff, mentions of eating someone (but not cannibalism because It’s a slime)

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They threw another kid in.

It doesn’t have eyes or ears, but It knows that feeling in the air like It knows Its own body. It can’t forget, no matter how much It tries to get rid of the knowledge. Which is ridiculous: something like It not wanting to keep and retain and hoard knowledge within itself? That’s unheard of. Unprecedented. Impossible.

Not allowed.

But then again, It’s pretty sure It's the only of its kind. So maybe that is heard of, that is precedented, that is possible. But It has no real way of knowing, because It’s all alone in Its container.

It hadn’t known about that before either. It wishes It could unlearn that too. Because now that It knows how alone It is, It’s able to feel lonely, too.

It hates feeling lonely. It makes It so very aware of how small Its container is, how smooth the walls are, how tightly the ceiling hatch is sealed, how cold and dark the room must be without anything there to keep It warm and give It light-- not that It can perceive temperature or light. It hadn’t known those things existed either, and It desperately wishes to get rid of that knowledge too.

Before the first time, It hadn’t craved a sun It had never felt, hadn’t craved a warmth of another It had never had, hadn’t craved a something more It hadn’t realized It was missing. Before the first kid, It had been happy-- although It hadn’t known that It had been happy because It hadn’t known what happiness was. Nor sadness. Nor Loneliness.

It hadn’t known what a wall was, what a floor, or a door or a container was. It had just been .

Nothing more and nothing less and It misses that time without emotions that It doesn’t know what to do with because It shouldn’t have emotions either.

It knows Its container very well, too well, and that makes Its insides twist and bubble and refuse to hold any type of shape. It knew that It’s in something called a “cell” because It is a “project”. It knew It was “created” and not “born”. It knew that It was “meant to be a weapon” and that if Its creators were caught It would “die”.

It doesn’t know how It can be “die” though. It knows It’s supposed to hurt, and cause pain, and be bad, but It doesn’t know that It can be hurt and feel pain and observe badness. The knowledge wracks through Its body again, causing It to lose Its precious partial hold on a compact form and turn back to a liquid despite Its best efforts.

((Effort is another thing It hadn’t known. It doesn’t know if It likes that knowledge or not. Effort leads It to have goals and goals lead It to have wants and wants lead It to the realization that It is trapped in a container It does not have the ability to get out of.))

But they threw another kid in here. It knows and It's upset about that-- or at least It thinks that is what this is. An emotion. It’s so hard to know because It is not made to have emotions and now It does and It has no way to show emotions.

The kid-- It thinks that is the best term for the other being, although It also is confused by words and language and time-- the kid that they threw in, came from the door on the ceiling, tumbling down a hatch, head over heels and landing in the middle of the container. It had lunged for the opening in the ceiling once It realized what had happened but It had been too slow and the hatch was closed.

It was alone with a kid now. In the dark and the cold.

It knew what It was supposed to do. It did not want to do it.

It knows where the kid is: still in the middle of the container unmoving leading It to think that maybe the fall had “die” the kid, or at least injured the kid so that they cannot move from where they are. It can tell by the amount of magic coming from the kid; It can feel the sudden increase of magic particles in the air, from how the magic is condensed in a singular spot in the middle of the room, from how his form spasms and quirks with the desire to absorb all the traces of magic.

((The kid was thrown in here for It. The magic was meant for It. Everything inside the container is Its, and Its alone, because It is all alone.))

The urge is called an “instinct” and that is part of Its job, part of Its reason for existing, part of It. The scientists that made It, made that instinct and they were proud of It, of how well It had come out, of how well It could move and attack and consume.

They didn’t understand. It envied how they didn’t understand.

It hadn’t understood before the first kid. Now It knew better. And part of It thinks the scientists should as well; they were humans too, weren’t they? Shouldn’t they, of all creatures, know? Shouldn’t the scientists that made It, that created life from nothing, created instinct from air, created un-”die”-ability from chemicals-- shouldn’t they know that once something is given to It, that thing becomes It?

The magic particles in the air shimmer and shake and buzz with energy. It feels like It's starving as It quivers in the corner of Its container: Its form is trying to split again, shifting and shaking and tearing itself apart from the inside as It does Its best to hold itself together. It doesn’t know what It will do if It lets Its atoms separate and fill the floor again, doesn’t know that the urge to wrap around the magical particles won’t take over Its thoughts, doesn’t know that It can trust itself not to catch the kid inside itself and hug, hug, squeeze, suck, eat, consume, be.

Even a small touch would be bad, It knows. It doesn’t want It to be bad, It doesn’t want to be bad. Even though It thinks that It was made with the purpose to be bad -- that is what it means to be illegal, right? That’s why if the scientists that created It get caught, It will be “die”. Because It is bad.

It doesn’t want to be bad.

Bad feels not-good.

It doesn’t know how to describe It any better. The differences between bad and not-good and “feeling”. It shouldn’t ever have a need to. It thinks that It's supposed to be mindless. It's supposed to be a tool. A weapon. A nightmare to scare anything that has magic.

It’s supposed to be a monster.

It doesn’t want to be a monster. It thinks that monsters don’t get to learn things, don’t get to observe the sun, don’t get to be good. Monsters hurt people.

It doesn’t want to hurt people anymore. Not again.

(Please no not again. Please, It’ll be good. Don’t make It do this--)

It can still feel the kid from before, doesn’t know how to stop feeling the kid from before. The first kid was so much. And they had given the kid to It and It hadn’t known any better. Now It’s both, and It hates being both, hates being the first kid, hates being itself.

It’s form shudders again, prickly, sluggish, like an itch that It can’t reach, although It doesn’t have itches because It’s body doesn’t have itches. It’s atoms spread out as if to taste the air, taste the floor, taste the situation that It and the new kid, the second kid, this kid that is not part of It, are in.

The kid is not moving, not really. It thinks that the kid is lying so still to “prank” it. It thinks that maybe the kid believes that if they don’t move, It will not know the kid is there. Which doesn’t make sense, because It knows the kid is there because of all the magic the kid gives off, which It can’t not see. The magic is in the air and it tastes like… like…

It doesn’t know how to explain taste because It hasn’t tasted very many things before. Magic tastes better than rocks, better than iron and limestone and salt, better than leaves, better than  plants both dead and alive, and better than meat, cooked, raw, cut up and still on the bone, flesh dissolving as it’s body picks the foreign thing apart atom by atom and absor--

Magic tastes like something better, something sweeter, It thinks. Although It doesn’t really understand the concepts of “sweet” and “sour”. Magic is unpleasant in the air, It knows. Magic causes Its body to quiver and shake and It struggles to focus on holding form together, because of the urge to wrap itself around the magic and eat. Magic buzzes and burns along Its outer particles. It thinks It would feel a lot like being constantly poked at no matter how much It begs for the poking to stop. But once It’s around the magic particles, once It plucks and pulls the magic particles into itself and chews on them Magic tastes good. It tastes pleasant.

It doesn’t quite know if that is because the poking has stopped or if It actually likes taking the magic particles for itself. It doesn’t think It wants to know. Not really.

It thinks that It uses magic too, a bit. Because It takes magic into itself, that must mean that It uses magic too, right? It doesn’t know if that’s really how everything works and there is never anyone to ask, never any way to ask. It’s horribly curious in that way-- It wants to know, but It doesn’t want to ask in the only way It really knows how to ask at all.

It thinks that’s unfair. Why did the scientists make It this way? Why did the scientists make It at all?

The magic is there and it’s buzzing and poking and It doesn’t like that it's there, but the magic is part of the kid. It doesn’t think It can eat the magic without….

It doesn’t want to try either. It grabs at Its atoms again, pulling them into itself and making It as small as It can be. Small and solid and held together. It thinks that magic particles help It do this the best. The magic in itself helps It hold Its atoms in place exactly how It wants them to be. It’s a lot harder when It doesn’t have magic particles-- but again that’s the whole effort thing. It hadn’t cared that holding itself together had been harder until It realized there was such a thing as being easy.

And It hadn’t had the realization until It had eaten the last thing that had been thrown into its container without realizing that the thing had been alive and breathing and screaming and begging It to stop.

It wishes It could have stopped. It doesn’t know if the bad emotion It feels all the time is from the first kid, or if that’s Its own emotion that It’s just now aware It can have. Either way It is both now and so It feels and It knows how bad It was.

And now the scientists want It to be bad again, don’t they?

The first kid had been screaming and begging for It to stop-- It knows because all of the first kid belongs to It now, all of the first kid is part of It now. Did the scientists not hear that kid crying? Did they not hear that kid begging?

Did they not feel bad about what they did?

But then again, they hadn’t really done anything, right? It is the bad thing, the monster that felt and consumed and ate. It had done everything, not the scientists that created It so the scientists didn’t really have a reason to feel bad.

It doesn’t want to feel bad, so It's not going to eat this time. Then they’ll know that It’s not bad anymore.

That is how everything works, right? It feels like there is something more, something that It doesn’t understand, something that It doesn’t know, but It knows everything that the first kid knew before the first kid did the “die”. It knows all the thoughts and the feelings and It can think and feel too now! And It thought and felt and It came to this decision.

No more eating.

Even if It wants to know why the new kid isn’t moving. Even if It wants the magic particles to stop poking it. Even if It wants to learn and understand and experience and the only way to do that is to eat--

There’s dirt on the ground. Itty, bitty, tiny clumps of barely recognizable minerals-- iron and magnesium and potassium-- mixed in with forgotten remains of microorganisms and water and air. There’s dirt on the ground that came from somewhere else-- somewhere where the other things are, where plants live, where the sun touches. It yanks back Its atoms frantically because It hadn’t noticed that It had let itself fall apart and It got close enough to eat the dirt that came off the kid during the fall.

It almost ate the kid.

It almost ate the kid, again. It was inches from them, centimeters from touching, millimeters from wrapping around and squeezing and holding and plucking apart the kid next to It because It was so busy thinking about how much It wants to know things that It wasn’t paying attention to the fact that Its not ever going to know those things.

Iron and magnesium and potassium-- those are part of It now, too. So small, so little and It wants to scream at itself for getting so close to the magic particles that It doesn’t want, shouldn’t want, can’t want because despite being in Its container the kid is not supposed to be eaten by it.

Small, tiny, solid, It tells itself. Away from the kid, don’t go near, not for it.

Surely when the scientists realize that the kid is in here, when It won’t go near the kid, when It doesn’t eat the kid-- surely then the scientists will get the kid from there? Maybe they’ll even realize It’s good now and will let It out too.

Maybe It can experience the sun like the first kid did?

(But thats stupid, right? It’s a monster. Monsters aren’t supposed to want to be out in the sun.)

It doesn’t even have a body that can experience the sun, does it? It knows that the sun is made of light, and It doesn’t think that there’s any light in Its container. What if the light hits It and It becomes “die”? It doesn’t know what Its body will do if It becomes “die”.

Because the first kid had become “die” and then It had known all these things about the world outside Its container, about what It was, about what It was supposed to. The first kid had become It and now It was both of them. If the light hit It and It becomes “die” would the light then become both It and the first kid? Or would It go back to not knowing anything and It might eat another human or magician or a creature?

Would It be bad again? It doesn’t want to be bad again.

It doesn’t think the scientists know that It doesn’t want to be bad. After all, how could It tell them without having a voice? Or hands to write with? It had tried to make Its body hold the shape of letters, but It takes so much concentration and focus and It can’t do that for more than a few minutes before Its atoms want to move and explore and break apart.

It only kinda knows how to spell anyway. The first kid only was always told he was an okay speller-er.

It thinks, though, that human bodies are much easier to hold than letters. They’re more complicated, but It knows human bodies because It’s both itself and human now. Sometimes when It feels really lonely It likes to fit back into Its human form and hug itself a little-- although It can’t really feel a hug. Hugs are supposed to feel good, and so It thinks that by pretending to hug itself It can pretend to feel good.

(Hugs are supposed to be warm. It wonders what warm feels like. It knows it's like fire, like food, like a billion blankets in the middle of a cold winter. Hugs mean everything is okay, everything is safe, everything is good because nothing bad ever happens during a hug--)

It’s human form feels just right, although It knows that It is small, that It could be bigger if It wanted to, that It could be like the towering scientists, but every time It tries to be bigger something is wrong. It’s not sure what is wrong, but something is weird: It’s “arms” are too long, It’s “legs” too short, It’s face is upside down or sideways or backwards.

In the smaller form, It knows exactly how things are supposed to fit together. Of course It does! It’s It.

It shifts to that form and solidifies, so Its standing-- which is always a little weird, a little different, a little silly. It’s balance is different when It stands on two legs rather than splay itself across the walls or the ceiling. It doesn’t need to push or pull or hold with so much concentration, but It needs to balance.

It doesn’t do that very often.

It doesn’t like this. Being on two legs. It thinks It should be better at balance, maybe be able to walk like the first kid had been able to, like It should be able to, now that It and the first kid are the same. But It tries to move just one leg and then It wobbles over and falls like a baby.

It’s not a baby.

It’s not really sure why babies and falling is a bad thing, but the first kid seemed to think so. The first kid did not like being called a baby, but he did cry and fall a lot. It feels something bad in It’s chest when It wobbles and falls to the ground. Like It wants to “throw up” although It doesn’t have a mouth or anything inside It to push away from Itself, unless It counted… the rest of It.

It wavers on the floor, checking the magic particles in the air. They’ve moved back to the corner of Its container, farther away-- It thinks the first kid did that too, although Its own memories are fuzzy from then because It hadn’t been remembering or thinking or feeling when It was too busy just being. It remembers much more clearly the first kid’s memories: he had been taken by the scientists from his home with all the other kids that didn’t have parents and the scientists had told him he wasn’t allowed to talk, but he hadn’t listened. So then the scientists had pushed him into the room with It and he had said he was sorry and that he wouldn’t do it again and he would be so so quiet just please let him out before It gets him, please PLEASE PLEASE--

It wants to cover Its ears and get the voice to stop, the voice that isn’t Its but also is, because It’s both now. It wants to make the words stop, because the words are what make It hurt, aren’t they? It didn’t care before It knew what the words meant and now It does. It knows and It wishes It didn’t.

Covering Its ears doesn’t make the words stop making sense. Covering Its ears doesn’t make the memory go away. Covering Its ears doesn’t make It hurt less.

It doesn’t even know what covering Its ears is supposed to do. The first kid seemed to think that the action would make everything better, but It doesn’t think it does anything. The hurt in Its center is still there, after everything, under everything, through everything.

It hurts when It thinks about the sun and warmth and a hug. It hurts when it thinks about the first kid that won’t get those things ever again.

It hurts when It thinks that It is both now, and It won’t get those things either.

“--se don’t.”

It freezes on the floor-- but not really because It's not able to “freeze” like It's made of ice, like It’s so cold that moving is hard, like It can feel temperature enough for that to stop It from doing anything. It stops moving because It that It feels something.

Something weird. It's different from the hurt, different from the loneliness, different from the poking of the magic particles in the air. It feels like… like...

Like the air atoms It’s always taking in are moving quicker, faster, weirder. Like they’re vibrating. Like they’re dancing around. Like they’re doing things deliberately.

“Please.”

There it is again!

“Don’t, please please please.”

Again! Different but the same? Like a pattern. It thinks that It knows that pattern of vibrations. It waits for them to happen again--

“Please. Remus. I’m sorry I won't leave again pleasepleaseplease--”

Words! It’s feeling words! Real words that move through the air and make wobbles in the atoms so that other beings can communicate! It’s just like the first kid!

It's just… like…

Those are just like the same vibrations as the first kid.

Oh.

“Please, I’m sorry! Remus, please! Help!”

The magic particles buzz like jabs in Its body, the words vibrate like thousands of needles into Its ever-changing form making It hard to hold together. It hurts, It hurts, It hurts hurts hurts--

“NO WAIT STOP!” The words screech from the second kid. “PLEASE LEAVE ME ALONE!”

The magic particles move suddenly, quickly, scrabbling across Its container to get as far from It as possible, which isn’t really far at all because when It goes formless It can fill the entire floor by itself. The kid is moving to put as much space between them and It as possible.

The vibrations buzz in the air-- no pattern this time, just noise. Like the kid is also hurt.

It doesn’t understand. It doesn’t understand why the kid is also hurt, why it makes those noises. What is “Remus”? The first kid doesn’t, didn’t, won’t know a Remus and It wants to ask but asking means eating and It doesn’t want to be bad and eat.

“GET AWAY!”

Words are so loud and they sting in the air, prickly and hard in a way that is worse than the magic particles that burn and itch along Its core. It doesn’t like that. The kid sounds scared. How does It make the kid not scared?

Hugs? The First kid thought hugs make everything better. But It can’t hug-- It might eat! And this kid is not for eating, not, not, not, not--

“LEAVE ME ALONE!” The kid vibrates so piercingly loud, then softer, “please. Just leave me alone. I’m sorry.”

It can’t hug. It thinks that maybe the words are meant for It. Meant for It to feel and understand, rather than the scientists. It didn’t think that anyone knew It can feel and understand-- is the kid so scared that they are trying anything to get It to listen? It has to make the kid less scared, to show them that It can hear and understand and that It’s good.

If It is making the kid scared, maybe they need to think It can’t touch them? That they need to know It won’t touch them?

((Even though the magic particles keep poking it, even though It wants to understand, even though It wants to feel what a hug, warmth, not-lonely is like.))

It’s human form scoots backwards; Its legs wavering between being divided and melding back together into Its usual body. It moves away and the vibrations lessen a bit-- getting softer? Harder to feel? It scoots back until it feels the wall and It climbs up--

The vibrations scREECH. THE KID IS SCREAMING THE KID DOES NOT LIKE IT GOING UP AND IT DOES NOT LIKE THAT THE  KID DOES NOT LIKE THAT SO IT DRops back down to the floor as quickly as It can. It abandons the human form and curls into a tight, tiny, small ball that isn’t anywhere near the kid.

The kid makes more vibrations, patterns that It doesn’t recognize, patterns that It thinks don’t actually mean anything and It hates that It wants to do that too. It hates, hates, hates, hurts inside itself in a way It’s not supposed to be able to hurt. It hurts and It doesn’t know what to do.

It doesn’t like not knowing. It doesn’t like anything.

It thinks that should be funny, right? It wants to know, It doesn’t want to know, It doesn’t like not knowing, and It shouldn’t be able to “know” or “not know” because It’s It.

It’s atoms sing, spreading out as much as they can when It won’t let them go more than a foot away from the center of It. The magic particles pulse in the air, like a cloud, like a shadow, like a blanket that makes It hard to think-- which is fine because It shouldn’t be thinking either. How does It stop? How does It stop thinking and yet still keep itself from eating?

“W...what?”

There are new vibrations in Its container, something It doesn’t immediately know; the first kid hadn’t made those vibrations at It. The first kid had been screaming too much, begging too much, crying too much; there was no time for asking things when It was absorbing the kid into itself and learning everything there is to know about him.

The new kid, this kid, the one that is dancing with magic particles and curling as far away from It as the kid can get, makes the different vibrations.

“W...what... stop!” The kid vibrates. “STOP!”

The kid’s arms move up and they cover their ears or yanks on their hair-- It thinks that those are what the magic particles are telling It. The kid is moving, and they’re whimpering, and that means they’re scared. But at least they aren’t screaming.

“Shut up! Shut up, shut up!” They vibrate. “You don’t mean it!”

It… It doesn’t know what that means. What are they saying? What does that mean?

“You’re not sorry!” The kid is curled up in the corner of the container. “You… you aren’t…”

It is, though. How did the kid know? Is… is It vibrating too? It didn’t know It was vibrating. It counts It’s atoms as they move around in Its body, watching for where they could be vibrarting to move the air and would give It the same vibrations as speaking.

It's vibrating .

It can… how long has It been able to vibrate? Has It always been able to vibrate? Did the scientists know It could vibrate?

“W...who?” The kid’s vibrations are smaller, softer, quieter. It almost wants to think that maybe the kid isn’t upset anymore.

It doesn’t really know what It’s doing. It feels something in itself, similar to the hurt, similar to the sad, but different too. Something like when It’s alone for so long and remembers that there is a sun and warmth outside Its container, something like when It thinks about the scientists getting caught and how It will be “die”, something like when It wants to ask questions but can’t--

But It can now, can’t It? If It vibrates right? If It figures out how to vibrate better It can ask all the questions It wants which means that It doesn’t need to eat anyone and then It can be let out because It's a good It.

Vibrates. It holds itself closer, tighter, stronger, because the want to vibrate right is stronger than the hurt feeling in its chest. What were the vibrate patterns that the first kid knew? What were the patterns that meant friendly-happy-I’m-here?

“Greetings!”  

The kid does not vibrate back-- actually, the magic particles in the air stop moving even a little bit, which It thinks is around the kid’s chest area. It doesn’t understand. The first kid always moved that part of his body, because that was the part where his lungs were before he’d become part of It. Does that mean that the kid isn’t using his lungs anymore?

Don’t humans need to do that-- all living creatures do don’t they? That’s what the first kid thought! That’s what It thought! Except for things like Vampires or golems because they were dead or not living, everything needed to breathe.

It wants to scream, wants to vibrate loud enough that someone comes and helps because the kid needs to breathe and they’re not and It can’t help. But It doesn’t want to vibrate like that in case the kid stops breathing for longer.

Did It vibrate wrong? It would make sense if It had, because It doesn’t really know how to vibrate, but the first kid thought that the pattern of “greetings” was good! The first kid liked to say “greetings” instead of “hello” because that made him sound smarter and less like a baby-- and the adults all said that was good. The adults liked him more when he said “greetings”, and when adults liked him they were more willing to do things for him: give him gifts, smile at him, maybe adopt him, too.

“Wha…” the kid vibrates after too long, and the words have a drawl to them, a rumbling that makes the pattern sound not-right. Raspy, the first kid would have called that. Like the kid was sick.

(It doesn’t get sick. It didn’t know getting sick was a thing before.)

“Are you…?” The kid vibrates again and the magic particles move a little; they’re breathing, they’re lowering their arms from their head so that they can receive the vibrations better! It thinks that’s a good thing right? “You… talked… No, no stay over there!”

It’s not moving. It checks Its atoms really closely to make sure they were all where It told them to be-- and they were. It doesn’t know why the kid did not know It was all over here still.

“I am,” It vibrates. “Over here. I’m not going over there.”

The kid makes a vibration It doesn’t know, something quicker, louder, jarring that makes It think It did something wrong. But It didn’t; It knows what message It sent out, exactly as the first kid might have vibrated, if the first kid was not “die” and spread within It.

“Oh, yeah sure ,” the kid vibrates raggedly. “I believe that.”

Something about the quickness of the vibrations makes It think that the kid does not actually believe It. The kid is lying? Why would he lie? What is the point of lying about this?

It doesn’t know and It doesn’t know if It wants to ask. Surely if It did the kid would get more upset again? It would vibrate really loud again? So It needs to not vibrate that way.

It twists on itself again while It tries to figure out what the kid wants It to do now. It presses against the walls a little, but It doesn’t climb because the kid doesn’t like that. The kid, the kid--

Oh. It should ask the name of the kid right? That is what the first kid thought you were supposed to do when you met someone new: greet, then introduce yourself, then offer one important fact about yourself.

((It doesn’t know any important facts about itself. But that can come later, right? The kid will have an important fact to share and they can vibrate about that instead of about it!))

“What is your name?” It vibrates.

The kid curls on itself more. It thinks that might be bad but It doesn’t really know. The magic particles in the air poke at It again, make It move along the wall more, make It feel so bad It almost misses the press of the soundwaves against itself again.

“...Are you going to hurt me?” The kid vibrates.

It thinks that is a bad answer. So bad, in fact, that It thinks that must not be an answer at all. Why would the kid ask a question instead of answering? Should It do that too? It doesn’t know what to ask-- not really but if It just answers the question, It doesn’t think that the kid will believe It because they’re so scared.

“Why are you scared?”

The kid is quiet. It wants to vibrate more to make the room feel less bad. But it’s not It’s turn to vibrate, and It’s pretty sure that talking was something that was done in turns. One for It. One for the kid. One for It. One for the kid.

Like sharing! It hasn’t ever gotten to share anything before. But what if… what if the kid doesn’t want to share with It?

“...Virgil,” the kid vibrates.

It’s a weird pattern. It likes that though; the hard vibration at that start rumbly and neat followed by the shorter ones. It feels nice.

“Virgil. Virgil. Virgil,” It vibrates. “Virgil!”

“Ye-yeah,” Virgil vibrates back. “Thats-- That’s my name.”

“I know!” It twists on itself. It wants to fill the floor again even though It can’t, wants to smile even though It doesn’t have a mouth, wants to reach out and hug even though It eats everything It--

Virgil makes another vibration, high and long and trembling. The magic particles in the air spin and spritz and poke and prod and It tries very hard to ignore the urge to do something about them.

“You’ll tell me now, right?” Virgil vibrates. “You won’t hurt me, right?”

It wavers for a moment-- as much as It can waver when It is on the ground not moving at all, because It’s atoms have to stay in the area It tells all Its atoms to stay in, or they might go out and touch--

“No,” It vibrates back, and then because the kid asked two questions, It thinks that Its allowed to share something else, right? Two for him, Two for It? “Why would I hurt you?”

Virgil doesn’t not vibrate actual words again; just another long drawn out rumbling of air moving without a pattern. It’s similar to the others he’s done before. The magic reacts with the noise, dancing and moving and burning, and It thinks that the magic is harder to ignore now than before. The urge to make them stop makes Its core twist around and around and around until It wants to think about anything but how It’s feeling a pain It can’t not feel.

“Virgil,” It vibrates again. Because the patterns are something that is not the hurt. “Virgil. Virgil. Vir--”

“Stop,” Virgil vibrates. “Please stop.”

“Stop what?”

Virgil rumbles low again. “Saying my name. ”

“Saying?” It vibrates. “Oh this is talking. Speaking. Saying. I’m talking.”

“Yeah,” Virgil vibrates-- says. “Yeah, you’re talking. Stop saying my name. Please. I’ll do whatever you want.”

“Want?” It repeats. The air in the room feels weird, different, and It didn’t know that the air could feel different in Its container. Maybe that’s because It’s always been alone before this. The word hums in the air like a song, like echoing in Its mind even after the vibrations stop.

Whatever It wants? It doesn’t think that Virgil can give It what It wants. Virgil is stuck in Its container too, and they’re the one giving off the magic particles that make It want to fall apart and eat. But when It doesn’t eat Virgil then the scientists should come back and get Virgil out of here, right? Then Virgil can tell the scientists that made It that It’s a good It and It can be let out of Its container too.

“Okay,” It says. Because if all It has to do is not say Virgil’s name, then It can do that!

It thinks that the sun will feel really nice on It. Warmth would be very nice-- can It learn to feel warmth? It thinks that if It learned to vibrate-- to talk and communicate, then It can learn to feel warmth like how the first kid had.

It thinks that the warmth of the sun would be close enough to a hug, right? It wouldn’t feel the pressure or the safety, but It could take Its human form and wrap Its gangly arms around itself and pretend they were someone else’s. A hug! Yes that would be nice! So nice. Much nicer than the magic particles digging into It.

“W…” Virgil starts, almost startling It. It didn’t know It could be startled. It jolts away from Its core for a second flicking out and then coming right back like a yoyo-- the first kid liked yoyos. He had one stuffed under his pillow at the home for all the other kids without parents. It wonders if It would be good at playing with a yoyo if It got the chance once the scientist realized It wasn’t bad anymore.

“What’s your name?” Virgil asks.

“My name?” It copies. It thinks that the way Virgil says that means he doesn’t really want to know the answer. Isn’t that weird? Why would Virgil ask a question he doesn’t want to know the answer to? Why would Virgil ever not want to know the answer to something? Isn’t it always good to know everything they can?

“My name.” It says again. “My name, my name.” It tries to think. It has a name, right? Something that is Its, something that It would say to anyone that It meets. Something that It would answer to when talked to. The Scientists called It something , right?

“My name….” It says.

This shouldn’t be a hard question to answer, It knows. Especially not when Virgil doesn’t even want to know. It should be having this feeling because of a question-- the bubbly, fuzzy, bad feeling that makes it hard to count it’s atoms and retain Its shape and makes all the magic particles in the air itch at It, poke at It, laugh at It.

“You don’t have to answer!” Virgil yelps. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

It thinks that Virgil curled up into a smaller ball in his corner of the room, but It also thinks that it’s hard to tell with the magic flitting around like that. It coils around itself, tight and binding to the point where if It had human shaped lungs It would have crushed them.

“I’m sorry,” It says finally, stinging with pain that It didn’t know It could feel. “I don’t think I have a name.”

Virgil doesn’t respond, but It barely notices. It’s too busy pressing along the wall, feeling the crease between the floor and the wall like It will suddenly find Its name engraved there. The first kid had a name-- It thinks he did. Why wouldn’t he have had one? A name is part of the three things you do when you meet someone new: greet, then introduce yourself, then offer one important fact about yourself. Why didn’t It know Its own name?

“Hey,” Virgil says. “Hey! It’s… uh… it’s alright!”

“I should have a name,” It says. “I should have a name, right? It’s only logical that I should have a name.”

Something to call itself. It presses against the walls, and for some reason It thinks suddenly the room is smaller. Which doesn’t make any sense. The walls can’t move and Its container has always been the same shape before; that shouldn’t change now of all times. Still It can feel the magic particles stabbing into It while it pins itself against the uniform surface trying to get away, I can feel the way the air is vibrating with hundreds of tiny little atoms that make it breathable for other creatures, It can feel the way that Virgil is watching It struggle to-- struggle to--

What is it struggling to do again?

“I should have a name,” It says again but the vibrations are patterned weirdly, like It had messed up how to make them, like It had forgotten between the first time It had said them and this time, like It was struggling to repeat the patterns.

“It’s okay!” Virgil says. “It’s… uh! You need to breathe-- I think-- can slimes breathe?”

“What’s…” It asks, “...a slime?”

Virgil is staring at It. It doesn’t know what to do-- why does It hurt all over all of a sudden? Where was this hurt coming from? Is it the magic particles? They’ve never hurt like this before! But It thinks that It's never left magic particles in the air long enough for that to be true. It hurts, hurts, hurts--

“What do you mean ‘what’s a slime’?” Virgil says. “ You’re a slime. At least I think you are. I kinda fell asleep when Remus was telling me about Slimes… but he never mentioned that slimes could talk. He showed me a bunch in his workshop once, but he didn’t take them out of their flasks-- and you’re really big. Oh my god, you’re really, really big. I’m sorry I’ll shut up. I’m sorry. I’m sorry--”

It tries to wrap Its mind around the vibrations, but Virgil is talking so fast. Almost as soon as It recognizes the patterns and figures out the meaning of one word Virgil is through an entire other word and It thinks that’s a lot like drowning--  except that It can’t drown because it doesn’t even breathe.

Does It?

“Slime,” It says because that’s the only word It can make out, the word that makes the rest of the words not make sense, the word that doesn’t sound like a word at all. Slime, slime, slime . Why can’t It wrap Its core around the meaning of the word the way that It can wrap around a body full of magic particles and squeez-- “I’m a slime. What’s a slime?”

The air moves between the two of them, and for a moment It thinks that there might be electricity zinging between them. That after all this, Virgil decided to attack It with the magic that is an inherent part of him-- would that make It stop hurting? Would It be able to eat the magic if Virgil just threw all of the magic at It with no regard?

“A slime,” Virgil says shakily. “Is a type of creature. It’s... uh… they’re like jello-- do you know what jello is? It’s uh… slimes have this ge-lat-i-nous body which means they can change shape to whatever they want. Usually they’re green or purple or red, but you’re blue. I’ve never seen a blue slime before. Remus said that slimes are the coolest because you guys eat--”

It feels like It’s drowning, suffocating, constricting. “What’s a Remus?”

Virgil breathes in deep. He’s curling on himself a bit, but not as much as before. “Remus is my witch.”

“Your witch?”

“My witch,” Virgil repeats. “Like, uh, he has magic that’s in his blood and he can use it to cast spells and do stuff. He’s really powerful so everyone is always asking him to make them potions and Remus says they’re “greedy pigs” but he still makes them anyway, because Roman asks him to, but he charges them thrice as much for ingredients and then uses all everything left over to finance his research into, uh... all his other stuff.

“I’m a Familiar,” Virgil continues. “I can help Witches channel energy to make them ever stronger. We’re supposed to accept all the backlash when spells go wrong too, but Remus never makes me do it. He says its because he’s the one doing all the dumb stuff so he should face all the consequences, but last time he nearly died and Roman was so upset with me that I didn’t take it and I didn’t want that to happen again even though Remus swears that this time the spell is gonna work. I don’t wanna help him kill himself and so I yelled at him and then Remus had this look on his face and I got scared because I’m not supposed to yell at my witch and so I ran which was stupid and now I’m here because those guys in masks shot me with a tran-quil-iz-er and I couldn’t move. And…. and Remus is never gonna find me because I made him upset and why would he come for me after that? He can just go find another black cat familiar and that one won’t be too afraid to take the backlash when he tries new things.”

“Slime, Witch, Familiar,” It says. “Virgil. Remus. Slime . I’m a slime. I’m….”

Virgil shifts against his corner, shifts and sighs and makes the air in the container feel a little less heavy. It hadn’t even realized the air was heavy. It hadn’t realized that the magic particles were knives digging into Its core. It hadn’t realized that It was pressing as flat as It could against the walls until It was leaking atoms wherever It could.

“Are you….” Virgil says softly. “Are you still upset about the name?”

It doesn’t want Virgil to laugh at it. It isn’t sure why It thinks that Virgil will laugh at It for that. Maybe because It should know Its own name considering how old It is (how old is It, again?), maybe because of all the things It shouldn’t know, Its own name is the silliest, stupidest one of them all. Maybe because It doesn’t want Virgil to think that just because It’s a slime, It doesn’t know anything at all.

It doesn’t want to think that It doesn’t know anything at all.

The pain in It is sharp, carving around Its core in slick, repetitive motions where the magic particles in the air poke at its outer atoms until they itch to poke back until the magic is no more.

“We can give you a name,” Virgil says, although they sound like they immediately regret the idea when after they offer it. “... If you want, I mean! If you don’t want a name that’s okay too! Or if you don’t want me to help you pick a name! I just thought that maybe you might like it if I didn’t… just… call you slime in my head! Pleasanton’teatme!”

Why does the air seem to press against It just as much as It is pressing against the wall?

“You would help me get a name?”

Virgil seems to rub their arms. “If that’s what you want.”

“Want,” It echoes, because the vibrations should have made the air feel less like it was crushing It, but instead It just feels stupid and empty and dumb.

((But not mindless. Not uncontrolled. No giving in the instinct, the urge, the need to hug Virgil until Virgil is part of It too. Not for eating, Not for eating, not for It, no--))

The magic particles flicker and move around Virgil, around something that’s next to Virgil that It holds itself away from: something long and thin that reminds It of a tentacle from a book the first kid liked. The object swings in the air curling, wrapping, dancing, in a way that makes It struggle to follow when the magic particles are stabbing from everywhere the object is and will be and was.

“A name, a name…” Virgil repeats. “I’ve never named anything before, except like my imaginary friends, but they always liked their names because they’re pretend and I make them like their names because I’m not supposed to have any real friends because I’m a familiar and we’re just tools for Witches. What about uhh…. Bartholomew?”

The vibrations ring in the air, sharply up and down and fading out at the end in a way that makes It press deeper into the wall. The name is too long, too many syllables, too old and it feels wrong in a way It doesn’t know how to explain. Virgil picked it out but It doesn’t like that-- but it’s mean and rude to say no, isn’t it? It doesn’t want to be mean and rude!

“Not Bartholomew, got it,” Virgil says, the object beside them twitching nervously. It doesn’t know what the emotion that floods over It is called-- not even the first kid knew. But It feels that emotion when Virgil manages to figure out that It doesn’t like the name at all. “Uh what about…. Mallory?”

Still too long, and just saying the name leaves it hummmmm-ing the air with vibrations that make It twist and churn and struggle to focus on the patterns of everything else. It’s not right, but It doesn’t want to say it’s wrong but Virgil might decide It’s being too picky and whiny and they might stop helping all together if It tells them--

“Not Mallory,” Virgil says. The object behind them swivels in the air and It thinks that the magic particles wafting off it dig directly into Its core. “Okay. Okay. What about Blake? Alex? Taylor?”

It shifts and squirms under the weight of the air, of the magic particles, of the names that aren’t right but It can’t say why they aren’t right. It digs into the wall like It can get away from the weight on It and the bad feeling that originates in Its own core. It’s outer atoms sizzle and burn and try to split off but It holds onto them.

“Drew? Or maybe not. That’s the name of the really mean guy at the Familiar house. He sprayed me with water when I hissed at him.” Virgil tugs on their sleeves, It thinks-- the movement of the magic particles makes It feel sick regardless of what they’re doing. Why does It feel so sick? Why does It have to hurt so much?

“What about Parker?” Virgil suggests. “She was always really nice. She brought us cookies once before she was fired… Not that you can’t be Drew! I don’t think you’re like the other Drew. You’re… I think you’re nice? You haven’t eaten me yet and Remus said that all slimes really do is eat everything they want to…But not you!”

Virgil tugs on their sleeves again and the object behind him flicks with the motion. It thinks that the motions are signals of something, that Virgil does them when they are feeling not-good to some extent and helping It find a name is making them feel not-good.

“Paris?” Virgil says. “That’s the name of a city that I read in a book once when Remus took me to the library while he was researching bunyip oil substitutes for a potion.” They lean forward and hug their knees to their chest. “Remus said… he’d take me one day… but I don’t think he will. Not anymore.”

It trills in a way It doesn’t really mean too. Some part of Its core tells It that It should trill so It does-- and perhaps that’s the right thing to do because Virgil sucks in a breath and shakes their head a little bit.

“Not Paris? What about Orion? I think that one is the brightest stars in the sky or something.”

“Stars?” It rumbles. “What are stars?”

It thinks It kinda knows what stars are. If It thinks very hard and ignores the magic particles stabbing at Its core. The first kid had heard of stars before-- had seen them. Maybe? The memories are hazy in a way that makes It feel not-good, because It knew that those memories had been clearer before. The first kid had known about stars and It should know about stars too!

Why couldn’t It remember?

“Stars?” Virgil repeats back to It. “Stars are uh… they’re balls of light! And, uh, gases! In the sky. Like the sun! ”

“Sun,” It echoes. “The sun gives off warmth, right?”

“Yep!” Virgil moves their head up and down. “The sun is a star that’s really close to Earth. It makes it so that everyone can live on Earth, because without it, the plants wouldn’t be able to grow and everything would be frozen over with ice.”

“Earth. Plants.” It knows what plants are. It’s eaten them before. (But that’s okay, that’s allowed.  Because even though plants are living, they can’t think like creatures.)

The object behind Virgil moves again, coiling up. “Plants are cool,” They say. “I always liked the flowers that Remus has in his workshop. They glowed when it got dark outside. Remus let me keep one in my room too… It would close up during the day but at night the petals peeled back and the middle of it made a soft, pretty purple light that would float around the room all by itself. When I couldn’t sleep I would just watch it move and make shadows on the walls. I tried really hard to keep it alive, but one time it died in the middle of the night and I cried because it was Remus’s plant and I thought he was gonna hate me.

“But when he found out, he used one of his potions and brought it back to life. Just like that. Because he’s the coolest witch ever.” Virgil leaned forward until his head was half buried in his knees. “He can bring any plant back to life but he can’t really grow ‘em himself so he’s friends with a druid who can make all sorts of plants grow really fast. I liked him… he grew some catnip for me once and gave it to Remus free of charge, even though I told him it was okay and I didn’t want it.”

“Catnip,” It hums. “Is that for a cat? Do you have a cat?”

The object behind Virgil finally stops, freezing in place at Its question.

“Huh, I guess you can’t uh… You can’t see me, can you? Because you don’t have eyes.” Virgil says. “I’m a cat Familiar. A black cat-- I’ve got ears and a tail and I’ve got a, uh, sigil on my neck where me and Remus are connected. I think it looks like a stormcloud.” They settle back in their corner.

They settle with a silence suddenly that only serves to remind It that the container is small and the magic particles in the air will probably taste really good as Its plucking them apart in Its body.

“Can you….” It struggles with the right pattern of vibrations for a second, trying not to confuse them with the rhythm that the magic particles poking at It with. “Tell me more? Please?”

Please, something to think about. Something that is not the hurt, not pain, not magic, not you not eat, not hungry, not want--

Virgil shifts. “Tell you? About what?”

“ Anything.”  

Virgil is quiet. It wants to scream.

“Do you know what festivals are?” Virgil says finally and their voice makes It feel like It can breathe for the first time in ages-- although It doesn’t need to breathe at all. “They’re celebrations for really big holidays that everyone gets to do stuff in. When I was back at the Familiar house, witches and warlocks and mystics would come in all the time during festival weeks and they would sometimes buy us, which means that we would have to look our best and be on our best behaviors all week. I didn’t like them because it meant I had to smile and let people look at me all the time and if I hid up in the rafters they wouldn’t let me have dinner that night. The only really cool thing was at night, all of us Familiars could crowd around the upstairs window and watch the fireworks light up the sky in patterns.

“When Remus came and bought me, I was kinda relieved despite everything… like I wouldn’t have to dress up for strangers and Remus let me just lie in the sunlight patches on the floor of the workshop. But because he’s so powerful he always gets asked to perform in the festivals for everyone but he hates doing it because the Mayor said he can’t destroy any buildings or reanimate any corpses to do dances. He said he wasn’t gonna bother with anything that year… but then he figured out that I had never been to a real festival before, and he changed his mind and said we were going.

“We got there and there were so many people…” Virgil sighs. “Goblins, demons, angels, boogiemen, pixies, fae-- Remus bought me a Hydra Truffle that tasted better than any fish I’ve ever had. There was a satyr band playing for a bunch of elvin and vampire dancers who were doing fancy dances that I had never even seen before. There was a psychic doing magic readings at a booth who smacked Remus away and some sirens were singing songs that manipulated the smoke from the Cyclops barbecue stations to show what they were singing about… Then Remus dragged me to the front of the crowd and I got to see… oh they were so pretty… the light show… It was done by Remus’s brother Roman…. He made sparklers for some kids and he swallowed fire and he spit it up into the air like a volcano and then he turned his lights into different colors and sent them straight up into the sky where they exploded outward and made patterns that retold the story of the Great Race Wars….”

Virgil’s breaths seem to pick up slightly. “I’d never seen it so close before… It was… It was…. Amazing. And loud. And after it was over I started to fall asleep and Remus carried me back home and he said he didn’t mind it one bit that I drooled all over his shoulder.”

Virgil goes quiet again and It thinks that Virgil’s voice made It feel not alone for once in Its life. It doesn’t know a lot about what Virgil is talking about: the first kid remembers bits and pieces of these festival things, about the races, and the lights. It thinks that the light show that Virgil talked about might have been warm too, warm and cool and surrounded by so many people It couldn’t have possibly felt like It was alone. It would be nice to see that, to witness that much noise, to feel that closeness without touching someone else-- It would be nice to go to a festival, to see the stars, to… to…

“Have you… have you ever been outside before?” Virgil asks in a voice so small that It almost doesn’t feel them talk at all.

“Not allowed,” It says. “Want to.”

Virgil seems to nod. At least It thinks that what that slight motion is. Their tail curls behind them again, and It thinks that the action says something even when Virgil, themself, does not say anything. It thinks that It would understand whatever that is if It could just... just...reaches out… and… eats--

“Do… do you know what you look like?” Virgil says and It tries not to let Its atoms crawl away, get away, slip away. There are so many atoms. Why does it have some many moving parts of itself? Why don’t those parts listen to It and stay away from Virgil’s magic particles?

“You’re blue, which I know because blue and green are the colors that I’m best at seeing, even in the dark. Is it always dark down here?” Virgil asks. “Wait, you probably don’t know how to answer that because you can’t see... I don’t see any lamps in this room outside of the light from the hole they pushed me in through to put me down here. You… you’re kinda see through, but not really. Like looking through…. a window covered in conden...sation. And right at the very middle you have this…. ball that looks darker than.... the rest of you.”

“My core,” It says.

“Your core?”

It drags itself outer atoms closer to itself, making itself smaller, less noticeable, less It. “My core. Me. Slime.”

“Like your…. heart?” Virgil suggests although there is something off about the way the vibrations feel. “Didn’t think... Slimes... had hearts.”

It doesn’t think slimes do either. The Scientists created It, they put It in this container and sealed it off  with a door that It can’t squeeze out through or around. Virgil only said It looked like a slime. It didn’t think there was anything like It out there, outside this container, outside It. It was all alone, right? Always alone.

There’s another noise from somewhere. Something that makes the whole container shake. It crawls a few inches up the wall, but drops back down because Virgil hadn’t liked that before and they wouldn’t like It doing that now either. There are more shakes, more rumbles.

“What…?” Virgil breathes in sharply, once, twice, thrice. “Do you…?”

“Something is happening outside,” It says.

“Is it...” Virgil says, and then they make a raspy strange noise that reverberates through the room, through the air, through It. The magic particles shift after the noise, tittering like they were disturbed by it like It was. Virgil makes the noise again, and It thinks that It doesn’t know a lot about Familiars, but nothing that breathes should make a sound like that.

“S-sorry…” Virgil says weakly. “I don’t… I don’t…”

“Vir--” It starts and stops because Virgil asked It to stop saying their name.

“I’m gonna… I’m gonna…” Virgil makes that noise again. It thinks that they’re forcing air in and out of their lungs, raspy and dry, shaking more than even Its atoms are. Virgil’s in the corner, sitting with their back to the area where the walls meet and It watches as Virgil’s body shifts and they slide down one wall to the floor, like they couldn’t possibly hold themself up anymore.

“Hey! Hey!” It says. “Virgil!”

Virgil makes the noise again, long and hard and violent and It knows something is wrong here. The magic particles tell It that Virgil is wreathing on the ground, hands clutching their neck, and that noise resounds in what little space there is in Its container.

“Virgil!” It wants to come closer. It wants to help. It wants Virgil to stop making that noise and tell It more about the world outside. “Virgil!”

It doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know, doesn’t know, doesn’t--

“HELP!” It yells. “HELP! SOMEONE!”

The scientist would come right? They would help, right? They wouldn’t let Virgil die like they let the first kid die, right?

“PLEASE SOMEONE!” It screams because It thinks that Virgil’s movements are slowing down and their chest is frantically moving up and down for air they need to breathe but for some reason the air isn’t good enough anymore. “SOMEONE HELP! PLEASE!”

The world outside Its container shakes again, and there’s something else out there too that’s making vibrations that are so weak It isn’t sure if they are real or if It’s making them up in Its mind. It hopes It’s not making them up, It hopes and begs and screams because Virgil isn’t okay and someone needs to help them.

“HELP!”

Virgil’s chest flutters. It watches as the magic particles flick in the air, twisting dangerously and drifting off. What does that mean? The magic is draining out of Virgil? The magic that is keeping them alive? It’s just leaving them?  

“SOMEONE!”

It flings itself up the wall towards that hatch that It's never been able to squeeze through. It rears back and slams at the flat surface with everything that It has.

“PLEASE!”

All the effort It hadn’t known about before It had eaten the first kid, It throws into Its movement. Because It swore It wasn’t going to eat Virgil, because It wants to hear Virgil talk more about the world outside, because Virgil said they were going to help It find a name and…. And…

“Please,” It drops from the unmoved ceiling hatch back to the floor. “Please, someone.”

The magic particles are drifting more. Further away from Virgil’s body, further away from a chest that isn’t moving, further away and It thinks that It would gladly take the magic particles stabbing into It for the rest of Its life if they would just go back into Virgil, please, please, no, please let him out before It gets him, please PLEASE PLEASE--

“Virgil!” It begs, but Virgil isn’t moving, won’t move, can’t move. “Virgil, you have to wake up… Virgil… Virgil…”

It’s right next to Virgil, right in Virgil’s little corner, right where It told Virgil It wouldn’t go. It’s right there and Virgil isn’t moving.

It’s right there and Its atoms aren’t even trying to reach for them anymore, because there’s no magic particles around them anymore.

It’s right there and It’s more alone than It’s ever been in Its life.

And then the ceiling hatch of Its container explodes downward and into the room.

It only has a millisecond to react: stretching itself out so that It protects Virgil from the splintering of metal-- iron, carbon, magnesium-- and it tears apart the material inside itself the way that It eats everything that It touches. It puts itself between the danger and Virgil because that was Virgil.

Something drops in with the explosion and it reeks of magic particles that reach out and cleave into Its core directly, tearing It the way that It thinks the first kid felt, the way that It eats, the way that It assumed that becoming “die” would feel.

“Get. Away. From Them.” A voice growls out and then doesn’t wait for It to do anything before all those magic particles condense down and shoot out at It.

It’s never had magic particles thrust at It before. It doesn’t know what happens-- not really. Magic tastes better than rocks, better than iron and limestone and salt, better than leaves, better than  plants both dead and alive, and better than meat, cooked, raw, cut up and still on the bone-- It tastes like something sweet, something sugary, something savory-- It tastes like absolutely nothing It has ever had before, and something It’s always had.

Magic tastes like something that fills It up, something that It keeps and holds in itself forever, something that It was missing and craving and needed in order to live.

It thinks, maybe for a moment, that It had been starving this whole time down here, alone in Its container.

Why hadn’t It known that?

Suddenly It can see all around It, It can feel all around It: It had been blasted apart and those parts had been pulled right back to Its core in the other corner of Its container-- Its cell -- where It had been shoved to eat anything the Scientists shoved down there whenever they felt like It. The person who had come into there is tall, far taller than It, but he had thrown himself down next to Virgil and was gently trying to coax something into their mouth.

He’s exuding magic particles from his body and from the belt of glass bottles around his waist, but this time they don’t hurt It to feel-- nothing about this makes sense: It's never not hurt when magic particles are involved. But It can see around the room so clearly now and there’s no pain, no bad feeling in Its core, no feeling like It needs to throw up part of itself despite not having a mouth.

It feels stronger, too. With just a thought all of Its atoms fall into place and hold there. Its own body listens to It. It doesn’t know what that means as It twists between Its blob form and Its human form.

It must have made a vibration because the man twists around to look at It again with something like surprise and shock on his face-- and It can see so clearly as those emotions melt back to determinations and the magic particles around him condense to his hand, to the tips of his fingers, to himself.

Its… It has never seen something so beautiful before.

“What…did you do to me?” It asks, staring at Its own fingers and watching as they move exactly how It directs them to. “What…”

The man opens his mouth to respond, but another noise catches both of their attention. A soft ragged noise-- something that reminds It of the noise Virgil had made before their chest had stopped moving entirely.

“Re…” Virgil gasps for air.

“Virgil!” It yells and then before the man can move, It flings itself across the floor and lands on Its knees right next to both of them. “Virgil-- I’m sorry! I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”

“S-slime…” Virgil makes that ragged noise again. “You’re… glowin’…”

The man shifts Virgil in his lap. “Easy there, Scaredy Cat. Air goes in.”

Virgil’s ears fold. “Remus… I…didn’t think you were... coming….”

“Of course I was coming for you,” Remus says. “You’re my Familiar, dumbass. You’re stuck with me. And when we get back home we’re talking about what just fucking happened and then I’m gonna see how many Elixirs of Pain my brother can take before he just fucking dies. ”

Virgil laughs weakly and curls into him, Remus, his witch.

“What about you?” The Witch says and it takes a moment for It to realize Remus is asking It.  

“What?”

"I might have just murdered everyone upstairs. I'll be honest I was too angry to hold back on any of my attacks. The one I just hit you with should have obliterated you entirely...." Remus squints at It. “What are you? A Slime?”

It nods, and Remus stares at It for another moment.

“I’ve never met a talking slime,” Remus hums. “Roman’s gonna be so jealous. You know, if he’s not dead when I’m done with him. Come on, up you go, Bad Luck Black Cat.” Remus picks up Virgil who whines slightly and maneuvers the Familiar around so that Virgil is on his back with their arms wrapped around Remus’s neck and Remus supporting holding them up from under their legs. A piggy back ride, It thinks. Virgil’s head burrows into Remus’s shoulder.

Together they have even more magic particles, and they give off a glow of sorts that It can’t really explain. It thinks that any other time they both might have been impossible to look at, but now It feels drawn to them-- not from any instinct to eat, but just for… something else.

“You got a name, Slime Time?” Remus asks It.

“‘didn’t like Bartholomew,” Virgil mumbles.

“What? Not Bartholomew?” Remus give It another look, and then reaches out a hand and plops it directly on Its head.

It almost screams. Because Virgil said a lot about Remus but they didn’t say that Remus was stupid. Because It eats everything that touches It. Because Remus’s hand is on It and there’s a feeling flowing over It that makes Its entire form shake and shudder and chant it’s warm, it’s warm, it’s warm, this is what warmth feels like.

“ Oh,” It says.

“What about Logan,” Remus says.

It’s not sure what type of noise It makes in response, but Remus rubs his hand over Logan head back and forth a few times-- like a hair ruffle, if It were made of anything other than a gel.

“Logan it is!” Remus decides. “Come on. I don’t know how long you have been in here, but I think it’s time you see the outside world.”

In another second the magic particles surround both him and Virgil and lift Remus up off the ground and straight towards the open door in the ceiling. It shakes for a moment, before It rushes up the wall and after them.

And for the first time in Its life, Logan feels the warmth of the sun.

[decks-writing-blog]

Indirectly a Hero

This fic is inspired by my prior doubt about ever being able to even reach 5BC let alone get anywhere close to beating it. So basically thinking about what that would look like in universe brought along the question of what would happened if the Collector decided to just make the Panacea without Beheaded there because they're too weak ever get that far?

Just for the record I now know I can beat 5BC even if it is with a a little bit of help from one of the new aspects in the beta patch (I feel it's technically possible without that but is a very tall order). I reached the Collector for the first a little while ago only for him to glitch. T.T Once he's fixed though it's only a matter of time before I get that 1st 5BC win. Perhaps for the 2nd 5BC win for the true ending I'll insist on doing it without the help of an aspect, depends on how I feel though because this game is hella hard.

~

The door opened with little more than a creak of its hinges, signaling the state Beheaded was in even before they’d entered the room. Which they did rather slowly, hunched over as they clutching at wound in their side, blood leaking freely through their fingers. That wasn’t their only wound either. Various injuries marred their body and tattered their blood-soaked clothing. They left a dripping trail behind them as they walked further in.

Collector watched them make their slow, painful way over to him. “You’re going to fight the Hand of the King like that?” His tone was mocking but it was hard not to feel a little pity for them given how often he’d seen them in such a state by now. Especially in comparison to their usual swagger. Though at least this way they didn’t destroy the door as they entered.

Beheaded lifted a hand to flip him off. They were still as rude as ever though, that was good to see.

Despite that, as always, they handed over all the Dead Cells they’d collected since last Collector had last seen them. He’d long since run out of stuff to give them in return but they thankfully still handed them over without even needing to be asked to. Seems it was just habit for them at this point and Collector wasn’t going to question it lest they stop doing so.

They then moved on, heading off to fight the Hand of the King again. Given their state, they would almost without a doubt lose again too. They’d only managed to defeat him a grand total of three times now. The last time had been quite a while ago too. But given how many other times they struggled long and hard against various other obstacles and enemies, they’d probably eventually prevail again. Unless Collector found that cure for the Malaise first.

He turned to looked at the container behind him now brimming with fresh Cells. Thanks to Beheaded, he had no shortage of Cells to experiment with and thanks to Time Keeper, no shortage of time to do so either. As a result, he was starting to get close to… something. Whether that something would actually be an effective cure was impossible to say. At this point he doubted it, but it was the only thing he had left to try so he was going to. Just a little bit more and he’d have it.

~

Time was impossible to measure in a time loop and thus there was no way to even guess how long it had taken but Collector finally had the ability to create a panacea. A mythic cure from a children’s tale, it wasn’t likely to work. But if it failed, there was no hope left for the island anyway so it wouldn’t change anything. Now all that was left to do was to wait for Beheaded to show up and he’d reveal it to them.

Except… Beheaded never showed. Despite Time Keeper’s best efforts, the Malaise was still getting worse, increasing the amount of undead roaming the island, making them more aggressive as well. Beheaded, already having a hard time, was struggling even more now. Rare was the attempt they got anywhere even close to the castle, let alone to it and then all the way here.

So as much as he would’ve preferred one last dose of Cells from Beheaded as well as the opportunity to show them the panacea, he couldn’t wait forever. And really, he was only procrastinating because this was the island’s final hope so if it failed there was nothing more he could do. It was about time he just got this over with though

After one last look around the empty observatory, he turned to look at the Catalyst. He’d been planning to use fresh Cells from Beheaded for this but they clearly weren’t up to the task of reaching this point so he’d just have to use some of the spare Cells left over from all the experiments that had led to this. Most of them he’d used up in said experiments but there was still enough left to do this at least once or twice.

He left to get a Cell storage container from the other room. Upon returning it didn’t take long to hook it up and transfer the Cells over. He then positioned a flask underneath its spout and turned it on.

The Cells spun and danced within the machine, condensing down into a liquid form and pouring into the flask. It glowed blue, coming up to almost the halfway point. He hadn’t used quite enough Cells. Not that it mattered a whole lot anyway as it wasn’t likely to work.

So with no one to share this experiment with – and what a vast shame that was – he grasped the flask by its neck and unceremoniously lifted it to his mouth to take a small sip. The liquid had the consistency of honey and had a sharp bitter medicinal taste. Unpleasant but not too bad really. Now if only…

The surge of energy that shot through him surprised him enough to send him to his knees. Oh! That felt good! With a chuckle, he stood back up and… nothing. He did nothing because despite the sudden pressing urge to do something there was nothing to do. So instead he growled and strode over to pound a fist onto his desk, making the glass beakers on it rattle as if in threat of breaking. He growled at them, barely resisting the urge to swipe them off the desk to shatter onto the floor.

He needed more Cells! … Well it was a good thing he knew where to go to get more.

***

After bursting through the door, Beheaded paused because Collector was back. He was standing there just as if he’d never left, his equipment operational and glowing with Cells once more. The fellow who’d taken his place was still there too. The two of them looked to have been having a conversation that Beheaded’s arrival had interrupted as they both looked over at them.

“Hello,” Not Collector said, their voice even cheerier than usual. Yeah, they idolized Collector or something, didn’t they? Beheaded had never cared enough to pay attention nor would they start caring now.

So ignoring them, Beheaded strode up to the Collector. They pointed at him and then gestured around before lifting their arms in an exaggerated shrug to make it a question. They’d assumed he’d died but apparently not. So where had he disappeared off to and more importantly why?

“Greetings. I apologize for my absence. However, I trust out little arrangement is still in place.” His voice sounded almost a little… strained? There was certainly a different energy to it than before. Something had changed. What though?

Out of spite and sudden renewed distrust, Beheaded was tempted to refuse and keep the Cells for themself. With Collector being even more suspicious than usual, giving him what he wanted might not be a good idea. Though… they’d never trusted him much to begin with so not a whole lot had really changed, huh? And they had literally no use for the Cells and thus had no real reason to want to keep them on top of the fact that if they ever came across another blueprint, his services in making it for them would be welcome. They could’ve possibly given them to Not Collector but doing so would’ve most likely been just a roundabout way of giving them to Collector. So with one last warning finger shake, Beheaded handed their Cells over.

“Thank you.”

Even if Beheaded were capable of replying they wouldn’t have bothered as they moved on, resuming their quest. It was still early but they had a good feeling about this attempt. They were going to see what was on the other side of that door behind the Hand of the King for sure this time. … Hopefully anyway. Really just reaching the damn castle again would be an achievement at this point. But they were for sure going to get through the door eventually and whatever was on the other side better be worth all this pain and effort.

Many, many failed attempts later. Long enough for Beheaded to hand over enough Cells for Collector to make enough panacea to cure the Malaise entirely

The relief Beheaded felt at finally making it through High Peak Castle was dashed almost as soon as they were entering into the passage because now they’d have to fight the Hand of the King. They hadn’t even so much as seen him in so long and had never been great at handling him and they’d been royally sliced to bits in the castle. Leaving them with an empty potion flask and far more damage to their body than they were comfortable with. Unless a miracle occurred, they were going to fail against the Hand. A shame but… at least they’d made it this far, pushing the bar just that little bit more. Perhaps next time they’d fare well enough to stand a chance though. … Not likely. Eventually though they would… eventually.

As always they went to Collector, giving him all their Cells without a word from him. But as they turned away to head for their ‘death’, he spoke. “I must thank you for your assistance.”

They paused and turned to look back up at him.

“The Cells you’ve brought me have been invaluable in my experiments. To thank you let me assist you in your endeavors again.” He pulled out a vial filled with an orange liquid; a health potion.

It was very possible this was a trap or trick of some sort but if it somehow wasn’t, it was their only hope of beating the Hand of the King, even if it wasn’t a large hope, and at least seeing what was behind that door. In the worst-case scenario, they could always detach from their current body and slink off to find another, as they’d have been doomed to do very shortly anyway. So as he extended the vial towards them, they snatched it out of his hand and tipped it back.

As their form absorbed its contents magic rushed through all their tendrils throughout the body, repairing the damage that had been done to it in a flood of pleasant warmth. Dropping the vial, they looked up at Collector again to give him a thumbs up and a nod before heading off, reenergized and ready to take on the Hand of the King.

Except they took only two steps in that direction before darkness encroached on their vision. Their control of the body faltered, making them tip and fall to their hands and knees and then even that was too much as they flopped over onto their side. Of fucking course it had been too good to be true.

“Sorry friend.” Collector maybe even did sound a little apologetic. “But I need you out of the way for a while. You will come to no harm though, I promise.”

Beheaded wanted to lift a hand to flip him off but unconsciousness dragged at them, pulling them down towards nothingness despite their best efforts to fight it. When they woke up though, they were so going to…

~~~

They were lying on a bed, a soft one too with a blanket thrown over them. The ceiling above them was nothing special but as they stiffly rolled over to look at the room, they recognized it. The room in High Peak Castle with all the beds. They were on the one closest to the door.

Exhaustion had driven them to taking naps in all sorts of strange and dangerous locations but they’d never felt even tempted to take one in this room. It was too dangerous and too close to their end goal for them to feel even remotely capable of relaxing here. So how come they were waking up here? … Collector! He betrayed them with a drugged healing potion.

They threw off the blanket and rolled out of bed, moving with far less grace and precision then they should’ve. Whatever they’d been drugged with hadn’t completely worn off yet. It was affecting their control of the body which made them angrier. As soon as they found Collector, he was going to get a piece of their mind.

As they made their awkward way towards they door they reached for where their crossbow should’ve been hanging on their back. Of course it wasn’t there, else how would they have been lying so comfortably on the bed? A quick check revealed it wasn’t anywhere else on their person either. A look back confirmed it wasn’t lain out near the bed or anywhere else in sight. All their other gear was missing as well. Leaving in them in the middle of one of the most dangerous places on the island without a single way to defend themself.

What was Collector even trying to accomplish with this stunt? They’d just ‘die’ and head back to get a new body and come hunt him down. Maybe they shouldn’t even try to fight; just abandon this body here and head off for that new attempt now. … But no, if possible they wanted to know what was up here sooner rather than later. And who knows, they might get lucky and find a weapon or two nearby.

So shaking themself a little they continued onward out the door and into the castle hallway. They were in luck, it was empty. Perhaps all the monsters they’d cleared out on their way through earlier were still gone. The time loop hadn’t brought them back yet or no new ones had come or whatever else happened that normally brought them back hadn’t happened yet. It was long shot but they could hope.

As they made their way through the castle, they became more and more sure that was the case. The halls were empty. There were blood splatters here and there and chopped up monster remains but that’s it. Which was nice, given their lack of weapon and the fading lethargy from the sleeping drug but… strange. Something was different here. … Beheaded didn’t like whatever it was.

Having even just a rusty sword and a barely functional shield would’ve made them feel quite a bit better about this situation. If they could find even a single enemy maybe they could steal its weapon? A hard feat for sure but better than trying to fight with just their hands and feet. Though if push came to shove, they’d gladly just punch Collector in the face. Not that trying that was likely to work out in their favor. Anyone who could move around the island as much as he did, had to be quite good at one form of combat or another and thus not someone to be taken lightly. If they took him by surprise though perhaps they could get away with a solid hit or two before he stopped them. He deserved nothing less for tricking them and…

They paused as they came upon a large door they’d never seen before. Which honestly wasn’t too surprising, they’d explored the castle far less than the rest of the island – other than the distillery anyway because fuck that place, they’d rather not have to deal with barrels exploding in their face every time they turned a corner. Other than its slightly larger than normal size though there wasn’t much special about the door. So with nothing better to do, they kicked it open and were met with the loud satisfying crunch of wood cracking as it swung around and slammed into the wall.

Inside was… the Hand of the King! What was he doing inside the castle!? This was no fair! They didn’t even have a weapon. Oh, they were so fucked! But wait even though he’d snapped around to face them he was unarmed! His lance leaned against the wall nearby. Beheaded sprang for it. Defeating him with his own lance would be so sweet! What better vengeance for all the times he’d ruined their day?

Their hand was within inches of its hilt when the Hand caught them by their forearm. He yanked them rough back and around, twisting their arm to force them to face him as he pulled them up so they could barely stand on their tippytoes.

Welp, they’d tried, got to give them credit for that, right? They tensed, prepared for the pain of being sliced or speared through or perhaps he would just tighten his already painful grip and crush the bones in their arm and then go through break all their other bones too. So they should probably just detach from the body now and…

“Well, you certainly know how to make an entrance.” Collector stood at the Hand’s side, looking down at them. “Always kicking and rolling through doors. However, given your obvious goal just now, I must warn you if you insist on remaining violent, I have a glass jar in my lab that would be the perfect place to securely contain a specimen such as you. Understand?”

Would a glass jar be able to effectively contain them? … Depends on how tight the seal on it was. And on how tough the glass was. Both of which Collector could probably easily ensure were more than strong enough for the task. Also, he no doubt could find a way to prevent them from pushing it off the table or whatever too. So such a threat was actually threatening and given Beheaded’s less than ideal position of being weaponless and held firmly by the Hand, it probably wasn’t a good idea to risk it right now. So… they nodded, even lifting their free hand to give a halfhearted thumbs up.

“Very good,” Collector said with a nod.

The Hand didn’t let go of them yet though. Instead, he tightened his grip a little before speaking. “The Alchemist told me what you are and where you came from. Perhaps if I had known before, I wouldn’t have attacked you immediately.” There were certainly instances were that would’ve been nice and would’ve resulted in far less pain and failure. Overall though it would’ve been less fun. “It’s too late for that now though. You killed what was left of the real King. I’d snap you in half for that but the Alchemist has asked me not to so I shall refrain… for now.” With that, he let go of their arm at last.

They stumbled, barely keeping themself from falling. They shook it off, backstepping as they pulled their arm in. Putting them closer to the lance but… something had clearly changed.

Tearing their gaze from the Hand, they quickly scanned the rest of the room. It was a map room; a table with a model of presumably the whole island sat in the middle of the room, taking up most of the space. The blacksmith and his little backpacked buddies sat at the other end of it. Time Keeper was here too, standing on the other side of Collector. She was watching them intently but also seemed uninclined to attack them for some reason.

Even if they grabbed the lance or had any other weapon, they were at a huge disadvantage here if things went sour. Or more like if they went more sour since this was already quite an uncomfortable position to be in. Fleeing was an option but they needed to know what the fuck was happening.

“I’m sure you’re quite confused,” Collector said. “Long story short, using the Dead Cells you provided me, I managed to create a cure for the Malaise. So congrats, you are indirectly a hero. We are currently discussing what we should do next with so few people left alive.”

“And we’ve already decided,” Time Keeper added, glaring daggers at Beheaded, “that regardless of whether you are still technically the old King or not, you’re not getting the role back ever.”

Unable to return her mean look, Beheaded lifted a hand to flip her off instead - they should be able to be King again if they wanted to. But… it was halfhearted and quickly dropped because… was the Malaise really gone? Just out of nowhere like that? What did that mean for them? All they really knew was fighting the Malaise infected monsters. And… the time loop, that had to be over now too, right? So what was going to happen next?

And they’d never reached their goal! They’d been going to defeat the Hand of the King and then go through the five Boss Cell door and then probably fight whatever was on the other side. They’d been pushing for that for so long and now all that was just over? That was so unfair!

Their whole life was over, wasn’t it? Because the run through of the island, killing all the monsters was all they’d ever really done. With the time loop happening they’d blindly assumed it’s all they’d ever do. What were they suppose do now?

“… don’t even need a new King,” Time Keeper was saying as Beheaded tuned back into the conversation. It had apparently resumed while they’d been reeling.

They didn’t really care though. And it’s not like they could contribute to the conversation or anyone would welcome it if they tried so… they turned and left. No one tried to call them back.

The Malaise being cured and presumably eradicated from the island made the strange emptiness of the halls as they strode through them make much more sense. It made traversing them a lot less exciting and a non-accomplishment. But… getting sliced to bits, stabbed, exploded and all sorts of other things did hurt quite a bit so this development wasn’t all bad. That didn’t make it any less aggravating that it hadn’t happened on their terms as it should’ve. Nor did it make the idea of finding another way to entertain themself any easier.

They paused as they finally found the outdoor throne room. The fire that had been around the throne had finally been put out or had been allowed to peter out on its own. They continued on, going past it and beelining for the little room behind the fountain. Even if the glory and achievement of reaching it the way they’d intended had been stolen from them they were still going to see what was behind that door.

It was already open and hanging ajar as they approached. They kicked it the rest of the way open, making it slam loudly into the wall. Doing so provided nowhere near as much satisfaction as reaching it after defeating the Hand would’ve but it was still better than just pushing it open.

And on the other side was… a small room and an elevator. The elevator went up a long, its chains rattling loudly the whole. At top was another safe passage room. On the other side was… a lab. No monsters though, nor the sound of any nearby. There probably had been though, right? Before Collector cured the Malaise and fixed everything. It would’ve been nice to see some new enemies even if said new monsters probably would’ve quickly destroyed their body. But no, all that was over and now… What were they supposed to do next? … Even if they’d had any real interest in returning to their prior existence’s role as King, they wouldn’t be allowed to. Leaving them to do… what? …

Shaking off those thoughts once more, they continued on to explore more. Much of the equipment was now broken shards of glass and debris on the ground. Despite that, it didn’t take long to determined that the lab had clearly belonged to Collector before it had been taken over by monsters. Which no doubt was cause of the destruction.

Way up at the top of the tallest tower was a large room that seemed to be the only part still functioning as a lab. Amongst other smaller equipment stood a large cylindrical machine with a lot of weird parts coming off it and a spout on the front as if to dispense something. Its inside still had a glimmer of blue something coating them. Undoubtedly this was where Collector had concocted the cure, using all the Dead Cells Beheaded had gathered and given to him.

With an internal sigh, they walked over and turned around sit on the ground and lean back against the machine. What would have happened if they’d reached this place before Collector fixed everything? Probably something interesting, right? They would never know for sure though. It could’ve also been boring, just Collector finally telling them what he’d been working on all this time.

Which if they had known what he was using the Dead Cells for they probably would’ve continued giving them to him. Though if they had known they could’ve demanded their right to finish their self-assigned task before he did his thing, cutting off the supply entirely if need be.

Even as it was though, he surely could’ve waited just a few more attempts, right? However many it took for Beheaded to reach this point on their own. Which to be fair probably would’ve been a lot given how prone they were to getting their ass handed to them. But with the time loop happening, it wouldn’t have changed anything. He could’ve waited.

It was too late now though and probably no going back. They had no choice but to move on and figure out what they were going to do next. Maybe they could leave the island and head off in search of another adventure. Or maybe they should try to return to their former life and insist on being King. Perhaps they should do something else entirely. … Ugh, making important decisions sucked. They had to though… eventually. For now though they were going to just sit here be bitter about their victory being stolen from them.

[weltonreject]

What about “You’re not a burden.”? 😭

[feeling a little writing-rusty atm, but this one is surprisingly sweet with a happy ending. 1.4k]

Boris wasn’t a moody person. To Theo, being moody meant unpredictability, and Boris’s mood swings were very predictable—and could be spotted within just a single word into a conversation. Theo considered it one of his few gifts—and a byproduct of living with Boris for most of his teenage and adult life.

Thursday night dinner wasn’t anything out of the ordinary, even by their standards. Theo had finished work later than he’d intended and walked up to the restaurant in a hurried mess, finding Boris smoking outside by a newsstand. He was flipped through a paper far too quickly to be reading any of the articles. Theo thought it was just to keep up the appearance Boris intended to buy the paper, but as Theo approached him—getting a single-word greeting in return—it was clear Boris didn’t have the ability to focus on any of the thin rows of words. Theo wasn’t sure what caused the mood, but he could at least understand Boris was in the middle of digging himself into one. And he knew the precautions to take.

“Do you know what you want?” Theo asked, peeking over his glasses but still angling his head down toward the menu. “I figure you’re hungry—I kept you waiting.”

“Oh, Potter, do not worry. Waiting is fine! You called, told me you were on your way. Was not a mystery.” Boris said. He was still staring at the wine portion of the menu. Theo hadn’t seen him blink yet.

“Boris?” Theo lowered his voice and his menu. He leaned forward and pressed his ribs against the edge of the table. “Hey.”

Boris looked up at Theo, his expression a poor attempt at neutral. His jaw was clenched, trying so hard to stop his bottom lip from quivering that his eyes were tense and wide. His pupils were usually small in the dim restaurant lighting, but that night they were dilated nearly to the rim of his irises. 

“Boris, are you high right now?” Theo never regarded drug-induced paranoia to be a form of moodiness.

“No. Am not.” Boris said sharply.

Theo was shocked to hear that he wasn’t lying. Usually his voice pitched up, tensing as Boris tried to wring every bit of truth out of it—as if it could be amplified and cover the blatant falsehood he was telling Theo. Except that his voice was even, low, and staccato.

“Then what’s going on.” Theo saw their waiter redirect themselves away from their table as he saw Theo’s expression sour. They didn’t even need to hear his tone.

“Am just thinking. Tell me about your day instead. Were late for reason. Something wrong with shop?” Boris waved at Theo’s frustration flippantly and fixed his eyes on him again. For a moment, the panic in his eyes eased and he cracked the tiniest piece out of his façade at let Theo see a fraction of a smile.

“No, nothing’s wrong.” Theo said slowly. “I just lost track of time. I’ve been finding old reports and invoices, but Welty’s handwriting is impossible to read—once I get started I don’t want to lose my place.”

“So, bad day at work.” Boris said, as if calculating something.

“Long and tiring, but not necessarily terrible.” Theo weighed the description for another moment. “Okay, actually, yeah. It was a pretty shit Thursday—Okay what is wrong?” Boris’s entire face had paled, and his eyes dropped to his water glass, darting between the running drops of condensation. “This is not a relaxing dinner right now. Frankly, I’d like to go home.”

“Fuck—no! Potter, am sorry. Is nothing absolutely nothing.” Boris shook his head and ran both hands through his hair. “Gah need to stop. Cannot bother—do not want to bother you. Am borden.”

“Borden?” Theo tried to dial back his sharp outlash. It didn’t seem like Boris was hiding anything, but rather smothering himself in apologies; his words slipping out like gasps for air. “Like… Lizzy Borden? A-Are you thinking of murdering me?” Theo laughed, easing back in his chair. Boris tensed his jaw, refusing the joke and deflection. “Y-You mean burden?”

“Burden. Yes. Do not mean to burden dinner. I—keep talking. Tell me more.”

“No—You are not a burden, Boris.” Theo laughed, absurdity tangling his sincerity before he knew he needed it. “I-I mean it. Y-You can’t be serious. Boris, you look like you’re about to shed your fucking skin or something. You look high. What’s wrong? Just tell me so we can actually eat our dinner and I don’t have to worry about you heaving your food onto the table or me. And that you won’t be a mess if you start drinking wine.”

Boris blinked at Theo, shoulders hanging and back slouched. “Not burden?���

“No. Not at all—look, I didn’t mean to get angry right away. I’m just—just fucking tell me. You can tell me anything. That’s what this is.”

Theo refused to acknowledge, however directly, that Thursday was their routine date night. One that ended with a slow, winding walk back to their apartment—talking through any and all things they wanted while sharing a pack of cigarettes—where they’d dip into their own liquor cabinet and fumble around on the couch, warm and giggling and happy. Friday mornings always started stretched over one another on the living room floor.

In short, it was love. Even shorter, Theo just called it “this”.

“Okay.” He nodded. Boris twisted in his chair and dug into his jacket pocket before slamming something on the tablecloth directly between them. His hand retracted and revealed a dull, silver ring. “Potter marry me. Please?”

“I—Holy shit. What?” Theo had fully swallowed his drink of water but still found the ability to begin choking. “Boris, what the fuck are you doing? What are you—You are high, aren’t you.”

“Potter, listen to me.” Boris had the habit of being boisterous when Theo was panicked and rambling, but he spoke softly; guilt still strangling him. “Am burden because I want different things than you, Potter. But cannot be casual with you—be just a this. Have known too much of you to not say that your life is also mine.”

It was impossible that anyone in the restaurant had heard Boris’s question, let alone could see the ring now resting beside the candle center piece. It was worn and aged, far older than Theo and extending into a world that had existed without either of them. But had been brought to dinner solely to create a life where it would only know Theo and Boris together. The silver wasn’t shined, almost absorbing the light from around it. It was muted. It disappeared. And for a brief moment, Theo felt as if he did too. Tucked away from the publicity of their moment, the exposure of being seen, even in the background of someone else’s dinner. Theo had the entire world to himself—and it finally didn’t feel like a punishment.

“Boris, I—”

“I know you do not want to marry. You keep saying it is not worth it; we have never seen marriage that works or is happy. I know! I know! But who has to say we have to learn from anyone? We can just do on our own. Marry me, Potter, and we figure out how to be happy like we want.” Boris tapped the table near the ring, urging Theo to take it without reaching across the table to his hands. He hadn’t prepared his speech, hadn’t thought about how to get the ring onto Theo and convince him. The spontaneity felt like a glimpse into the rest of Theo’s life with Boris.

Boris was always radical and frantic and quick-acting. But this wasn’t reckless, it was caring. It was a choice that was being slapped together verbally, but had been gently formulated with Boris’s hands, his heart, and his entire life. Theo had no idea their fucked up, death-sentence upbringings had the capability to alter into something so… safe. So able to slow down and rest. To settle and find home again.

“Theo, please say something.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?” Boris said. “What does that mean?”

“It means I’ll do it.” Theo didn’t think he was able to reach for the ring. Instead, he looked up at Boris, keeping his expression as static as possible. He felt a strange urge to either start crying or vomiting. “I want to—I want what you want.”

“Will marry me.” Boris was far too incredulous for it to be entirely flattering: after all his sappy poetics, he still didn’t think Theo would agree.

“Yes! Do I have to fucking say it again.” Theo laughed, his own tension melting from his shoulders as he leaned forward again. “I told you: not a burden. You can tell me anything—I am with you. For everything.”

[gerbiloftriumph]

The Silence Between Snowflakes

(also on ao3)

His name was Gwydion–but that wasn’t his name. He lived in Llewdor–but that wasn’t his home.

Alexander escapes Manannan’s grasp and flees to Daventry, hoping he might find a place that he might call home after years of loss and loneliness. While Daventry embraces him, loves him, shows him all the stories it has within it, the country is also suffering under the worst winter in memory. But it might not just be a hard season: there might be something out there, something chasing the lost prince. Something malevolent, intent on destroying the kingdom snowflake by snowflake, spreading a curse across the lands and infecting its king.

~*~*~

8/8

(1: Found Family)(2: Footprints)(3: The Stories that Really Matter)(4: A Rose Among Thorns)(5: Snowbound)(6: Fractals)(7: The Ice Queen)(8: Belonging)

~*~*~

The fixit fic didn’t include the ch4 prologue, because I didn’t see the point in writing it word for word. But just in case, maybe you might want a refresher on [Graham’s Lullaby.]

Seriously, again, special thanks to @captmickey and @theicemancometh for being my betas in part or in full. It wouldn’t have worked at all without you.

~*~*~

Each room in the tower was shrouded in ice. They looked like ordinary rooms, but with their contents replaced by strange facsimiles. He glimpsed a frozen table, frozen curtains, a frozen bed. The furnishings were all as one might expect, but they were cold. Cheerless and unwelcoming and flat and hard, and now he was paying attention, hauntingly familiar.

This was the tower, he knew without a shred of doubt, that had carried him, Valanice, and Valanice together through the clouds. Vee and Neese, his friends. Then, it had been cursed in a way that ensured its inhabitants could never leave. Now, it was cursed with ice, and it spread its curse boundlessly. It had taken on additional buildings and courtyards and walls as it had traveled. Whole huge rooms for its labyrinth. He wondered whose castle walls these had been. Whose courtyard had been stolen. That stable, those barracks, that lamppost. What had been lost to this traveling curse?

He thought of the sculptures of people, in their dizzying array of clothes and styles and features, frozen in the labyrinth, and he amended: who had been lost to this traveling curse?

Valanice...Icebella. Icebella had been lost to it.

Daventry was losing more to it by the moment. It was going to take his family next.

The guards pushed them into a small room and left them alone. The door locked behind them, a cold sound that reminded Graham nauseatingly of the prison he’d been locked in as a brand-new king, shivering and alone and afraid of the dark.

This room wasn’t a proper cell, at least. It was possibly a workroom of some sort, full of tables and chairs of a utilitarian nature. He tried to remember, twenty years ago, what this room would have been, but nothing came to mind. It was now filled with more of those frozen people-sculptures. People like Graham, people from other countries this castle had visited, cursed and frozen and dead.

Manny, recent addition to Icebella’s court, apparently hadn’t known about the ice curse itself spreading to people. Or, at least, hadn’t known the particulars, hadn’t seen an example of it in action. He had been surprised by Graham’s slow conversion. But it definitely wasn’t a secret now. He knew about the power of this place and he could do so much with it. Could freeze anything, anyone, who stood in his way. Steal the pieces of their countries he wanted, grafted onto the original tower like mashing clay toys together.

Did Icebella know how this curse worked? Could she stop it if she wanted, or had all these people frozen beneath her helpless hands? Had she acted maliciously or accidentally, or had she anything to do with this at all? Had it been something Hagatha had done, corrupting everything while Graham and Valanice just barely escaped?

Icebella....

He shivered, pacing to keep warm, the chattering of his teeth setting a rhythm. “We spent that whole spring together. She was Valanice’s best friend. She was at my wedding, Valanice’s maid of honor. She danced with us all through the night, laughed with the royal guards, loved us wholly.” The memories were warm, hazy, bathed in a golden glow of nostalgia and joy. But for the first time in years, he let himself really think about the time after that spring in Hagatha’s tower, this tower.

Somehow, he realized, the wedding was the last time they really spent time together as a trio. And even earlier than that, during the courtship of his soon-to-be-wife, she had stayed distant, less willing to spend time with them. She broke herself away from them, and they didn’t reach out to her as frequently or as hard as they ought to have.

“She wore gloves,” he muttered. “Even in fine weather. At the wedding. I never saw her hands after we left the tower. And I didn’t think. I didn’t ask. I should have thought. I should have noticed.” He stared at his own icy hand, locked up and clear and blue, and it hurt, a cold ache that gnawed his bones. And he wondered. Had he seen her shivering in the sunshine, had he dismissed it as a trick of the light?

“I should have known.”

And, in her fear of being alone, she had carved her own guards with her newfound ice magic in mimicry of Royal Guard Number One’s uniform, had kept a piece of Daventry close by her side, to protect her, even as she sank deeper and deeper into a curse, even as she forgot where the designs had come from, why they had ever mattered to her at all.

“I should have known.”

He paced, and paced, and his steps were slower, and slower, and his breathing grew laborious. The white clouds of condensation from breathing in cold weather were heavier, almost like dark little clouds full of snow. Like the curse was spreading through his chest, crystals spiderwebbing across his lungs.

He realized in his distraction he didn’t know where his son was. The room was small, but the young man was good at finding little nooks and crannies and burying himself in them. Graham found him curled in a corner behind a table, surrounded by reaching ice sculptures, clutching his head in his hands.

“Alexander?”

“Gwydion,” he whispered. “I’m Gwydion. That’s all I’ve ever been. All I’ll ever be. This is my fault. I knew I shouldn’t have come here. Everyone is going to die because of me.”

Lost. So lost. Alone and lost.

Graham knelt stiffly. “My son, my dear Alexander, please, don’t. This is not your fault. You have done nothing wrong. You deserve the world and the chance to make what you want in it. I’m sorry for everything that’s happened. Alexander, none of this is your fault.”

“Manannan wouldn’t have come here if I hadn’t cursed him.”

“You couldn’t have escaped him if you hadn’t. And we never would have been blessed to meet you.”

His son said nothing. He curled deeper into himself, shaking with fear and cold, sure he had brought all this on the sunny kingdom of Daventry, sure he had brought its destruction.

Graham leaned against the leg of a statue, clutching his arm. In a voice laced with frost, he whispered the words to an old lullaby, not sure if he was speaking to his son or himself at this point. An old memory stirring up from the dust as he remembered his friends and his hope. He didn’t sing. He didn’t feel like he could get enough air in his chest to sing. But he could speak, and he repeated the words to a song that he hadn’t thought of in almost eighteen years.

I may be king but you are my prince. If life gets too puzzling, I’ll give you the hints. Your quest has begun, my kingdom you’ll run, I’ll love you forever, my son.

They sat in silence. Graham just tried to breathe. Thinking about cats and curses. Staring off into the cold shadows of the room, the chill seeping into his heart.

After a while, Gwydion said, softly, hesitatingly, “You never finished the story.”

“I didn’t? What story is that?”

“About the goblins. How you escaped. That July. I want…I want to hear the rest of it.”

Graham told the rest of his story, then. It was abbreviated. It lost all of the usual polish and storylike qualities it had earned over the years. He told it haltingly, painfully. Without the fairy tale sparkle, he started remembering the fear more. The fear that his friends were going to die while he watched helplessly from the other side of a locked door. All the smoothness was worn away by the ice in his throat, revealing an uneasy ripple that he couldn’t hide. He couldn’t tell it any other way, with his son watching and the cold strangling him.

Manny had tried to kill him, and he would have succeeded if it hadn’t been for Graham’s refusal to give up, for his reliance on his friends. It ended with hope, but the road had been hard.

And then, Gwydion told his own story. For the first time, from start to finish, willingly. He couldn’t remember all of it. There were eighteen years of it, and much of it was the same: menial tasks for a wizard who was quick to punish if Gwydion didn’t work as fast or precisely as expected. But parts of it were memorable. The manor house itself, for instance. It was just him, and Manannan, and Mordack.

Mordack would watch him with cold pity, and that was almost worse than Manannan’s cruel anger. It meant Mordack didn’t necessarily agree with any of this—but wouldn’t do anything to help. So Gwydion worked, and hid, and scrimped, and survived, but he had a growing fear that something was reaching an end. Something about turning eighteen frightened him, like something major was going to change in the manor and that something wasn’t going to be good for him.

Deciding to escape had been relatively easy. Actually escaping was another matter all together.

The fear of not knowing when the wizard would catch him, where he should hide the tools of magic he stole, if he would be discovered. The challenge of the magic itself, the near misses and tight scrapes. Triple checking every step, every line, again and again, mouth dry with the thought of failure, or worse, being found. Practicing the wrist movements, chanting the ingredients needed, reading the books, sneaking down to the hidden cellar with stolen wand clamped in his shaking fist, afraid of breaking it or marking it in some noticeable way. Finally building his confidence to craft the one spell, the curse, that would save him, to break the cat cookie in Manannan’s breakfast and to try not to give the whole game away too early. To wait for the magic to take. And the difficult decision of what to do next.

“I ruined it by coming here. I should have gone far away, where there wasn’t anyone for him to hurt.”

Graham reached out and touched his son on the shoulder. His Alexander. His brave Alexander. Not Gwydion, never again. “You deserve a place to call your own as much as anyone, and you can carve your place out anywhere. But you came here, Alexander. If you’ll have us, we want you. In Daventry. That’s all we ever wanted. To have you with us, to have you call this place with everyone—Amaya, Whisper, the Feys, Acorn, everyone. To let you, Alexander, call this place home. You shouldn’t allow someone like Manannan decide where you go, who you are. You shouldn’t even let us decide for you. That’s your freedom.”

Alexander, nervously, leaned into Graham’s hand, and then into him, his shoulder pressed against Graham’s chest. He was shivering, but his warmth helped ease Graham’s pain. The king felt like he could breathe again, like the ice in his lungs was melting.

Gingerly, he embraced Alexander, and for once, he didn’t flinch away. His dear son, full of magic, of fire and heat and fear, stifled by the cold but powerful nevertheless. He’d escaped. He’d used Manny’s own tools against the wizard, and he had chosen to come here. He was stronger than he’d ever know. Graham smiled, resting his cheek against his son’s wavy hair, thoughts drifting like icebergs. If only he could somehow convince his son to see that. But it would take more than Graham’s words. It would take a heartfelt conviction. A fiery intensity and determination to change.

Heat. Warmth.

…wait a second.

Warmth. My fiery son.

But the guards burst in, and pulled the two up by their arms (Graham bit back another yelp, wishing people would stop yanking on his aching arm) and it was time for their audience with Queen Icebella.

~*~*~*~*

Valanice was dizzy. She didn’t feel like she could stand for more than a moment, and her boots couldn’t seem to keep traction on the slippery floor. The queen of the castle had linked arms with her and they were proceeding down the castle halls in silence. Despite the normally friendly sort of gesture of walking arm in arm, the queen was haughty and detached, ramrod straight with her cold gaze fixed firmly down the hall, unwavering and unblinking. Valanice walked beside her, feeling slovenly and slumpy and hazy and unfocused. Her vision kept blurring in and out.

She had the strangest sense that she had done this, had walked like this, arm in arm, with this queen before, giggly and full of joy. But that was silly—the queen, Icebella, was frosty and blue and distant, and they had never met.

At least, she thought so. It was so hard to focus. But no one was actually blue. Probably. Maybe. Maybe fairies. Maybe she was with a fairy.

Her head hurt.

“Come, Valanice,” the queen said, and there was a slight echo to the words, like she was speaking from the back of a snowy cavern. “I have asked for a chair for you, by my throne. I am sorry to wake you when you are so exhausted, but I want you to meet this amusing visitor to my castle. He claims he is a king, and his bright red cloak is most grand.”

Bright red cloak. Sounded familiar, somehow. Valanice nodded blearily, not trusting herself to speak and walk at the same time.

The throne room was remarkably bright despite the late hour. Valanice had to squint against the white reflective ice, and she dizzily sank into the chair offered her, only realizing after a few moments that it, too, was made of ice, like everything in this place. She started shivering. Or maybe she’d never stopped shivering.

The cat sitting on the throne beside her seemed to smile at her, pawing its ear. As though cats could smile. She would have given it a friendly pet had she been able to lift her hand, but that seemed too complicated and wearying a thing to do.

Ice guards lined the walls of the room, hands on swords sharp as icicles. She supposed they were meant to protect her and the queen from whoever their visitor was about to be. She wondered if this audience would be safe. But with so many guards, surely she need not feel concerned. She was grateful to them and their grim silence.

It was a lovely red cloak, she decided, as the supposed king stumbled in, propelled along by one of the ice guards. That was about all she could say for it. It didn’t seem to be keeping him very warm. His lips were turning blue. How interesting. Maybe he was a fairy too. A fairy king.

Wait.

~*~*~*~

Gwydion.

Alexander...?

Gwydion. He stood in front of his former master, and Gwydion was all that he could be. He didn’t have a choice. He was clumsy, and he was foolish, and his attempt to escape, to take a different name, had failed. He was before Manannan, as before, as always.

Not entirely alone this time. Gwydion could feel the cold radiating from the king despite standing several paces away. The king’s teeth wouldn’t stop chattering. He tried wrapping his cloak tighter, but there wasn’t any warmth to hold in. And that was Gwydion’s fault, too, for not stopping him from touching the roses, Gwydion’s fault for leading the ice castle here, Gwydion’s fault for believing, even for an instant, that he could be this man’s son.

From the dais, a voice called, “Graham!” The lady of Daventry half stood from her chair, but a wave of dizziness seemed to overwhelm her, and she sank back down helplessly, clutching the chair arms as though that was the only thing keeping her upright. Powerless to do anything but speak.

“V-Valanice,” Graham managed. But he wasn’t looking at her. His gaze was fixed on Icebella.

“Do you refer to me? I did command you to stop calling me so,” Icebella said. She stood straight before her throne, her gaze haughty. Frustration made her icy cheeks turn white. “I wished to begin differently, sir, but you try my patience immediately. Perhaps Cat was right, and you are too foolish for my attention. My name is Icebella. It was given to me. My special name.”

“How was it g-given?” Graham shivered.

“Cat is sweet, and Cat said the name suited me, and Cat gifted it to me when I had no other name.”

From the throne, Manny stretched long and luxuriously, tail flicking. He yawned, showing off a fierce row of sharp little white teeth, and smiled, sitting straight. “Names do matter, don’t they, Gwydion? They indicate so much. They tell others who you are, where you belong. Speaking of names, Graham, I’m wondering what name we should carve under your ice sculpture in a few hours. I can’t decide. Maybe we should workshop it. You should pick a pose now, I think.”

Graham ignored this. “Icebella,” he said, stepping forward and bowing to her stiffly, icy arm locked into place at his side. “I apologize for my rudeness and b-beg your forgiveness.”

“I may grant it,” she said. “I have questions for you as a supposed king, after all, and I would regret not being able to ask you about your kingdom if I ordered you thrown out a window for impertinence.”

“Of c-course. But. May I ask you a question f-first, in earnest?”

She hesitated, probably knowing where this was going, and then said, reluctantly, “You may. It does seem only fair, from queen to king.”

“With the full respect owed, and you may ch-choose not to answer me: how long have you been Icebella?”

She frowned, and for a moment she looked like she wanted to lash out again. “I suppose not long,” she finally admitted, after deep consideration. “A few months, at best. Before then, I was no one, I fear.”

“You weren’t no one,” Graham said. “You were special, Valanice.”

“Icebella,” Manny interrupted smoothly. “You are only a person now that you’ve been named. Your name is ice, your name is beauty. Before, you were no one, as you say. You were dark and sad and alone, and I named you, and I saved you, and you are Icebella.”

“Stop calling her that,” Valanice said. “Her name was Valanice. She loved adventures. She loved sunshine. She was competitive and sharp and creative and energetic, and she was all those things as Valanice, and I would bet she is still all those things.”

“You wouldn’t know,” the cat hissed. “You didn’t reach out to her, find her. You didn’t let her know she was still Valanice. She was lost, and I found her, and I named her, and I saved her, and she is mine.”

Gwydion felt the chill, then, in a way he hadn’t before.

Names.

Ownership.

Names are crucial. Names matter.

And I’m not the only one Manannan hurt.

Someone else here had lost her name, and someone else was using her powers to lash out, guided by a monster who only wanted her to do his bidding. Who only wanted to own her and use her.

I was that person too, a slave to a wizard. Lost name. Lost self.

But...he had run away, hadn’t he? Gwydion. Alexander. The power of a name. And...maybe...?

“Icebella,” Graham said. “Valanice. You loved books, and music. You loved puzzles, and you loved art, and you loved stories, and you loved games, and you shone like the sun, not ice. You could d-dance and—” his voice broke off with a crack like snapping an icicle, and he coughed hard, little puffs like snow clouds floating around him, shivering so violently it looked like he was going to splinter into shards of ice.

“And you could sing,” Valanice, the queen, picked up where the king could not, “And you knew all the names of all the constellations. And you could embroider, but you thought it was boring. And you could beat all of us at chess every single time, and you knew every fairy tale, even the rare ones. And you loved us. You were so full of love and life and compassion and care. You weren’t no one, Valanice, even in the darkness. You were Valanice, and you could do so much. And we’re sorry, so sorry, we left you.”

Icebella hesitated, hovering over her throne, looking at Valanice with something unreadable in her expression—perhaps sorrow? But then she glanced toward Manny, and her eyes hardened again. “If what you say bears even a shred of truth,” she said sharply to the Daventry family, “then you have done me a disservice. You spoke not to me when I was...that other person, and I was lost, and I may blame my years of darkness and wandering upon you. Cat came out of the darkness, and Cat saved me, then, and I am Icebella, and shall remain so.”

The smug grin on the cat’s face made Gwydion bristle, made him angry. Alexander had once been angry enough once to teach himself magic, to take his fate back into his own hands, to turn his fear into determination, and to escape.

And he would do it again.

“Your castle moves,” he said. Both Graham and Valanice turned and stared at him, and he stammered nervously, but he had to speak. He wasn’t even sure what he wanted to say, if he could help or hurt, and none of this was considered, but he had to speak.

“Your castle moves,” he repeated, “but do you ever feel like you have a home? Or do you always feel lost, even now, as Icebella?”

Icebella’s gaze was haughty and angry and he cowered beneath her authority. But he rose again, feeling the heat of the magic he’d taken for himself in his chest. “I always feel lost,” he told her. “I lost my name, too. I lost my identity and my purpose, and I was given another one, one that I didn’t want by someone who didn’t love me, and I walked away from it, and I’ve been wandering, looking for a place that could be mine, a name that I could have.”

“You do not understand loss,” Icebella said, and her voice was colder than the deepest ice cave.

“I lost my home,” Alexander countered. “I lost my family. I lost everything. I wasn’t anyone. But here, in Daventry, I’ve seen people who know where they belong. The bakers, the blacksmith, the knights, the guards, everyone. They live here, and they build stories here, and this is their home. They know their names, and who they are, and they’ve all been trying to help me learn a name I could take for myself. They look frightened when they remember I was once Gwydion, and they want to call me Prince Alexander. But I think I’m just Alexander. I think that’s my name. And I think I’ve found a place where I could overwrite my loss. A place that welcomes travelers, that tells stories, that is sunny and warm even when it’s snowy and cold.”

“That doesn’t even make sense,” Manannan said. “Shut up, Gwydion, the adults are talking.”

“No, I won’t. I’m Alexander, and this is my home, and I don’t want it to be cold and heartless like you’d want it to be. This kingdom is full of life, and I will protect it in any way I can.”

He looked at his father. “I learned something,” he said, and he was worried and quiet again, like he was taking something from Graham that he didn’t feel he’d earned. “It didn’t help me at first, because I didn’t really understand the point of it, even with all the stories. But it’s a salute that you can do to center yourself, to feel brave when you don’t want to be, to be compassionate when you’re upset, to be wise when you feel confused.” He gave an Achaka salute, thumping his fist into his open palm. “It’s to remind you that you aren’t alone,” he said. “That there are people who will always support you and care for you if you look. People who will tell stories with you and help you belong.”

“This is drivel,” Manannan said. “This whole family is a waste of air.”

“But you admit that he’s part of our family,” Graham said, his voice almost as hollow as Icebella’s now, crackling out. “This kingdom has opened its arms to him and taught him our stories and let him become part of us. If he wants.”

“And I think I do want that,” Alexander said, and he stood tall. “I think that’s what’s important to me. The stories they tell here always show what matters to them. What’s important to them. What’s important to you, Icebella? What was stolen from you? Was it a name? Was it a home? Was it a family? What do you want back? And did Manannan—that cat—give it to you? Has he ever even given you a choice?”

She didn’t have an answer to that.

“This is all very sweet,” Manny said, his tail thumping on the throne, voice oozing disinterest. “But I just don’t see the point of any of this. I’ve still won this game. I’ve captured the entire Daventry family”—he spat the word with disgust—”from the king and queen to the lowly castle guards, and I can dispose of them whenever I see fit.

“Gwydion, you claim this place as your home, fine. It won’t matter, because it’s going to belong to me now, since the king is in-deposed. But first I’m going to ask very politely, very pointedly, for you to lift this curse, and we can be as pointed as we must for as long as we must until I get what I want.” His tail thumped again in emphasis. “I’ve won, and all of this is pointless, pandering, meandering tripe. I have ice guards. I have goblins. I have the queen herself. I always get what I want.”

“I wouldn’t be sure of that at all,” said Rosella.

~*~*~*~

Graham’s neck was starting to lock up now too, but he managed to turn just in time to see his daughter standing inside the throne room exchanging...yes, exchanging a high five with Royal Guard Number One. “An excellent riposte, Princess Rosella,” No1 told her.

Royal Guards Two, Three, Four, Kyle, and Larry were standing in a loose semicircle at their sides, swords drawn. And, crammed into every inch of space between the guards, vibrating with barely suppressed excitement, were rock goblins. The goblins were all colorfully decked out in every color of Acorn’s winter stock, scarves and hats and socks, and they were all bristly with picks and shovels. One or two of them had even managed to recover their regular spears. They were all, to a goblin, glaring at the ice guards. Except for that old familiar forward curl goblin—it graciously tipped its snowcap at Graham.

The room hummed with anticipation, both sides carefully observing the other. Number One especially seemed to be running calculations and expectations: his head never stopped moving, checking every angle while he stood otherwise perfectly poised. There was a breathless pause, and in that pause, Icebella stood, furious about this unexpected intrusion to her audience.

“Guards!” Icebella said, flinging her hand out in command, “to the dais! Protect my royal self and my guest Valanice from these ruffians!”

But the ice guards hesitated for a fraction of an instant, looking to the cat for true instruction, and that was plenty of time for Manny to smoothly intervene. “That seems like an unnecessary waste of resources. I have a better idea. I have no need for this charade anymore, no need for you, my dear—everything I want is right here and I will take it. Guards! Kill Icebella, and take Graham and Gwydion alive. Kill the rest, and the goblins. I won’t need them anymore, not once I’m free of this curse. My magic will be enough.”

Icebella whirled, skirts twisting around her, to stare at the cat sitting in her throne, but ice guards stepped between them, protecting the smug wizard, and she stumbled backward, hands raised not in command but imploringly now, startled and afraid of her own creations. Of her once-upon-a-time friend.

“Goblins,” No1 snapped, drawing his own sword, “defend the royal family!”

“Including the ice queen!” Alexander yelled.

“Really? Very well. Including the ice queen,” No1 amended. He raised his arm, and the goblins streamed around him, whooping and laughing.

The ice guards lining the walls had drawn their own swords. Some took defensive stances, but many of them sprinted forward to fill Manny’s order. They were immediately driven back: there were too many goblins and a crew of very annoyed and very determined royal guards. The ice guard standing near Graham did grab its opportunity. Specifically, it grabbed the king and yanked him off balance, drawing him close and pinning his arms behind his back. His stiff shoulder bent awkwardly. Graham yelped, sure his ice arm was probably going to snap in half considering how many people kept pulling on it.

But forward curl goblin knocked the ice guard out by the knees, swinging its shovel hard enough for the ice to splinter. Graham staggered forward as the ice shattered around him, pieces glittering like dust motes. The goblin gave him some sort of complicated gesture that was probably meant to be reassuring but instead looked rather menacing before scampering off to take down someone else. No1 stepped up beside Graham in its place, sword raised to defend, giving his king a determined nod. Graham returned the nod, clutching his aching ice arm with his good hand.

Around them, chaos reigned, goblins wailing and gleefully attacking their hated bosses, royal guards hacking left and right, ice cracking beneath their swords. The ice guards were fighting back, their icicle blades scraping and tearing winter wear but unable to penetrate rock goblin armor or Crimson Colada platemail, making the fight a series of quickly timed events in favor of the Daventry team. When the Daventry team wasn’t caught unawares or desperately outnumbered, they were quite good at their jobs.

One enterprising goblin managed to tug a frozen tapestry from the wall and went sailing through the air, clutching it like it was a vine and warbling a war cry, its little stocking’d feet slamming into an ice guard. Another pair had gone for the Kyle and Larry route, one charging in with another on its shoulders, both deadly at short range, while the real Kyle and Larry did the exact same thing a few feet away. Still others just went for the general bashing and tackling and pouncing methods. Graham remembered being on the wrong end of those pounces and winced in sympathy.

Near the dais, Icebella drove her attackers back as best she could with her ice magic, but the sheer number of guards that had been close when the fighting began would have overwhelmed her in moments had she been alone. But she wasn’t alone, not now. No2 and a pack of goblins leapt to her side, shouting and slashing and kicking and, at least in the case of one or two goblins, biting. No2 didn’t bite anyone, though he may have considered it. Nearby, Numbers Three and Four and their own small group of goblins stood guard over Valanice. The Queen of Daventry was still dizzy, and she clung to her chair watching everything unfold in silence. Her gaze never left Graham, not once, not even when No3 desperately struck with her sword and took off the arm of an ice guard reaching for Valanice.

The outcry and laughter and mayhem echoed around the throne room, but all told, the fight lasted not much longer than a few minutes. The scuffle had kicked up frost motes, which settled after a moment, revealing goblins sitting on, lounging against, and generally mocking the ice guards, all of which were broken or helpless under their new captors’ hands. On the dais, Icebella, safely ringed in by a handful of determined goblins, stood glaring at one very guilty looking black cat. Manny’s ears and tail drooped, and he seemed very small, all his plans quite suddenly cracked like shallow ice.

“Cat,” Icebella said, sharp and cold. “I do not wish you to be part of my court any longer. Get out.”

“I think that might be for the best,” Manny agreed. He jumped out of the throne and started sheepishly creeping away, until one of the goblins, who had clearly been in this room before and seen this sort of thing happen already, pushed aside a curtain, grabbed a lever, yanked, and opened the floor up beneath the cat’s paws.

“Oh, zards.” And Manny disappeared down the slide. It slammed back into place behind him, silencing his startled cry.

Valanice stumbled off the dais, pushing aside her goblin guard, and ran to Graham. She was still off kilter from whatever they had done to her earlier, and she stumbled, and she fell into him, hugging him tightly. He tried to lift his arm to hug her back properly, but it was completely dead now. Everything was locking up. His vision was blurring, and everything was so cold. Her breath on his icy cheek was warm and nice, but it did not melt anything. She tearfully kissed him, like that could break the curse, like a story would have it, but nothing happened, and Graham’s body was simply giving up. Rosella and Alexander and his guards stood around him, and Valanice flung an imploring look back toward Icebella.

“Please,” she begged. “He’s freezing to death. Please, can’t you help?”

The ice queen stood alone, in front of her ostentatious throne and her frozen tapestries and her snowy carpet and her broken ice guards, and her imperious stance seemed to be diminished. She looked anxious, and confused, and she was shivering. “I don’t know how, Valanice,” she said, and her voice was softer, gentle and sorrowful. “I’ve never known how. If I could have lifted my own curse, I would have. But I couldn’t. I can’t help. I’m sorry.”

“But I...I might be able to help,” Alexander said.

Valanice stepped back. Graham could feel her absence, could feel the cold rushing over him without her, could barely breathe now. He realized his heart had been slowing down, choked by ice, and the lethargy was almost overwhelming, but his knees had locked into place so at least falling wasn’t a concern.

Alexander continued, “This is a curse. It’s greasy, and sticky, and dark. You don’t stop a curse. You break it. Icebella isn’t the origin of the curse. It’s the castle. It moves, it never settles, it’s always looking for a place to belong, right? It’s stealing everything it can to make itself strong. All the buildings in the courtyard, all the people in the labyrinth, and you, Dad. It’s always traveling, always searching, and always taking, and it’s never satisfied. But, Dad, you know exactly where you belong. You belong here, in Daventry. And I think that’s the answer to this, what will break it.

“I’m new at magic,” Alexander admitted. “And it seems to work best if I can use something extra to give it strength. Either my own emotions, or…or I think music might focus it, if it has meaning. And this one…I think it means a lot to you, and to me, and it might be a way to show the curse belonging. I hope.”

Alexander started humming a familiar song. An old lullaby. A song Graham once sang over a cradle minutes before Manannan burst in, stole his son, ruined their lives.

Graham would have stumbled backward in surprise if he could. “You remember your lullaby,” he said, and his voice was as hollow as an ice cave.

“I didn’t remember the words,” Alexander said. “When you spoke them, earlier, they were just words. They didn’t mean anything to me. But...but they fit the melody I remembered. Something soft, this old song that I could rely on when I...when I was upset. I used to hum it at night, when my chores were done. When I felt lost. But I remember them together now. The music and the words together.”

His voice was quavery, and small, and it didn’t seem to have any power to it, but he willingly hugged his father for the first time, and he sang the words gently, and Graham sang with him, stuttering and broken, his voice locking up with ice and fading away, until Valanice let her voice join theirs, and Rosella joined the embrace, and they were warm and gentle and strong together. And Alexander had a warmth to him, some deep spell he was drawing on, some magic he had stolen and turned to his own purposes, the same way he’d melted a hole in the tunnel, a power of his own devising. It was almost too hot, this brilliant shimmering intellect and care and ability, and he channeled it with the music, focused it, and….

Graham’s knees melted, buckled beneath him and he went down in a heap, and his whole family reached out and caught him, and everything was different and everything had changed, and the cold had left him, and he grabbed hold of his son, keeping him squeezed tight in the embrace, and Alexander let him without any complaint, and Graham breathed freely again, and he stared at his hand over his son’s shoulder, flexing his fingers in wonder.

And they stayed like that for a long time, royal guards standing by watching and waiting and protecting, until Graham could finally stand again, smiling.

At least he was smiling until he realized he was also being hugged around the leg by two goblins. They tilted their heads to look up at him, apparently grinning beneath their helmets. The rest of the goblins were staring, too, long fingers flexing on their picks and shovels.

“Rosella, Number One, what did you do?”

“Funny story,” Rosella said brightly. “So, like, under the castle, there were these goblins, and they were building the snow storm, and I didn’t want that, and I...” she frowned, and looked to No2. “I’m telling this badly again,” she complained.

“I think I know a better way to tell the story,” No2 agreed. “Who wants to do a reenactment play!” he called over the goblins, and every single one of them raised their hands eagerly.

No1 groaned. “I will not,” he said.

“Then I’ll play you, that sounds neat, and...that charming looking goblin right over there can be me. Rosella, do you want to be yourself, or maybe an ice guard?”

“Definitely an ice guard.”

“Okay, then I need someone to play Rosella. Hands up again, who wants to be a princess?”

The story, as it worked out, was like this:

One lone goblin, after being abused by the ice guards one too many times, was having a very hard time, hiding behind an ice cart used as a component to generate the perpetual blizzard that powered the castle, helped it move, gave it fuel, gave it strength. Rosella called out to the goblin, tempting it, by whispering, “Once upon a time, there was a very brave little goblin.”

The little fellow had jammed its helmet back on and followed the story like a trail of bread crumbs, until it found itself surrounded by Daventry Royal Guards and its princess a good distance up the tunnel from its companions. It shrieked, and it would have turned and fled, but Kyle and Larry had jumped it and held it, and Rosella said, “Don’t you want to be a brave goblin like the one in the story?”

And that had made it pause, just for a second, just long enough for Rosella to tell another story about a little goblin who was sick of doing everyone else’s chores, and who got all his friends together, and when they were together, they were very strong indeed, and could throw off their tormenters and make the terrible people do all the chores instead. Which the goblin liked very much, it being both rather violent and promising that it wouldn’t have to do any more chores. And also, the story ended with the goblin getting to go home and enjoy the warmth of a dark, damp cave, surrounded by its glowing mushrooms, content and happy.

The goblin had slipped back into the mines, with Rosella and the royal guards watching anxiously after it in case it decided to betray them after all and turn them into the ice guards for the promise of some time off. But it did as they’d suggested, sneaking up goblin by goblin, whispering the plan, and then those two goblins spread out from there, whispering to another two, until suddenly the whole mining operation was giving the ice guards shifty glances and the little goblin gave Rosella a sly thumbs up, and Royal Guard Number One had pulled out his sword and they’d all gone charging in. The ice guards had spun around, ready to fight the royal guards…but they hadn’t been expecting to have to fight their goblin charges, too.

It had been quick work from there on, whispers of Rosella’s story passing from goblin to goblin to goblin, until all the ice furnaces grew still, and all the ice guards were dispatched, and the new and improved team of Daventry could move on and help their king.

The story was told with rather extravagant and overblown gestures, goblins pouncing and leaping and taking each other down to replicate the tale No2 was narrating, having an especially good time telling about the attack, and at the end they all took a ragged bow, out of breath and tired and very, very happy for the first time in what must have been ages.

Graham, Valanice, and Alexander applauded. And then a fourth person started clapping, too.

Icebella had retaken her throne and was watching the story with rapt delight on her normally stern features. She was smiling, her teeth like little ice chips. “That was delightful,” she told the goblins. “I did not know I had such talented people working in my castle. You must have come with Cat, yes? You are much better company.”

“Ice…Vala…” Valanice bit her lip, unsure what to say.

“You may remember me as Valanice,” the ice queen said, and her face wasn’t nearly so dark now, “but I’m afraid I still do not. Your stories of who I was are kind, but I prefer Icebella. Even if it was a gift from Cat given in possessiveness, it was still a gift, and one I have become accustomed to. I should like Icebella, please.”

“Icebella,” Valanice repeated. “Icebella, I’m sorry. I can make every excuse I want, but in the end, you’ve still been hurt by us. We never reached out to you as friends should have, and I’m sorry. Perhaps we can do something for you now? My son…”

But Alexander was shaking his head. “Mom, I can’t. It’s a stable curse. I don’t know how to lift it now it’s been in place for so long. I think only the person who cast it can lift it at this point. I don’t even know who that would be.”

“Hagatha,” Graham said. “I think it was Hagatha. I don’t think she meant to hurt you, Icebella, but. I think her curse spread from this tower to you. I’m sorry, but we don’t know where she is, or if she’s even still alive.”

“I do not mind,” Icebella said, though there was a hollowness to her voice that betrayed her sorrow. She twirled her fingers, and a rose, clear as glass, formed from ice in her hand. “There are many things I can do this way, and I have been Icebella for longer than I can remember being anyone else. But…your story,” she said, looking at No2. “You indicated that my home is hurting yours. And so, I should depart this place, and quickly, so that your home may recover without me.”

Valanice looked stricken. “You can’t go,” she said. “Please, we’ve lost you for so long. Don’t leave us again. Don’t wander lost. You said you didn’t know yourself, before Icebella, and that darkness sounds frightening and lonely. Please. Don’t let that happen again.”

Icebella looked at her ice rose, and crumpled it in her hand. “You cast me away before,” she said, though she bore no hatred in her voice now.

“We were young and silly and in love and these are pointless excuses,” Valanice insisted. “You can’t leave, not when we’ve found you again.”

No1 muttered, in a stage whisper that nevertheless carried around the room, “But the castle needs to leave.”

Valanice nodded sharply. “Then, let’s take the castle away, and return to Daventry after it is safely hidden somewhere, up high in the mountains where it can’t hurt anyone anymore. It is as my Alexander said: this kingdom is a place of stories, where we welcome travelers. It doesn’t have to be your home, unless you want it to be, but you won’t know unless you try it. Daventry castle is enormous. We have a place for you even temporarily. If you don’t have a destination, at least stop with us for a little while to decide. I’ll stay with you into the mountains, and we’ll travel back together.”

“Valanice,” Graham said, warningly.

“No, shush, Graham. It’s a girls’ night and you’re not invited.”

Graham stepped toward her, wobbled on his freshly healed leg, and almost fell over. She caught him and they leaned against each other, and he whispered in her ear, “She did try to kill us. She doesn’t remember her past. Is this fully thought through?”

“It’s Valanice, and you know it, and this has all been Manannan’s fault, as per usual,” she said back. “Trust me. I know what I’m doing. This isn’t some plan for martyrdom, this isn’t some silly rescue that only I can do. But I’m not going to let anyone, especially not a friend we’ve already lost once, go wandering alone in the world with no one she can call on. Not again.”

Graham considered, then nodded. There was relief there, a keen desire to see his dear friend content and happy again. “Okay. But you’ve got to take some royal guards with you.”

“I’ll take Number Three with us, if she agrees.” And she pulled the guard’s arm.

“Agrees to?” No3 asked, warily.

“Girls’ night,” Valanice grinned. “Or, rather, girls’ couple weeks while we take this castle up to the snowy mountains and leave it there and come back.” She looked up at Icebella. “Of course. This is all if you want to do so, Icebella,” she said. “I’m sorry that Manny thought he could own you. I won’t do that to you. If you do want to leave, we shall step aside and let you. In the end, every choice should be yours.”

Icebella looked at her broken rose, at the stem splintered in half and the shards glittering in the light.

“I am a queen,” she said, “of nothing. Of one tower. Of some ice guards. And that’s all. I think in my travels I have hurt people. Stolen people. Even though I don’t think I meant to do it, the curse on this tower absorbs and encompasses and consumes everything. It all seems fuzzy without Cat telling me what to do. But I think…I think I would like to rest, for at least a short time, and your young man’s tale of Daventry makes it seem…like a warm place to do that. May I please rest with you?”

“For as long as you want, my dear friend.”

~*~*~*~

The sun was shining both outside and inside Daventry castle.

Outside: that was perfectly normal. It was the beginning of spring. The snow was melting away, and if you knew where to look, little green sprouts were resolutely starting to poke out of the earth.

Inside: well, that was perfectly normal, too. With the warmer weather came the opening of the tapestries, the huge windows letting sparkling sunlight pour into the castle, making dust motes glitter. But, now, the place shimmered in a way it hadn’t before. It helped that Icebella had created a large number of small ice diamonds, stringing them in every window—their unmelting magic caught the sunlight as it passed through them, splintering each beam into dozens of flickering rainbows.

But it was more than just the passing of the season.

The whole castle felt the change. It was brighter and warmer here, the King and Queen no longer lost and afraid and lonely. The royal guards had more of a bounce in their step, less wary of what might be around the next corner. The townsfolk felt it, too, energized to create more and share more as they realized how curious and excited for life the two newest, recently rescued, members of the castle were.

Graham and Valanice walked through the courtyard, hand in hand, feeling the warmth of the sun. Rosella sat on the balcony above them, glaring at the Duel of Wits board game spread out on the table in front of her and wondering how she’d lost to Alexander yet again. Maybe if she tried moving her pieces like this she wouldn’t lose as often. She couldn’t wait for him to get back so she could try it out.

Alexander had taken Icebella on a stroll through the forest, like his father had done for him. He had so many things he wanted to show her, and now that the snow was disappearing, he wanted to take her to the little overlook that showed off the entire valley, so they both could see what it looked like in the new season. And they could return the next season after that and see the changes in their home. Because it was their home, their place, that had welcomed them. They might both move on, someday, as was their right and ability, but for now, they had both found a place they belonged. And that was all they needed.

For now.

~*~*~*~

The sun had set, but the lanterns had been lit. Little pools of glowing warmth dotted the garden, and night insects chirped. Gart was sitting in the garden on a bench, knees drawn up to his chest, looking very young in the torchlight. His arms were wrapped tight around his legs, and he was staring at the floor. There was a crumpled letter next to him, pinned into place by a rock so it couldn’t blow away.

Gwendolyn took a deep breath. She thought of the stories, of how brave everyone had been, how they had learned so much about identity and home, and she walked into the garden. As she walked, the grass broke beneath her feet, and the warm sweet scent of life surrounded her. The bushes were in bloom, too, filling the air with soft fragrance. Even this late at night, she thought she could hear the distant sound of some passing minstrel with a lute strumming his way along the forest paths, reveling in the safety of the country.

She loved it here. She loved Daventry. It wasn’t her home, not like Green Isles were, but she still had a right to share it with Gart, even for a little while.

But when he looked up at her approach, she saw he’d been crying, and she saw the letter at his side was tearstained, and it looked like he’d crumpled it and opened it and crumpled it and opened it again, smearing the handwritten note that, even from here, Gwendolyn could tell was Grandpa’s handwriting, his signature. Some official looking addendum, with his signet ring’s crest stamped into the wax near the bottom of the page.

“Gwendolyn,” Gart said, his voice thick, “I’ve been a beast, and I’m sorry. I know I’ve been a perfect brute to you lately. It wasn’t fair. You’re still just a child, after all.”

“You’re just a kid too, y’know,” Gwendolyn said, and she tried to smile at him, to make him smile with her like Grandpa would with her, but his gaze dropped to the ground again. “What’s going on? Is it because of…what you said? It…it wasn’t nice.”

“And I’m sorry,” Gart said, and buried his face in his arms. Muffled: “I shouldn’t have said those things. I knew they were wrong. They weren’t what a king should say.”

“First off, I forgive you, honest. Second off, you aren’t a king yet,” Gwendolyn said. “You don’t have to get things right all the time. At least, not right away.”

“I might never be a king,” he said. “Not…not with you here.”

“Gart, you just apologized. Don’t start it again.”

“It’s not that.” He nodded toward the paper, without looking at her or unfolding himself.

Gwendolyn reached down, picked up the letter, and scanned. “This is an addendum about…” she paused, struggling with the level of official legalese the council expected addendums to have. “Oh. This…this says…that the crown of Daventry’s tradition should be reinstated like Edward had it, allowing the crown to pass to any person the king chooses, not just the first male heir in the existing line. Does…that means that I could…?” A sudden image of Grandpa’s crown on her head as she stood in front of the magic mirror flashed before her eyes, and she almost staggered.

“It’s not that,” Gart said, sniffling. “I mean, that’s why I said those things to you, why I wanted you to leave. I was scared of it. But. Read the rest, too.”

And she did. And she dropped the letter, and she sank next to her cousin, and the two turned into each other and pulled each close, because King Graham had written of his illness, what was keeping him bedridden, and his rapid decline, and his imminent death, and the changes that he foresaw coming to Daventry.

But that story was yet to happen.

[astromechs]

in honor of us finally getting more gotg content tomorrow, i’ll throw up a little oneshot i wrote for a friend tonight! fresh out of the box, unedited, canon isn’t real, etc.

also peter being made an honorary kree by ronan is an enemies to sort of-friends story, i have decreed it, thank you for your time, goodnight

As far as strategy meetings go, that one had been a shitshow.

No, Rich thinks as he pushes through the doorway of the tent and moves with a purpose toward the edge of this makeshift camp, in search of some much-needed fresh air and time to himself. Shitshow would be an understatement.

This whole thing is, quite honestly, falling apart around him. Every single day, they’re losing more ground to the bugs; every single plan is a failure, because the other side is always at least four steps ahead. To call themselves the United Front is a fucking joke, because he doesn’t think he’s seen anything less united in his life; their steadily thinning ranks are devolving into infighting and (sometimes literal) backstabbing, and….

He’s not qualified for this. Doesn’t matter how many times that Worldmind, that every-fucking-one else, keeps reminding him that he’s Nova Prime now, and, therefore, that he’s the only person in the universe who can do so many things; someone else should’ve survived on Xandar that day, because literally anyone else would be able to handle this better than he has. Hell, literally anyone else in his position would’ve probably won the whole d’ast war by now.

A random outcropping of rock he comes across is as good as anything, so he huffs out a breath and takes a seat, peeling his helmet off of his head and setting it aside on the ground next to his feet as he does. Save for the sound of pebbles shifting against his own feet, it’s quiet around him as this planet’s two suns begin to sink below the horizon. 

(How Tatooine, right? Maybe in another life, he’d have thought this would have to be the coolest thing he’s ever seen, but — that life’s not his now. Not anymore.)

It’s quiet, except for —

Footsteps, growing louder by the second.

And he knows exactly who they belong to.

That’s the thing about war: it breeds familiarity in the weirdest places, because when everyday is hell, you find yourself clinging to what few constants you can. Peter Quill, somehow, is one those; over the past six months or so (has it been six months? It’s always hard to tell), Rich has come to rely on his quirks and the lopsided grins that appear on his face every so often, his terrible jokes and sarcastic comments that also manage to have some really solid advice in them, broken down in a way that makes some strange sense. It’s… kind of a reassurance to have that constant around like this, almost all day, nearly everyday.

In spite of all the frustration that’s still boiling under his skin, and how much he’d really wanted to be alone, he still finds himself reassured right now.

By the time Peter approaches, Rich is already standing to meet him — arms folded over his chest, sure, but standing there waiting nevertheless.

“Hey,” Peter ventures first, clearly reading the mood with how soft his voice is. “I’m, uh… kinda thinkin’ that you’re mad at me.”

“Yeah, I’m mad.” The counter comes with narrowed eyes and without missing a beat. “What the hell was that in there? You know Ronan has most of the Kree that can still fight. If we wanna have even, like, part of an army tomorrow, we need him.” He takes a step, two steps, three steps closer. “Blazes, Peter. You’re the advisor. Work with me here.”

He doesn’t mean for his own voice to get so loud, he really doesn’t, but — it’s like a rubber band or something has been stretching inside him for the past hour, and it’s finally snapped. Instantly, Rich regrets it; he regrets it even more when he notices Peter’s eyes widen for a second, obviously taken aback.

Just for a second; before long, they harden, just like the lines on his face. “What do you want me to do, Richie? Apologize? Pretend to be all friendly with him?” He scoffs, as if to actually say are you fucking kidding me? “‘Cause I meant every d’ast thing I said to that flarknard, and I’m not gonna do any of that.”

Rich closes his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose. It’s weird, how out of literally everything falling apart around him, being on this kind of shaky ground with the guy he relies on as that constant somehow, in this moment, feels like the worst. He wishes he hadn’t said anything; he wishes they could just — he doesn’t know — rewind time. Or something.

The air between them is thick with silence. Until:

“Never said you had to.” It’s quiet, almost impossibly so. He opens his eyes again at last, meeting Peter’s. “Just… try not to insult him right to his face next time. Look, I’m not a fan of the guy either, and if you wanna tell me every single thing you thought about him afterwards, I’m all ears. But — not while we’re in there, okay?”

That silence falls again, but then — face softening, Peter lifts a hand to his forehead in a clear mock salute. “Yes, mister Nova, sir.”

It feels like the most beautiful thing he’s ever heard.

Still, though, Rich raises a brow, tosses out a dry: “You know I hate that more than ‘Richie’, right?”

In return, he gets a toothy grin. “Uh-huh.”

Blue blazes.

Before he can even think twice about it, a laugh bursts out of him, and seconds later, Peter has followed suit. It’s so cold out that the breath from them visibly condenses in the half-light, and —

Rich is suddenly aware of how close they are.

Somehow, in the middle of all of this, they’d come to be standing just inches apart, to the point that he can actually feel the warmth of Peter’s breath on his face. This… this has to be crossing some kind of unspoken line, and he should step back before this gets weird. Yeah, he thinks, he should definitely do that.

His feet aren’t cooperating, though — and, honestly, neither is anything else, because instead, he finds himself leaning in even closer, drawn in by some kind of magnet, or gravity, or… something. He doesn’t know if it’s all his own doing, or if he’s being met in the middle, but does it really matter? No, he’s pretty sure it doesn’t, when his heart’s pounding, jumping into his throat, and their lips are so close that they could —

Beep beep beep.

The discarded helmet on the ground shrills an urgent alert and instantly breaks the spell over the moment.

Without looking at Peter, Rich pivots on his heel and reaches to pick up his helmet, reporting what he knows before they both move.

Even when things settle down again, they don’t talk about it.

But it doesn’t leave Rich’s thoughts for a long time to come.

[darkfromday]

Back at it again with Kingdom Hearts 3 anniversary fanfic!

Happy 2021, everyone! For anyone who loves Kairi, here—a Kairi-centric fanfic. Sorry she cries so much. But it’s post Melody of Memory sad hours, you know?

The sun is setting, slowly but surely, over the training garden and the majestic golden castle in the distance. It is the end of a very long day, full of sweating and small accomplishments. In a matter of minutes the sun will sink below the horizon and darkness will overtake light.

That means Kairi has only a few minutes left to defeat Aqua in combat.

She's been losing so far, as anyone might expect—Aqua's ice and thunder magic especially have knocked her mercilessly around the field, until Kairi came to resemble a half-drowned kitten with frizzy blood-red fur more than a plucky princess of heart. It makes perfect sense, even if it's frustrating. Though she made great strides under Merlin's tutelage, there is still so much she doesn't know about wielding a Keyblade. Pitting her up against Xehanort and Organization XIII on short notice was bad enough; against a far friendlier opponent with decades of physical and magical training under her belt, Kairi doesn't stand a chance.

Unless—unless she takes Aqua by surprise. Unless she thinks a little deviously, and exploits a weakness.

I know just which one.

Aqua's cartwheel dodge is flawless in battle, highly effective for evading hordes of Heartless, Nobodies, or Unversed. But it has the downside of leaving her upright, flushed and vulnerable for just a fraction of a second. It's not something most people notice in the middle of a fight—not her friends, not her opponents—but Kairi, for whom dodging while attacking is also an essential aspect of battle, took note of it immediately the first time she noticed it.

Her own evasion method condenses her into pure darting light for about the same fraction of time as Aqua's cartwheel, but with the added benefit of making her completely untouchable to an enemy once she's disappeared. So if she wants, she can aim her Keyblade at Aqua now, send an Aerora blast at her teacher, and wait just long enough for Aqua to smirk and dodge out of the way...

...and take her eyes off of Kairi for a second.

Yes!

Kairi taps into the inner warmth she has carried since childhood, and becomes that bouncing ball of pure light again, darting forward to exactly the spot where she knows Aqua will come to rest. When she reforms into herself again, the first thing she sees is the utter shock on Aqua's face as she bounces into place, then rears back at being so close to her opponent.

Kairi doesn't hesitate—she immediately throws Destiny's Embrace forward, watching it spin gracefully, relishing—at last—the sound of the metal hitting skin and not other metal. By the time she has warped forward to catch her blade and continue the attack, Aqua has recovered enough from her new bruise to conjure a giant tsunami of water over their heads, facing Kairi.

Oh no!

The water shivers threateningly, dangerously—then crashes down.

A blazing, brilliant sphere surrounded by pink stars materializes just in time to part the waves—Kairi's own Barrier magic, adopted and adapted from the perfect sphere Aqua manifests when she wants to cancel an attack by standing still. She holds her free hand out, maintaining the shield as long as possible, and gathers all her might to push the light outward and overwhelm her foe with a counterattack—

—and unexpectedly, the top of her Barrier takes a slap from a stronger new wave, and cracks.

Water rushes into the shield faster than Kairi can dispel it; she yelps as she's submerged and dragged to the other end of the garden in a giant spinning bubble.

It takes time, far too much time, to aim her Keyblade down, set off a blast of air to escape her bubble, and then turn the sloshing mess of water into steam so her footing is steady again when she lands back on the grass. By the time she's twirling her weapon and getting ready to warp back across the garden to re-engage, a huge bell begins tolling from far away.

"Enough," Aqua says, setting off brief sparks in the air with her Keyblade, Stormfall. She points to the moon rising slowly but steadily in the distance. "You fought well, Kairi. But the sun has set, and I'm still standing."

Kairi droops as sadly as her damp hair. Which means she's won... again.

"That's all for today."

                                                             ✯

The next day will be better, Kairi tells herself in the shower. Every fight is a lesson. Every lesson gives me experience. Tomorrow I'll improve. Tomorrow I'll win.

Except she's told herself this many, many times before. And thus tomorrow, when it becomes today, dawns bright and clear and damp from the evening rain, and Kairi spars with Aqua all day long only to lose to her at moonrise (again) after a whirlwind of angry fire flowers.

When they go back to the castle again to rest and recover, Terra is nice enough to lend Kairi his worn old punching bag to swing and swear at for the rest of that long, sleepless night.

...Another tomorrow, then.

                                                              ✯

But she loses horribly the next day, too.

And the next.

And the next.

                                                              ✯

Loss number six.

Kairi grinds her teeth until they ache, so that she won't scream out all her fury and frustration instead. Nearly a week of losses, in a larger month of the same. And any experience gained isn't enough. Day after day after day passes, with no change.

Well.

Actually, the only change that occurs is exactly how she gets whipped in battle. Sometimes it's with magic, on their spell-only spars. Sometimes it's with physical attacks only, when they play a Struggle-similar game where the person with the least bruises and orbs lost wins. And one time they even forego their Keyblades entirely, opting to wrestle each other instead—and Kairi still fails because Aqua is older and smarter and stronger, and she has this little trip kick that's impossible to avoid.

She doesn't hop up immediately from the ground this evening, like she'd done in the past. No. Kairi just sits, and bows her head, and bites her lip hard enough to bruise.

Aqua trots over, flushed but otherwise mostly unscathed. "Kairi?" she ventures carefully, trying to bend to see her pupil's face. "Let's go inside. It'll be full-dark soon."

"...What's the point?" Kairi whispers. "When I'll just be back on my butt in a few hours anyway? No thanks. I'll just stay out here."

"What? Where's this coming from?"

"Oh, I don't know!" Her voice gets higher, and wobbles, not used to remaining in that register for long. "Maybe from losing for the sixth time in a row after barely marking you at all? Maybe from making absolutely zero progress as a Keyblade wielder after everything that's happened?"

"Kairi..."

But she can't stop; her cheeks are hot and her vision starts to blur. It's too much. It's all too much. "Maybe it's from being unable to hold my own in a simple sparring lesson while my friends, my best friends, are out alone in another whole new world I'll never ever ever be able to reach at this rate, fighting who knows what?! Please tell me, Master Aqua, because I'm not having much luck figuring it out myself!"

Kairi raises her arm and hurls Destiny's Embrace away. It disappears in a flash of tiny flower-shaped lights, and doesn't come back to her hand.

Aqua's speechless, apparently, because she doesn't say anything else for a while after saying Kairi's name. Just steps closer and closer, until Kairi's bowed head comes up to her thigh-high stockings, and waits for a while. Kairi doesn't speak or move—until she feels a gentle pressure moving over her hair, picking out the day's mud and twigs, and smoothing the rest down. Like an older sister, or the mother she doesn't remember, or the grandmother she scarcely sees these days.

The dam breaks open (just a little) and she feels more scalding tears race down her cheeks. Kairi hasn't cried, really cried, since the night she found Riku again after so long apart. And before that, not since she'd let go of Sora's hand in a world of darkness, forced back to the islands while he went on to worlds mysterious. But both those times there was at least one precious person with her to dry her tears, or at least encourage her not to let her sadness bring her down for long. At least back then there was a shining certainty that the three of them would be together again.

Now, she has no one. Sora is still gone without a trace, and Riku's trail of clues manifested a path for him to take to find Sora—without her.

No... that isn't fair.

He'd wanted her to go with him. She'd seen it in his eyes. After so long fighting by himself, Riku seems ready and willing to accept any companionship he can find in the long war against darkness, or disorder, or separation. And despite everything, Kairi is still one of his best friends—one of the precious people he wants to protect. But that's also the problem.

She hadn't been ready to join him yet. To become a fellow fighter instead of a powerful-but-tiny burden. After a year asleep in her memories, after nearly being defeated by a phantom from her own mind in that same year, Kairi could not yet be called strong enough to venture out to her own worlds mysterious to find the boy who helped her fight that phantom. It made sense that Riku wished her luck with her studies and left her behind. Barring a few brushes with Xehanort's lackeys, Riku has always been the sensible one.

But sensible makes my heart ache.

So Kairi sniffles out her fear and frustration, wiping angrily, fruitlessly at her face as the tears outstrip her attempts to control them. And Aqua keeps stroking her hair, stopping only once to offer her a folded baby-blue handkerchief. It's well past sundown by the time Kairi feels calm enough to look up from her knees and meet her Master's kind, patient eyes.

"I'm—I'm—sorry," she hiccoughs.

"You have nothing to be sorry for," Aqua says. Calm. Reassuring.

"I do. I'm weak. Too weak for—for what I want."

"I don't think so. I think you're exhausted, and upset, and you have every right to be. A lot's happened to you in such a short time, hasn't it, Kairi?"

Kairi hiccoughs again, but shrugs.

Aqua's blue eyes are very, very soft. "You won't benefit from a night of shivering out here. Will you come and have a sleepover with me? I think... we have a lot to talk about tonight."

Kairi is tired, and upset, and curious, and is not a princess used to "roughing it" in the wilderness yet—so, after a long pause, she agrees.

                                                              ✯

Ventus, always shy around Kairi, is kind enough to have a slice of ice cream cake waiting for her when they pass through the kitchen on their way to Aqua's room. She suspects that Aqua (who typically stays outside all day with her) must have some way of communicating with her best friends across long distances to make this possible, and feels a twinge of jealousy that she has to squash to give Ven the grateful smile he deserves.

Ever since stating her intent to study with Aqua in this world, Kairi has more or less lived here—a dusty tower room with soft earthy palettes is her second home since 'leaving' Radiant Garden as a child. It was difficult to say goodbye to her island friends, most of whom have spent more time missing her the past few years than seeing her—but it was what was necessary to become stronger. To get to a level where she couldn't—wouldn't—be left behind anymore.

The tower room remains empty tonight. Instead, Kairi follows Aqua down the key-patterned hallways of another tower entirely, until they reach the Master's room.

"My old room," Aqua always clarifies, whenever anyone refers to it that way. Probably because the Master's room, Master Eraqus' room, is a shut-up old thing that none of his three disciples go near, ever.

Kairi knows it is out of respect, but wonders if it isn't out of fear too. She has it hard enough trying to walk the path of self-improvement that Sora and Riku walked before her; she can't imagine what it would be like to try and inhabit a dead man's space along with his title. Or what it's actually like for Aqua to try and emulate a man whose training with the Keyblade will always be better and deeper than anything his students, and their students, might accomplish on their own.

"It gets really cold up here this time of year, so I've got plenty of blankets!" Aqua chirps. "We can set up wherever you'd like. Even in my bed if you're comfortable with that."

Kairi is, but she doesn't feel brave enough to say so, so she works some tiny magic instead. With a crook of her finger, a tiny tug of Gravity magic, all the colorful blankets she could ever ask for leap off Aqua's bed and make a nice comfy pile on the plush carpet.

"Are you sure this is okay?" she asks afterward. Because, well, she's late asking, but best to be sure.

"Looks perfect."

Aqua is a very graceful young woman; every move she makes appears deeply thought out even when it's casual. She looks like a gymnast finishing a routine as she lowers herself to the floor and pulls a threadbare pink blanket especially close.

"Come on," she encourages. Kairi sits down right next to her, close enough that their shoulders rub together and produce a tiny spark of static electricity. They both jerk away from each other a second, then laugh softly. Any awkwardness that followed them into the room is dispelled. It means Kairi can finish her Double Crunch ice cream cake without feeling out of place.

"Okay," Aqua says. "Just you and me now. No spectators. No wizards. No expectations. Will you tell me what's wrong?"

Kairi almost doesn't.

But... there's really no one else she feels comfortable confiding in about this. No one else that will understand. And though she doesn't remember it well now, Aqua is one of the first friends she ever made.

She stretches the words out on her tongue. "I'm... falling behind again. No matter how hard I try to catch up."

The older girl is silent.

"The first time I went on an adventure, I was locked securely away in Sora's heart," Kairi recalls, slowly. "Riku left first—like always—and Sora followed him looking for both of us. And he grew up on that journey in a good way—a strong way. But even though I was with him all along, I didn't gain the same experience that Sora did. I don't have... his skill at using the Keyblade, or connecting so easily and wonderfully with strangers."

Aqua's lips quirk upward. "I think that's a skill unique to Sora alone." She's probably remembering the way Sora rescued her from the deepest depths of the Realm of Darkness.

"And Riku... Riku worked so hard to overcome the darkness in his heart, to try and remain the boy we love so much. He struggled to atone for things we didn't even blame him for. He learned how to harness both sides of an incredible power. I was... am... so proud of him. Of both of them. But I..."

"Yes?"

"I... don't have a story like that."

"You don't need to," Aqua says encouragingly. "No two Keyblade wielders have the exact same journey, no matter how similarly they may start out. You've just proved that with Sora and Riku. They're best friends and they went on completely different paths. The same will be true for you, when it's your time to have a proper journey."

Okay. But... still...

"Even if that's true... it doesn't change how I feel. I'm always the one left behind." Kairi feels her eyes well up against her will.

Aqua opens her mouth to say something—and nothing comes out. Instead her mouth forms a silent Oh. It seems she finally has an idea of just what Kairi is driving at.

"It doesn't matter if I'm a princess or a Guardian of Light. At the end of the day, Sora, Riku and I always get separated! And usually that means Sora and Riku are fighting whatever threat is trying to tear apart the worlds, while I wait behind a door and rub my good luck charm raw and hope they come home. That little bit of peace we had after Sora and Riku defeated Xemnas and made it back to the islands was a dream... and like every dream it ended way too soon. Different paths... seldom let their travelers meet up again."

She sniffles again, and Aqua immediately pulls her into a tight hug under all their blankets.

"That's why I asked Master Yen Sid to send me to you instead of Merlin. Not just because you're wonderful, and strong, and the best choice to teach the rest of us how to be Keyblade Masters. Because you were like me. You, Terra and Ven were kept apart by one man and the most complex plan in all the worlds. You understand what it's like to be separated from your friends for a long time—left behind—unable to reach them no matter how hard you try. And... you're the only person I know who didn't stop fighting until you got them back anyway."

"Oh, Kairi." Aqua's own eyes look a little watery now. "Getting them back was the hardest thing I've ever done... it was us against the world for so long. And then Master Xehanort enacted his plans, and Master Eraqus was dead, and it was me against the world... and I nearly gave up. There was just so much darkness. I came through, but it wasn't easy."

"But you did get through it."

"Yes. But not just by being strong or magically talented. Or good with my Keyblade."

"But—but Aqua—"

"Kairi," Aqua says. "I'm... I'm flattered that you think so well of me, really I am... but I don't know how I can help you. I don't know what you want me to do."

"I want you to teach me how to get stronger like you did!" Kairi blurts. "How to beat you when we train. How to be someone who can fight with my friends, instead of staying behind waiting for them to fight for me."

Her words echo in the still air.

Please, Aqua. Help me.

It's very quiet.

Say something.

Aqua keeps hugging her. She rubs Kairi's hands and rests her chin on Kairi's head. Kairi doesn't realize how much nervous energy she's still carrying from the fight until it starts draining away under the older girl's patient ministrations.

"Kairi... you're right. Just like you, I know what it's like to lose your friends—and to feel like you'll never catch up to them or be with them again. But there's something else you have to understand too, okay? Something very important."

Kairi strains her ears...

"I can't turn you into me. I can teach you all my magic, show you all the attacks I ever learned, but that's not a guarantee of anything. You could beat me, Terra, Ven, Lea, Roxas, and Xion in a hundred matches starting tomorrow and it still wouldn't mean you had what you needed to stand side by side with Riku and Sora."

What...?

Aqua exhales slowly. "This is just a reminder. You know this already. The most important thing to have as a Keyblade wielder isn't physical strength, or magic, or intellect, or charisma... it's heart. Strength of the heart."

Kairi shivers. A burst of familiar warmth, of light, has just flickered in her chest, as if reminding her it is still there.

The older girl lifts one hand up to brush a long lock of blue hair away from her forehead before she goes on. The uncharacteristic fidgeting tells Kairi what she's thinking about before she puts it into words. "Me, Ven and Terra... Master Xehanort was able to split the three of us up because we forgot to trust each other's hearts. We forgot to use our love for each other to cut through the darkness. By the time we came back together, it was too late... Xehanort had basically won. And we were destined to be apart for over a decade."

Earlier in the day, the evening even, Kairi might have cut in here, to say something about how Aqua's power and prowess still came through when she needed them most—but just like Aqua understands Kairi's anguish about being cast aside while her boys fought great battles, Kairi thinks she is beginning to understand that to Aqua, during all those dark lonely years, her training really hadn't been enough.

Being able to fight isn't the same as having the will.

"Fighting the Shadows was muscle memory, after all that time fighting the Unversed," Aqua recalls. "The only thing difficult about it was how never-ending it was. That's how the darkness gets to you, really; it tires you out, makes you think that giving in might be easier than resisting. And for me, the temptation to give in was strong. I thought my friends were already lost to the darkness anyway. Why not join them?"

Kairi squeezes Aqua's other hand. Aqua squeezes back.

"Terra and Ven were the ones who saved me then. And I remembered... why I was fighting in the first place. Why it was all so important. So that the people I held closest in my heart could be safe and happy. So that one day we might achieve our dream and be Keyblade Masters together. ...That's what you really want, isn't it Kairi? Not the power to stand with them, but the heart to do it."

Kairi's lips tremble as she nods.

"Yes."

Aqua turns Kairi around to face her, placing a finger on her heart. Her whisper is reverent. "You already have that."

"No—I don't, Aqua. I can't."

"You do. You're the strongest person I've ever met, Kairi. There are others who don't have the strength to follow their dreams, you know. Typically they give up and accept whatever limitations they think they have... they never find out if they could be something more after all. But not you. No matter what happens to you—if you're hurt, kidnapped, challenged, if your very heart is stolen away—you keep fighting! You keep finding your way back to your friends. You've even saved Sora and Riku when they were on the brink of dying or giving up themselves!

"That's why you have to stop thinking of getting stronger in terms of just training and learning spells, or defeating other wielders. You may not have always been able to summon a Keyblade and stand beside your friends, but you've always—always—made the best of what you had. And sometimes, just being the one to light the way home is the strongest thing a person can be."

The warmth in her chest spreads, and she feels teary for maybe the hundredth time today. Kairi has never ever considered herself strong before; not in the way Sora or Riku is strong, anyway. No, she's always felt like a little kid holding them back from their true potential—yet desperate to catch up and preserve their childhood bond. No one has ever told her she is already strong enough to stand with them.

It's the nicest thing Aqua has ever said to her.

"We should get some sleep," Aqua says, after looking at a clock in the corner of her room and sighing. "It's really late. But I want you to really think about what I've said, Kairi, about strength of the heart. I can teach you everything I know, but the power that will reunite you with your friends isn't something I can give you. It's something you have to find inside yourself. And in the meantime, I'm sure Sora and Riku will carry you in their hearts until you're all together again."

Kairi's smile is more radiant than the moonlight. They cuddle close, even though she's so warm inside she really could go without the extra heat. "Aqua... thank you."

"You're welcome. Now—bed!"

"Okay, okay!"

                                                               ✯

The next day is cold and cloudy, and Kairi loses mid-afternoon when Aqua conjures a tornado twenty feet high and uses it to blow her off the mountain.

But instead of brooding or crying, she smiles.

I'm strong enough to win, she thinks. This battle and any other. Whatever it takes to find Sora and Riku, and fight alongside them. I just have to find that strength.

Kairi's muscles are sore, her hair is a mess, and her Keyblade is freezing to the touch; but her heart is bolstered. She's worked this long already. There's a light at the end of the tunnel.

She will try again tomorrow.

[the-pontiac-bandit]

miri + sympathy

Miri had never quite gotten the hang of pranks, but she’d certainly improved in her years with the Riders. Her ideas tended to be less subtle and more absurd, aiming for shock that could elicit an entertaining reaction rather than finesse in the prank itself. While she could appreciate finesse in the pranks of others--Evin did have a particular talent for it, after all--she found that successful execution of such complicated plans required far more work than she had any desire to put in. Commanding Spiderdeath--and avoiding being pranked herself--took plenty of her time.

It was only the look on Evin’s face when she saw him last week in the mess hall that had persuaded her to try. They hadn’t seen each other in weeks, which was hardly unusual in and of itself, but he’d snapped at three trainees in line for supper and had failed to clean up the ink stains he left splattered all over the table he sat at alone with his reports. His workload had steadily increased in the months since Buri had officially turned traitor on the Riders to ride with the Own, and she knew he must be losing his mind with all but three of the Rider groups stationed at the northern border in the middle of the largest war in more than a decade, but even she couldn’t deny after that that he deserved to be taken down a peg or two. As the leader of the only group currently in residence at the palace, she’d known it was her place to take the initiative.

She’d brainstormed frantically for days. For all her creativity in cursing her ponies when they didn’t comply--even more than a decade after her first day, she still had what her trainees called an “adversarial and tenuous” working relationship with horses--she’d struggled to think of the right prank to take down a new commander by approximately three notches without ruining any critical paperwork, destroying Crown property, or getting herself fired. She’d started to suspect that this was all an elaborate prank on her from her group members. After all, she found herself the victim of an elaborate joke that threatened to ruin her sanity once and for all at least six times a year, but when she asked for their help with Evin, they’d simply informed her that they’d, of course, do as their group commander told them and left her to her own devices on the planning. Although, she supposed, that might have something to do with how intimidating they found Evin--for all that she thought he was a silly player at heart, with hair that flopped in his eyes and a propensity for wild and poorly-thought out gestures of affection for his friends, she had to wonder if he seemed quite so non-threatening to the brand new Riders who had spent a summer watching him wage a unique brand of psychological warfare that might have scared even Sarge, although he’d never admit it.

As she sat on his desk, kicking her feet against one drawer while she lazed back on her hands against some reports, she wondered if she’d gone too far. Certainly, Kitten had thought the ice slide was a grand idea, but Kitten was a dragon, and a toddler, and Miri would never have trusted her opinion if she hadn’t been quite so desperate.

It took ages for Evin to return from his meeting with the queen. She’d checked his schedule carefully with one of the Rider clerks, and he was expected back by the fourth bell after lunch, but the fifth was rapidly approaching by the time she heard footsteps in the corridor leading to his office. She used one of the last moments she had as he turned a key in the latch to check that the door to the courtyard behind her was still fully shut, apparently locked, and snapped around to face front as he entered the room.

“You’re on my desk because...?” he asked by way of greeting.

“Because last time I sat in one of the chairs, and you failed to notice my presence for a full twenty minutes.”

He’d been nose-deep in a sheaf of papers when he’d come in, a brisk fall breeze blowing leaves in behind him from the courtyard, and he’d walked straight past her. She’d been entertained at first, but it took a kick to the shins under the desk, after she’d cleared her throat several times, to make him realize he was not alone.

“It wasn’t twenty minutes! It couldn’t have been more than five before you left a bruise so bad my leg throbbed for weeks!”

“Weeks? My sources tell me you were fully healed not three days later when you met Sera Gladstone behind the merchants’ day-stables.”

“How’d you hear about that one?” Evin demanded, a hint of awe in his voice.

“I have my sources,” she replied with a pert shrug and a grin.

“I’d commit murder for your sources, Miri. You still won’t turn spy for me?”

“Wherever would I find the time? My commander gets fussy if I don’t have my Riders fully trained and ready to move at his slightest whim,” she shot back. “I thought your side job was a secret from the Riders, anyway.”

“If I can keep it that way.” Evin rubbed his eyes hard, smudging a bit of ink on one temple and leaving his cheeks ruddy. “Sometimes I think I’m one more late night away from cracking and telling the whole palace, just so George will kill me quick.”

“That bad?”

“That bad. I’ve got nearly ten daily reports to read and condense for George now, plus, you know, the actual war going on that Buri dumped me straight in the middle of, plus finding recruits for next spring when not a parent in the kingdom wants their child in military service, plus--”

Miri cut him off before he could get going. “Let’s take a walk then,” she said, perhaps a bit too quickly, with a prayer to the Trickster that he hadn’t noticed. 

“With what time?”

“With the time before dinner. You look like you need it.”

“It’s below freezing.”

“You love the cold.”

“And you hate it.”

Miri almost sighed before she caught herself. She wasn’t sure how she’d gotten herself in this mess, but there were three gallons of purple paint strung up above his door and Riders waiting with very precise instructions on the roof, so she figured she’d best get moving before something came crashing down.

“I’d brave the cold for you, sir,” she said, with her best, most casual eye roll. “My Commander requires a break, and I’m proud to be of service.” She took on some of his own airs in her reply. She’d discovered in their years of friendship that nothing amused him so much as her attempts to put on his Player airs, and she had a vested interest in getting him outside before the sparrows who had agreed to participate left for the page’s wing and their evening meal. 

He sighed as he pushed his chair back from his desk. “Well, let’s get this over with.”

“What?” Miri asked, doing her best to feign innocence. “Is a walk with your oldest friend that intolerable?”

“Miri, you have the worst poker face of anyone I’ve ever met. I’d actually like to rescind my earlier job offer, based solely on this performance. But if I’m going to get pranked, I’d at least like to make it quick so I can get at the reports you’re currently sitting on.”

His eyes darkened as he looked at the stack of papers beneath her, and he rubbed his eyes again. Close to him for the first time in more than two weeks, she noticed the dark circles under his eyes and the new wrinkles at their corners.

“You really are exhausted,” she commented, a twinge of sympathy turning into guilt in the pit of her stomach at the thought of the large quantities of bread dough waiting to cushion his fall at the foot of Kitten’s ice slide.

“I really am.” Evin was moving towards the door to the courtyard, steeling himself with a deep breath while he removed his tunic and folded it carefully on the chair behind his desk that Miri had avoided. 

The twinge of sympathy she’d felt was now a wave, engulfing her and threatening to make her do something she’d never have considered even a half-hour before: back down. 

“Wait! Maybe don’t...open that yet.” She hopped off his desk, wincing as several of the top papers follow her down. Evin paused, one hand on the door’s latch.

She looked around the room frantically for something long enough and found a poker, propped against the small fireplace in one wall. She grabbed it and leaped over the arm onto the chair where Evin’s tunic sat. She spared a quick giggle at his dramatic wince and then tapped the ceiling above her firmly, twice fast and three times slow. She counted to five and repeated the code for good measure--any good Rider plan, they’d been taught, has an out.

When she looked back down, Evin was smiling. There was a familiar glimmer of amusement in his eyes, one that had been missing for weeks. “What was going to happen?”

“Kitten had made an ice slide, and Johanssen and Norris are on the roof with some purple paint, and I had the bakers set dough at the bottom to cushion you, and, well, things escalate from there. The sparrows are probably gone by now, anyway, and I’m not sure that Onua ever set up the wooden horses, she looked so annoyed when I asked...”

Miri trailed off, as Evin started to laugh. She let out a chuckle or two herself as she watched him lose control in fits of giggles, relieved to find that her friend was still there, under the stress and paperwork.

“You’re going to be great at this, you know,” she commented casually, hoping he knew how much she meant the rare compliment.

“I hope you’re right,” he replied, wiping tears from the corner of his eyes as he caught his breath. “Anyway, could we actually go on a walk, now? I’d gotten rather excited to have an excuse to avoid my paperwork. I’ll even bathe in some of the purple paint, if it’ll make Spiderdeath respect your pranks, which are still absolutely terrible, by the way.”

“No purple paint necessary, but I do know the best spot in the night market for a good pasty, if you’re interested.”

Evin was nodding vigorously as he opened the door before he was promptly doused by several gallons of bright lavender paint. Miri groaned, realizing that her Riders must have rigged the buckets to the door and left for their own evening in the city.

Evin, though, was still smiling. “I’d still love a pasty, if you don’t mind the color,” he commented, holding a dripping arm out to her while he used the other hand to wipe his face.

Miri spared a moment’s thought for her clothes--she did like this shirt--but swallowed it as she took the offered arm and linked her elbow in his. After all, he seemed like he needed the night out.

[make-it-mavis]

Homesick (Entry #40)

(cw: discussion of addiction and relapse) ----------

02/02/88  8:04 PM

Hey.

Well. At this point, it feels like there is so much to say, yet so little… comparatively.

Most of this bedtime story has been rife with screaming arguments, hallucinations, and explosions. There will not be so much of those, moving forward. I could say that the day I blew up Felix’s apartment was a turning point for me. It was the first moment where I truly felt like I had taken a step towards moving on and… letting go of what I could. But it was not a sharp turn, nor was it a great, leaping bound. Things did not suddenly get easier. No, they were only difficult in a different way.

But they were different.

I could probably fill a completely separate notebook with the details of my journey through counselling since then. But that would be very boring to read and to write, so I will just give you the important bits to catch you up to speed. Stay with me, now. This is going to be a whole lot condensed into chewable pieces.

In counselling, we learned about the five stages of grief. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. Looking back, I can see how non-linear it was for me. I spent so long dancing around the first three. But after my amnesia was cured, I arrived at depression. Collapsed into it, really. 

Now, I’ve been depressed before. It was quite some time ago, before you and I even met. So I recognized what I was experiencing. But this time around, it was… more acute. Less existential, and more like an injury. I wasn’t lost inside my head. I knew exactly what I was sad about, and it was as real and tangible as any physical wound I had sustained before.

It was as if my very code had been pushed to the point of exhaustion and could not get back up. I spent most of my time on Felix’s couch, and most of that time was spent sleeping. I barely showered and I smelled like hell, but Felix still insisted on having tea and chatting at least once a day. He did almost all the talking, and I usually didn’t drink the tea, but he didn’t mind. He’d just drink it for me, and end up taking such frequent trips to the bathroom that I’d fall asleep again.

Given that I could barely make myself get up and walk around, going to counselling was more daunting than ever. November passed by without me taking notice, and it was maybe a week into December before I was able to make it there again. When I did, I told everyone what I’d done. What I’d remembered. And how I had been absent so long because I felt too depressed to come. Then, of course, they told me that the best time to come to counselling is when you don’t want to. I wanted to argue with that, but they were probably right. 

I very quickly came to understand why counselling was done in a group. At first, it felt like a punishment, like we all had to sit around and think about what we’d done. Or that there just weren’t enough counsellors for one-on-one therapy. It’s not even entirely just for empathizing with others’ similar experiences, or creating a sense of community. No, it’s something much more annoying than that.

A group will hold you accountable. They’ll make sure you’re participating and call you out when you’re not. I went into the counselling experience hoping I could just do the time and get out, but no one gets away with that in a group. You can’t just rip off the bandaid.

No, counselling is more like ripping off the bandaid, then digging into the wound with tweezers to pull out all the shrapnel, then stitching up the wound, and repeatedly changing the bandages to avoid infection. And then those stitches can sometimes come loose and you have to do them all over again.

It sucks. It hurts. But I won’t say it doesn’t work.

Anyway, around this point in the ‘story,’ I still hadn’t quite finished Step 4, with the ‘fearless moral inventory.’ I was still having trouble deciding just what to say. I had Felix be the audience to my venting one night. I explained to him my predicament: I had done many things that others would consider ‘bad’ or ‘immoral’ over the course of my life, far too many to count or to list. And a whole lot of them, I didn’t even feel bad for. Pranks, petty theft, and general snarkiness seemed harmless enough. I didn’t know what was worth adding to the list.

Felix suggested sticking to the big ones. What things did I consider not so harmless? What things were bad enough to make me lose sleep over? What did I really, truly regret?

I didn’t want to tell him. Those questions felt too prying. But, reminding myself that I was trying to make big changes, I eventually managed to name it all.

I felt bad for… assuming the worst of everyone. Especially anyone close to me. I felt bad for getting them all involved with my problems, and… refusing their help, but still somehow taking advantage of them. For making Felix worry that I was going to die, and for making Wreck-it feel responsible.

And Tapper. Just… in general, Tapper. Everything I’d done to him. Lying to him. Using him. Endangering his game. 

Endangering my game.

Threatening that one anonymous stranger for a hit of GC.

And getting you hooked on my Shield and Lift buffs… way back when.

I took Felix’s suggestion to write all that down, and whatever else I might have been feeling. It definitely helped me sort out my thoughts. It didn’t feel good. At all. In fact, it was hard to fight the idea that I was a lost cause, and that even before all this, I was not worth saving. But I pushed on regardless, because it felt like the only direction to move in.

As difficult as it had been, listing all that earned me Step 4, and after I recounted it all to the counselling group, I had Step 5, Integrity, under my belt.

Even though it was hard, I was doing well in the program. I really was, all things considered. I had made it farther than I thought possible at the beginning. But like I said… those stitches come loose sometimes. Recovery, like my grieving process, has not been linear. And after Step 5, some part of me felt stretched too far. Like my code once more remembered that I’m not the sort to lay myself open for others to see. Too many sprites had been given deeply personal pieces of my mind to take home with them. It was unnatural. It wasn’t right. It was not like me. I couldn’t piece together this new life with the life I knew before and have it make sense. I was trying to make meaningful changes, for sure, but suddenly, I felt like I didn’t recognize the sprite I’d become. I didn’t recognize my game or anyone in it. It was… eerie.

It put a panicked, defensive fight in me. I had to set things straight. I would not allow this strange, foreign life to continue until I did. So, for the first time in… longer than I had realized, I went back to my den in the woods. Just to be somewhere familiar and see if I could remember who I was.

It helped a little at first. I dug through all the junk I had amassed, each one connecting to some small memory from before this all happened. But then I found three things that were… a dangerous combo.

Your scarf and goggles… and the bottle of blue wine Tapper had given me at the memorial. Still unopened.

I was able to resist the wine. But I… didn’t exactly get rid of it, like I should have.

As for your old, burnt belongings...

I didn’t understand what I was doing at the time, or why. I get it now, I think. Writing my thoughts down had helped in Step 4, and my head was a twisted, tangled mess that I just had to sort out before I went insane. I needed to understand what I’d been through and how I got there. It’s just that I was only inspired to start writing once I saw your scarf and goggles again. Once they threw that angry, vicious anxiety through me and I was possessed by the overwhelming need to reach you from beyond the grave and tell you just what you had done to me.

So… I started writing this story. Or these letters, or... journals. You know.

Since then it’s been… well, incredibly therapeutic. And, just like I thought they would, the folks at counselling said that journaling is a very healthy coping mechanism. That’s what I called it, too. Journaling. I wanted to keep the fact that I was writing to you private. I was already revealing so much to them. I wanted to have just one thing I didn’t have to tell them.

I didn’t think it would have made a difference, anyway, and it didn’t. Not at first. I finished Step 6 just fine, which was Willingness. I was pretty willing to let go of my old bad habits in whatever way I could. Step 7 was harder for a few reasons, not the least of which being that my higher power is not sentient, and I could therefore not ask it for forgiveness, or to remove my character flaws. But I sort of earned Humility in a different way.

You see, I didn’t tell them I was writing to you, but I also... didn’t tell them about the wine. 

And thoughts of you had not mixed well with the temptation of substances in the past. So, around Christmas, I holed up in my den and… relapsed. It was nothing big, as far as relapses go. But I’m still not proud of it. 

I just wasn’t prepared for how hard it would be. My first Christmas without you.

Anyway… don’t worry. That didn’t put too big a snag in things. I told Felix, and I told everyone in counselling about it, and they all understood. A couple others actually had similar challenges. Many of us had someone to miss, and it was a hard time of year to miss somebody. I admitted to them that I sort of felt like I’d failed. But Clyde remarked that I showed humility by so willingly turning to the group for support, which had been hard for me at the start. I very easily could have tried to hide out of shame or a need to shoulder it alone. Maybe I couldn’t ask color for forgiveness, but in a way, I asked the group for it. 

I still sort of don’t understand it. But, hey. Whatever the ghost says.

In any case, I was able to let the mistake go and move forward, which… felt very freeing, now that I think of it. Since then, I’ve been counting the days I’ve spent completely sober, slowly racking them up like the most boring, most difficult sort of high score.

It’ll be forty today.

I’m forty days sober, and I just finished Step 9 a couple days ago. So… I guess I’m doing pretty well.

I’ve been writing a while, and this pen is nearly out of ink, but before I wrap this entry up, I really ought to tell you about Step 9, and what it brought about.

Step 8, for the record, is barely worth mentioning. It’s Love, which, y’know, gross. But it’s basically making a list of the sprites you’ve wronged, which I felt like I had done three times already. Step 9, then, Responsibility, is making amends with those sprites wherever possible.

I’m already well on my way with Felix. Tapper, well… I’ve done the best I can for now. I don’t even know who the sprite I threatened was, so there’s little I can do there. And you… are kind of hard to reach lately. So, the only possible option left was...

Wreck-it.

I’d known for quite some time that we were overdue for a chat. We hadn’t really talked at all since I’d come out of that coma, which meant we had been surviving on brief, awkward greetings and the smallest of small talk for a couple of months. We were not on bad terms, nor good terms. We just sort of existed in the same space, trying our best to just tolerate each other and to ignore the elephant in the room. And before all this, I would have been content to leave things that way forever if it meant I wouldn’t have to talk to him about our feelings.

I only managed to speak to him once the 12 Step Program gave me any idea of what to say, and the desire for things to stop being weird outweighed the awkwardness.

I caught him shortly after the arcade closed the other night, just as he was about to board the train to leave our game. Caught him quite off-guard too, apparently, given the way he jumped and tried to smooth his little yelp into a casual speaking voice.

Like this: “Ahh--!! Ahh! Ahh, Mavis, I, uh, didn’t see you there.”

Making someone jump always brings at least a bit of a smile to my face. “Hey there, uh… Ralph.”

The use of his name rather than his title already earned me a confused eyebrow quirk, but I saw it as setting the mood for the uncharacteristically intimate conversation we were about to have. It seemed effective, given how still he became, almost holding his breath in a nervous sort of curiosity.

“You, uh… going to Tapper’s?” I asked, trying to get him to relax a bit.

“Yep…” he said, rapping his fist against his leg slightly, like he does. “Do you… wanna come too, or..?”

I pressed my lips together, not quite smiling. “Nah. Still can’t go anywhere.”

“Oh-- oh-- yeah, of course. Wow. Stupid question,” he sighed, scratching the back of his neck. “That, uh, counselling thing still goin’ on, then? Or am I not allowed to ask?”

“It is,” I shrugged, shoving my hands in my pockets. “And… you are allowed. It’s actually more or less what I need to talk to you about.”

“...Really?” he asked cautiously. “Me? Why?”

I closed my eyes and let out a steady breath, sorting my thoughts for the hundredth time. “We probably should’ve talked sooner, it’s just that…” I opened my eyes and looked at him. “Well, I’ll say it outright. I’m supposed to talk to everyone I’ve wronged. And that includes you.”

He paused. Then he squinted. “Everyone?”

“Well,” I said flatly. “No. Just the ones I’ve done the dirtiest. The big deals.”

“And I really made that list for you? Me?”

I sighed with a slow blink, and cut to the chase. “Ralph, I heard everything you said to me when I was in that coma. Everything.”

“Oh,” he said, shifting his weight awkwardly, until the memory visibly returned to him and he stood rigid. “...Oh.”

“Yeah. Do you…” I struggled to maintain eye contact, “Do you… I mean, do you still actually blame yourself for anything that happened to me… after that night at Tapper’s?”

“Pfft,” he huffed, smiling joylessly. “C’mon. Ew. Did I say that?”

I stared.

He quickly gave in, folding his arms with a sigh. “...No. But that doesn’t mean I don’t feel bad about it. I wanted to help you. I did. I never would have dragged you out there if I’d known you’d… Well. Whatever. Bad Guys aren’t meant to help anybody. Lesson learned, yet again.”

“Yeah… sure. Except the thing is, you, uh… did help,” I said, and saw him perk up the tiniest bit. “You let me stay with you. Even though I was a thankless, entitled pain in the neck. You kept me company just because I didn’t want to be alone. I know you n’ I aren’t exactly bosom pals, and I know you’re a Bad Guy, but… I guess that just makes it even more of a damn decent thing to do.”

He seemed surprised by my words, even a bit shaken by them in some way, but still, his gaze fell away from me a bit. Seemed like he was no better at accepting genuine praise than I am.

Pushing on, I said, “And if you feel guilty right now because you actually wanted to cave in my skull the whole time, then, don’t. I’d have wanted to throw my ass to the curb, too, if I were you. I don’t blame you for pushing me out. I did at first, but I don’t anymore. I was already primed to spiral, Ralph. I was headed for rock bottom one way or another. Don’t blame yourself for what I did. That’s my fault, not yours.”

He looked at me again, a quiet sort of disbelief in his eyes, which was good, because I needed to look him in the eye for what I was about to say.

“Ralph, I’m sorry.”

At that, he seemed… put on the spot, almost. Like he had no idea how to react. He took a moment to think and to breathe, like everything had to sink in. I knew that he would be surprised, so I didn’t really react. I had gotten all of my weird, emotional words out. The hard part was over.

I watched him begin to scrutinize me, like there was some hidden trick behind my back. He even slowly walked in a circle around me, trying to figure me out. He found nothing, and I offered nothing.

“So…” he said, squinting at me sidelong, “you’re sayin’... you’re sorry. You. You, Make- it Mavis, high queen of the gremlins, are sorry.”

I knew he would do that. Make a huge, obnoxious deal out of it. “Yes,” I said plainly.

“For everything?”

“Yes,” I repeated, with just a twinge of annoyance.

“Everything.”

“Yes.”

Then he pointed at me, as if firing off his question quick-draw style: “Even for calling me a trash gorilla?”

“Hell no,” I recoiled a bit. “I’m a recovering addict, not a kiss-ass.”

That was the first time I saw him almost relieved that I’d sort of insulted him. He straightened up and folded his arms, the tension in his body visibly relaxing as he sized me up. He nodded the slightest bit. “Yeah, I know,” he said, “that was just a test to see if you’d actually lost your mind.”

“Oh, so this is the point where you question my sanity. Nothing in the past couple months has been all that unusual, then,” I said, sort of smirking.

“Nah,” he reluctantly mirrored my smile. “Home intrusion, explosions, tryin’ to conk Gene over the head with a wooden club -- all standard Mavis fare.”

That earned a snicker from me. “Don’t think he’s escaped my clutches just yet.”

“Yeah, in his dreams.”

A silence set in at that point. Both of our smiles slowly began to fade as the silence grew from content to awkward once again. I wasn’t sure what else to say, but Ralph looked like he was working on something, so I waited.

“So,” he eventually said, his tone more sober, “you… really mean all that, huh. What you said about… Y’know. That you’re sorry.”

I nodded. “Yeah, I do,” I said quietly.

“Wow,” he almost chuckled, and gave me a sort of smile that I’d otherwise never seen on his face. “Counselling’s sure done a number on you, huh?"

"Well," I shifted my weight, unsure how to respond. It was a strange truth, and it was even stranger hearing it from him. "That's the idea, anyway."

Ralph seemed pleasantly surprised by the whole encounter, but it was just about over. Some small part of him must have wanted to draw it out even longer, a sentiment that I'm sure came as puzzling to him.

Scratching his chest a bit, he said, "Yeah, well… maybe once you're free again, and if you're up for it, we could go for drinks at Tapper's again. Just rag on Gene like the old days. Or Felix, even. I'm sure he's drivin' you up the wall lately with all the fussing."

I clicked my tongue. "Not… for drinks, no. As amazingly depressing as it is to say, I don't drink anymore."

"Really?" He asked, just before lightly smacking himself in the head. "D'oh, of course you don't. Wow. Sorry. I don't know where my head's at today."

"S'okay," I shrugged. "But there's more than just drinks at Tapper's. We can still go. I'll just have snacks or something. Maybe some actual, real pretzels, unlike last time."

He tilted his head. "Last time…?"

Opting to not recount the embarrassing tale of my snack hallucinations from my last visit, I waved it off. "Nevermind. Anyway, this is all making the very big assumption that Tapper will even let me through the doors. Y'know… after everything."

Ralph frowned. "You miss him, huh."

My gaze fell to his feet. "Yeah," I muttered.

"Well, I'm just on my way to see him now," Ralph said, finally turning around to slowly squeeze himself into an undersized train car. "I'll let him know."

Just the thought of any sentiment of mine reaching Tapper sort of sprung a leak in my heart, and before I could think, I was talking, my voice trembling the tiniest bit.

"If-- If you're talking to him anyway," I said, stepping forward almost as if I would follow him, "could you tell him something more?"

Ralph seemed a little surprised by my emotion, but he nodded anyway. "Sure. What is it?"

"Tell him I'm-- I'm…" I sighed, and my shoulders fell heavy. "I'm... sorry. I was probably the worst to him, out of everyone. And I know I can't take any of that back. And if he never wants to see me again… I can accept that. But there's just one thing I really need him to know."

I swallowed. "He's the reason I even agreed to counselling in the first place."

"Really?" Ralph asked quietly.

I nodded, not quite looking his way, focusing all my energy on keeping it together. "Yeah. He… urged me to get help, and when I didn't, I… nearly got his game unplugged. I'm putting in the work now. I'm getting help. I'm getting clean, just like he said. I'm thirty-eight days sober. And it all started because I just… had to make it right. Doing right by him is what's kept me going through a lot of this."

I took a moment to breathe and rein in my unruly emotions, trying to consider just how much I really wanted to share with Ralph. I'm working on being vulnerable, but I've found that I can't rush it. Plus, I'm sure Ralph felt a little awkward on the receiving end. He just watched me, unsure of what to say, but a quiet sympathy still showed in his eyes.

"Just…" I cleared my throat, "just tell him I'm sorry… and thank him for me. Please."

He offered me a half-smile and a soft nod. "Okay. You got it."

At that point, the dinky little cord train began to slowly pull out of our tiny station, sort of squeaking with the effort of bearing Ralph's weight. I watched him go, feeling that hot embarrassment that follows a particularly personal share. The thought that Ralph was probably happy to see me being good to Tapper for once was both comforting and… kind of annoying.

After the train had moved a short distance away, I just about turned to leave, but Ralph's voice caught my attention.

"Oh, and Mavis?"

I looked to see him twisting awkwardly in his seat, calling back to me.

"...Thanks."

That just made my face feel a little bit hotter, but I gave a small smile and flicked a casual salute his way. "Don't mention it," I called back, and waited until the train disappeared into the dark mouth of the tunnel before adding quietly, "...ever."

After that, for the first little while, my evening carried on just about the same as ever. I wound up in Felix's apartment for the usual tea and chats. I played my guitar for a while, and Felix listened happily until the tea was all brewed, and we sat on the couch while he told me about his day. I talked a bit too, but I didn't tell him about my conversation with Ralph. I wanted some light chatter about nothing in particular, a break from the heavy topics that run so rampant for me lately. I even wanted a bit of tea. I still maintain that chamomile tastes like soap, but peppermint is actually pretty good with a hefty scoop of sugar.

It was a couple hours into our visit that the most unusual, most… amazing thing happened.

I had given in to the primal need to lie flat on the floor as I often do, and Felix was sitting at the table polishing his medals when we heard footsteps in the hall. Huge, heavy, thumping footsteps. We glanced at each other for just a minute before we both nearly leapt out of our pixels from the front door being knocked off its hinges.

Through the open, splintered door frame, there stood Ralph, eyes wide. Instantly, his face filled with apologetic embarrassment.

"Woops," he chuckled nervously. "Sorry."

I sat up, and Felix walked over to the door with a bit of an exasperated sigh. "That's alright, Ralph," he assured, easily repairing the door with his hammer and holding it open anyway. "It's polite of you to knock."

My heart began to settle from the frightful shock it suffered, but I was sort of wary to see Ralph again so soon after our last conversation. I didn't know what more he could want, but I didn't feel the emotional energy to deal with whatever it was. I stood and walked over to the door to meet him. He had to twist down a bit to see through the doorway, and his awkward stance was punctuated with a nervous grin.

"Hey-- Hey Mavis," he said.

"Ralph," I grit my teeth just a bit, more from discomfort than anger. I let my eyes dart to Felix just a bit, hoping to signal to Ralph that now was not the time. "...Hi. What… what's up?"

"Uh, well…" he sucked his teeth, "could you step out here for a sec?"

"Why?"

"So I don't have to stand like this."

That was fair. I obliged, and nodded to Felix to give us some privacy. After he closed the door, I immediately whispered to Ralph, "Okay, now what's so urgent?"

Even though he didn't have to bend over anymore, Ralph still had to bow his head to fit under the relatively low ceiling. He put out his hands just a bit to urge me to be calm.

"Look, I'm not here to bug you," he said, and lowered his voice when I shushed him. "I'm just here to make a delivery."

I squinted at him sidelong. "Of what?"

"Well, a message, for one," he shrugged, smiling a little bit. "I talked to Tapper for you, like you asked. And he wanted me to tell you something."

I straightened up, and my heart sort of skipped a beat. "...Oh. What did he say?"

"A couple things. He's, uh… well, he's real happy to hear you're getting help. He wants to congratulate you for that. You've got his full support, he said. It meant a lot to hear that you've been doing well, because you've been on his mind. He thinks about you all the time."

I didn't know what to say or how to react. It was a lot to take in. I had sort of made my peace with him hating me after everything I did, so to hear that he still cared about me was… a relief so acute that it sort of broke my heart. 

I barely had time to process it all before Ralph revealed the true hard-hitter.

"In fact, uh," he said, "he'd been thinking of you so much that he… made something for you. He told me to give it to you right away, because… I dunno, he said you seemed ready for it."

Then he reached into the chest of his overalls and pulled out a square picture frame. I was confused at first, but once he handed it to me and I saw what it was, my heart stopped.

Inside the frame were napkins from his bar. Four of them, arranged in a neat square. And on those napkins were… drawings. Two of them were clear, loving depictions of you that I didn't even remember drawing. And on the other two were doodles that you and I had done together. Unflattering, playful caricatures of each other. Our drawing styles could not have been more different -- mine being fluid and organic and yours being clean-cut contour line drawings, but somehow, they worked so well together. The fragile paper was slightly ripped in places from the pens we used, and there were small sections where the ink bled from mug-shaped rings of moisture. All in all, it was a chaotic, dirty mess.

It was us. 

It was us at our very happiest moments, just goofing off together, adoring each other without ever needing to say it.

It was the most beautiful gift I'd ever received.

Struck silent by a wall of emotion, I just held it and stared at it in utter disbelief. The fact that Tapper would have cared enough to save such simple things was more than I could comprehend. The drawings could have been years old by then, but still…

It wasn't until my tears fell and splashed against the frame that I even realized I'd been crying.

"Oh," Ralph whispered, a bit of panic in his voice. "Mavis. Crying. Uh-- I'm-- I'm sorry. I didn't want you to-- I'm--"

His hands hovered around me hesitantly, completely lost as to how to comfort me. But he didn't have to decide. I felt an urge and followed it immediately.

I just reached out and took one of his huge, square fingers in my hand, even though his heavy code burned a bit to touch. He froze, rightfully taken aback. I didn't explain. I just stepped a bit closer so that he would not have to reach out to me quite so far, hugged the frame to my chest with my other arm, and bowed my head while I wept silently. Ralph said nothing, but I felt his arm relax a bit once he accepted the situation.

Eventually, I pushed a few quivering words out. "Thank you," I muttered. I looked the gift over once again. "I… I can't believe this."

"So you like it?" he asked quietly.

I could only nod.

"I'll pass that on to Tapper, then," he sighed, but I could hear a smile in his voice. "Gee, I'm just a nine-foot-tall messenger boy, aren't I?"

"Thank-- thank you," I choked out again.

"Nah… it's nothin'," he shrugged.

I couldn't tear my eyes away from the gift in my hand. It was so perfect. It felt like everything I needed. Like it was the one thing that was missing in my road to recovery. That feeling in itself stood out to me, and I followed it through my mind. Apart from all the staggering sentimental value, there was something about Tapper's gesture that felt so empathetic, so validating, like he was acknowledging that I lost something wonderful, something worth mourning. It was the first thing anyone had given me, or the first thing anyone made at all, that honored your memory.

Then it hit me. The thing that was missing. The thing I would absolutely need if I had any hope of moving on.

I let go of Ralph's hand and burst through the door of Felix's apartment. He had gone back to polishing his medals, but he quite nearly dropped one when he saw the tears on my face.

"Mavy? What--"

I interrupted him, trying to keep up with my rush of clarity. "Felix," I said urgently, "I need your help. There's something I need from you. I know what I need."

He stood, approaching me with concern in his eyes.

"I need a funeral for Turbo," I said firmly. "A real one. It doesn't have to be big. In fact, it'll probably be just the three of us," I glanced back at Ralph, who was bending down once again, "but that'll be fine. It just needs to happen. Please."

I looked at Felix again, and his eyes were full of understanding, sympathy, and love.

"Then we'll do it," he said gently.

"Yeah," I heard Ralph say. "Count me in."

I choked out a single, grateful laugh. "Thank you."

We began planning right away.

It's happening tomorrow.

[mikeisthricedeceased]

You’re My Home

Catfish x OC

Part 1: Winds Change

Word Count: ~1.9k

Part 2  Part 3

A/N: This is an idea I’ve had for a bit, and it’s been a little easier to actually type out than the Mando fic I’ve been working on. It’s probably because I’m planning for this to be some sappy, smutty fun while the Mando fic is a bit more involved.

Edit: replaced some Spanish lines because I’m nowhere near fluent and have no way of knowing how well they actually translate

Summary: Frankie has had a rough year since the whole heist shit show. It’s been one bad thing after another, leaving him all alone in a dingy apartment and steadily slipping back into old habits. He’s more than a little surprised when a pretty stranger approaches him at a bar and coaxes him into having an actual conversation. Nita guides him into a whole new world that might be just what he needs.

(The last sentence of the summary is more of a hint to the series as a whole.)

~*~*~*~

Frankie sat alone at the bar, nursing his third beer of the night. He could’ve been drinking at his place for cheaper, but the empty apartment just served as a reminder of how alone he’d become in the past year. He’d been able to meet up with the guys a few times since the divorce, but they all had lives. Pope was always traveling to see Yovanna. Will and Benny had each other, even with how often they butted heads. He just had himself, and the few days that he got to spend with little Isabella. He and his ex technically had shared custody, but she kept their daughter most days, afraid of what could happen since he clearly still clung to old habits. He couldn’t really fault her for that, as much as it tore him apart.

He was trying. He really was. But, with all that had happened, it was just so easy to find himself sliding back into shit. And going out to drink on his own so he wouldn’t have to sit in an empty apartment where most of the boxes still sat unpacked because it wasn’t home didn’t come close to his worst night, but fuck, was it sad.

He pulled his hat off and dropped it onto the bar top, running his fingers through his too-long hair. He knew he looked just as much the mess that he felt.

~*~*~*~

“Oh, Boss.”

Nita raised an eyebrow, gaze flicking across the table. “Oh, Ryan,” she said, mimicking his sing-song tone.

He smirked, gesturing toward the bar. “You’re staring.”

“And?” she asked.

He scrunched his nose. “Little rough around the edges, don’t you think?”

Tiff nudged him with an elbow. “Careful, bucko, she’s paying for our drinks.”

Nita leaned back in her seat, crossing her arms with a small smile. “You should listen to her, pretty boy. You wanna insult my taste, you can buy your own shots.”

He held up his hands. “I didn’t mean anything by it. Just trying to bring you back to the table.”

She hummed, narrowing her eyes at him.

“Honest,” he insisted, a grin breaking through.

“You couldn’t kiss ass to save your life, could you?”

Tiff snorted at that and Ryan sighed, clasping his hands behind his head.

“I wouldn’t have the job you gave me if I could, Boss,” he said, giving a quick wink.

Nita rolled her eyes. “Switches exist. You can just go ask Jorge or Monique,” she waved a hand toward the small group of their coworkers on the dance floor. “At least they don’t insult their employer.” She jabbed a finger at him “And fair warning, I am wearing a belt that I’m not afraid to use.”

Ryan rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah.”

She slid off of her chair, straightening her shirt before grabbing her glass.

“Where are you going?” asked Tiff.

Nita held up what was left of her bushwacker. “Grabbing another one of these,” she said. A quick glance at the figure at the bar and she smiled back at Tiff. “And testing my luck.”

~*~*~*~

She appeared next to him, a hand on the back of the stool beside him.

“Hey, is it okay if I sit here?”

He looked over at her. A soft smile and warm eyes greeted him. “Yeah, it’s fine,” he told her, looking back down at his beer.

“Thanks.”

She set an almost empty glass on the bar and slid onto the seat.

The bartender came over immediately, a broad smile on his face. “Hey, boss. Need another one?” He tapped near her glass.

She nodded and jabbed a thumb over her shoulder. “And I think los idiotas in the back need another round, if you don’t mind.”

He pointed to her and grinned. “Claro.”

“Gracias, señor.”

Frankie glanced over at the woman beside him as she rested her elbows on the bar and looked up at the lone tv on the wall.

Her eyes flicked to him and he had the decency to feel embarrassed about being caught, face warming.

He cleared his throat and shifted in his seat a bit, offering a polite, if awkward, smile.

“Hi,” she said softly, gaze now fixed on him.

He sat up a little and met her eyes. “Hey.”

There was a beat of silence before she spoke again. “I’m sorry if this is too forward, but I really just came over here to talk to you,” she told him, lips pulling into a small smile.

His brows shot up. “Oh.”

The bartender breezed past, smoothly placing a new bushwacker in front of Nita before lifting a tray laden with tequila shots and small bowls of lime wedges.

“Just ‘oh’?” she asked, eyes alive with amusement.

Frankie found himself smiling back at her, even as he looked down sheepishly. “I guess I just wasn’t expecting that.”

She shrugged, stirring the chocolate syrup in her drink around. “I do like being unpredictable sometimes. Keeps things fun.”

He turned toward her a little more. “Does it? Probably makes planning a little hard.”

She wagged a finger. “That’s why I said sometimes. I have responsibilities that require forethought on occasion.”

“Like owning a bar?” he asked, gesturing around them.

She laughed, shaking her head. “I don’t, actually. This just happens to be one of my go-to places to bring out-of-towners and colleagues who want to get tipsy on my dime. Lorenzo there has seen me drag a few of my friends outside with the help of a bouncer,” she said, grinning at the bartender.

“¿Los idiotas?” Frankie asked, nodding to the group in the back.

Nita smiled into her drink. “A few of them, yeah.” She took a sip and set the glass down, turning in her seat a bit to look at them. “I’ll probably be doing that again tonight.”

“Someone has to make sure everyone gets home alright,” he reasoned.

She nodded in agreement, focusing back on him. “It’s honest work.”

He almost wanted her to stop looking at him like that. So warm, so inviting. It didn’t feel like the sort of thing that should be happening to him, especially with how life had been treating him recently. He couldn’t believe that he was actually managing to hold a conversation either. He’d been communicating almost exclusively through grunts and monosyllabic words for the past few months.

But, sitting there with her eyes on him, it just made the words a little easier.

“So, what do you do, if you don’t own a bar?” he asked before taking a sip of his beer.

She shifted, eyes sliding to her friends in the back again. “I own a few clubs. One of them is local, that’s where all of them work. There are a few more spread out across the States. I also have a business with an old friend of mine in New York.”

He nodded, eyes dancing over her face as she spoke. “A pretty successful business woman, then?”

She smiled. “Something like that. Being your own boss has its pros and cons.” She lightly bumped his arm with the back of her hand. “What about you?”

It felt like his chest was going to burst with that small touch. It finally clicked that this woman was really, honest to God flirting with him, and he might’ve been losing his mind about it.

“I’m a pilot. Been working some odd jobs recently, though, waiting for my recertification to go through.” He tried not to wince as he thought about it. “Some old buddies of mine have an MMA gig that I help out with sometimes. Adds a little bit of excitement to my weeknights.”

“Sounds like it would,” she said, a hint of a laugh in her voice. “They have some amateur kickboxing tournaments at the gym my business partner’s husband works at. Always a fun time.” She swirled the straw in her drink absently. “Do you fly commercially?”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Nah. Mostly private stuff. Helicopter tours or cargo transport.” 

“Ah, a chopper guy,” she said, pressing her lips together to hide a grin as she nodded.

He raised an eyebrow at her. “What? Do I seem like the kind of guy who wears a suit everyday?”

She bit the inside of her cheek lightly and ran a finger through the condensation on her glass. “You just seem like the kind of guy who’d look really good in one,” she said, tilting her head at him.

He blinked at her, mind going a little blank. He looked down, grinning like an idiot as he picked at the label on his beer. “I don’t— I don’t know about that.”

She waved a hand, her broad smile making his face hot. “Oh, you’d probably look great in all kinds of stuff. Gotta love a uniform.” She studied him as she lifted her drink. “You’d make a good cowboy, too.”

He let out a surprised laugh, a little louder than he’d meant to. “A cowboy?”

She sipped her drink, humming affirmatively, and gestured at his head as she narrowed her eyes. “I’m picturing the hat. It works for you.”

They just laughed for a moment, gazing at each other. At some point in the conversation, they’d both fully turned, each of them resting a single elbow on the bar as they faced one another.

Frankie sighed, lips still turned up in a smirk. “I’ll try to keep that in mind. In the meantime,” he grabbed his old ball cap off the bar and slipped it on, “I think I’ll stick with this.”

“That’s a good look, too,” she said, smiling softly with her chin in her palm.

“You think so?”

“It’s definitely working for me.”

He bit his lip. “Y’know, I feel like an ass, sitting here and getting compliments from a beautiful woman without coming up with a way to return them that won’t embarrass the shit out of me.”

She dropped the hand she’d been leaning on, letting the tips of her fingers brush where his elbow rested on the bar. “I think that one was pretty good.”

It took everything in him not to look down at her hand. “I’ll take your word for it.”

A hand appeared at her shoulder and they both turned to face the newcomer.

Tiff looked between them apologetically. “Sorry,” she said before directing a frown at Nita. “Matt’s had about six too many shots and he’s gonna break his neck trying to backflip off the stage.”

Nita gave a long-suffering sigh, pinching the space between her brows. “And that means that Ryan is two shots behind him and everyone needs to be taken home before more chaos starts.” She shook her head and set her glass back on the bar, gaze lingering on the clear condensation ring it had left on her jeans. “I’ll be back there in a second.”

Tiff scurried off and Nita met Frankie’s eyes again.

She offered a half-hearted shrug. “Idiotas.”

He chuckled softly, hoping that she couldn’t tell just how disappointed he was to see her go.

Her gaze shifted to something over his shoulder. “Lorenzo! Do you have a pen?” she called, making a writing gesture in the air.

Frankie could only watch as she thanked the bartender for the pen and pulled her wallet out of her back pocket.

“All I have are business cards,” she told him, biting her lip sheepishly. She slipped one out of her wallet and started writing across the back. Then, she was handing it to him. “This is my cell number. And I don’t think I ever got your name.”

He took the card in a daze. “It’s Frankie,” he said softly.

“Nita,” she said, gesturing to herself with one hand as she returned her wallet with the other. “Maybe we can do this again sometime, Frankie. Sin los idiotas.”

“Yeah, I’d like that.”

She offered him one last breathtaking smile. “Have a good night.”

“Night. And good luck with the carpool,” he said as she started walking away.

He heard her laugh.

He turned to face the bar again, a smile plastered across his face.

A few moments later, he saw some of her group walk out the door. A few stumbled. The woman who had brought an end to their conversation stopped to talk to the bartender before moving to hold the door open. Then, Nita was half-carrying, half-dragging a chattering man out of the bar, a bouncer following close behind.

Frankie chuckled to himself, shaking his head. It was probably time for him to head out, too. The beer in his hand was beyond lukewarm and it wasn’t going to help him feel any better than he already did.

He waved down the bartender as he reached for his own wallet, carefully tucking Nita’s business card away before thumbing through his cash.

“How much?” he asked.

Lorenzo shook his head, holding up a hand. “You’re covered.”

His brow furrowed in confusion. “What?”

“Boss took care of it,” said the bartender, nodding to the door and offering him a shrug.

“Oh.” Frankie let that process as he slowly put his wallet away. “Gracias, señor.”

He felt a little light-headed as he made his way out of the bar. So much had happened so quickly. He’d started the night determined to wallow in self pity, only to end it with a warm feeling in his chest and the promise of a date in the near future.

~*~*~*~

If anyone wants to be tagged, send me a message and I’ll add you!

Taglist: @zeldasayer @tarrevizslas

~ Mike