#that name is very much subject to change though once I get to fully fleshing it out

[the-city-kitty]

Jeez a part of me really wants to get ambitious with a drawing of Leo for an AU I’m noodling around with but it’s really ambitious and complicated what I have in mind and the more rational part of me is saying: maybe you should learn how to draw Leo the normal way first before you try to draw him all weird and floaty and semi-dismembered (no gore… I think), which ya know, fair. But I also can’t stop thinking about the AU

[helliontherapscallion]

Unexpected Encounters (Adrenaline Junkie Part 8)

Part 1     Part 2     Part 3     Part 4     Part 5     Part 6     Part 7     Part 9     Part 10     Part 11     Part 12     Part 13     Part 14     Part 15     Part 16     Part 17

Spotify Playlist (collaborative)

Warnings: minor swearing

Word count: 2,775

You walked down the now worn cobblestone path towards the main plaza of the village by Philza’s house. Whistling the first verse of the L’manberg national anthem, you wove slightly at the crowd of people gathered at the stands that littered the sides of the street. 

The village was much larger than the entire L’manberg nation. It had several different precincts with a large, diverse group of people and a few hybrids living there. It also had more amenities like shops, a library (which, to your delight, grew expansively to include more books on inventions, some being exclusively about yours. They were proud people that embraced whatever fame comes out of the area), and multiple towering office buildings.

Everything’s changed since you’ve last been here a year ago. What was now more modern used to be traditional. What was loosely populated was now bustling with people. What used to be barren was now chock full of shops and apartment complexes. It was kind of jarring to see this much change in a little over a year.

In retrospect, it was jarring how much you changed in a little over a year. The hallucinations have finally almost completely stopped along with the nightmares. They only came about once a week now. You were slowly reincorporating green back into your wardrobe. Your phantom pain has retreated into your subconscious. It was always going to be with you, so you got used to the constant pain and tingling feeling. You learned to appreciate the small things in life and just live in the moment so you would have something positive to look back on in the future.

You invented several different gadgets to help your brothers win the L’manberg War of Independence such as a portable TNT launcher, handheld long-distance communication devices (which you affectionately dubbed walkie talkies since you could walk and talk! Wilbur and Tommy were not as enthusiastic of the name as you were), and a redstone powered crossbow that continuously fired arrows until you released the trigger. Though all of your inventions were practically your babies, they did not come anywhere close to trumping your magnum opus: your metal fully functioning wing. 

After several mishaps and failed attempts, you finally made your wing correspond to the electrical impulses in your muscles so that it copied the movements of your flesh wing. It’s built out of a lightweight hollow iron and has feather shaped metal pieces protruding off from it to emulate your other wing. It was a sleek silver color that always caught a ray of sunshine and reflected it to another place. It was basically permanently attached to your body by now due to it being a pain to take on and off. It was just easier and more efficient to keep it on constantly. 

People around you stared, some in awe and some in admiration. A stark difference from when you first lost your wing. Sometimes, you resented them for treating you differently just because your name became more widely known, but you were always a firm believer that everyone deserves a second chance. Even attention seeking, unscrupulous assholes looking for cheap brownie points from their peers because ‘I knew them before they were discovered! I knew them personally, we were, like, really close!’ So for now, you tried to ignore the ugly indignation bubbling in your gut and threatening to spew out in a string of hurtful words. You were sick of being angry, especially now that L’manberg is at peace. 

You passed several people who pointed at you and whispered amongst themselves. Ignoring them, you continued onward with your head held high and your wings folded in tightly to avoid children grabbing and pulling them with their grubby little hands. It always took you a while to clean and preen them after people touched them. You hated cleaning off fingerprints and grime from the smooth metal.

Walking with a sense of purpose, you continued onwards passing multiple shops and stands until you finally reached the butcher. Opening the decorated glass door, a little bell chimed alerting the burly man behind the counter of your presence. Like the others, he stared wide-eyed at you with his lips slightly parted in shock. Great, another exhausting encounter. 

Putting on a polite smile, you broke the silence of the meat shop. “Hello, I’m here to buy half a pound of fresh ground beef. Would you by chance have any in stock?” That seemed to snap him out of his stupor.

“O-of course, I’ll get that for you right away.”

He disappeared into the backroom where frosty fog rolled out in tiny clouds. Maybe this wasn’t going to be so bad after all. Maybe he wouldn’t ask any questions or try to get to know you on a personal level.

He returned in a hurry, slapping the wrapped beef onto the counter and giving you a price. Reaching into your wallet for the cash, you paid him generously. “Keep the change.”

“I-thank you, Mx. Minecraft.”

Putting the beef into your satchel, you gave him a more genuine smile. “Don’t mention it.”

Briskly walking out, you made a beeline for the village’s main entrance. You couldn’t stand the feeling of constantly being watched and talked about anymore. Why couldn’t they treat you like a normal person? In your opinion, you were, well, you. Nothing was special about you.

As you were about to cross the threshold of the village, you heard footsteps behind you.

“HEY! MX. MINECRAFT I NEED TO TALK TO YOU.”

Stopping dead in your tracks, you closed your eyes and took a few steadying breaths so that you wouldn’t lash out at this person. You just wanted to go to your childhood home and have a nice, peaceful dinner with your dad. Was that too much to ask? 

Opening your eyes and plastering on a fake smile, you turned around and greeted him. He was a young boy, probably around eleven or twelve years old. His clothes and shaggy auburn hair were disheveled and he had dirt smeared on his face. “Hello, to whom may I owe the pleasure?”

He put his hands on his knees and tried to talk between gasping breaths. “Mx, my name’s Arthur Fox, i-it’s truly an honor to meet you. I’ve admired your work since before the war in L’manberg. You’re an amazing inventor and I wanna be just like you when I grow up. I- oooh I’m sorry, I’m rambling aren’t I?” He kind of reminded you of Tubbo in a strange way.

“No, you’re fine Arthur. Thank you for being a fan of my work, but I must get going. I have an important meeting to attend to.” You weren’t exactly lying to the young boy. Turning on your heel, you started to walk off only to feel a hand on your arm.

“Mx, I need to talk to you.”

“I really have to get going, Arthur. It was a pleasure to meet you.”

“No, it’s important.”

You struggled to keep the smile on your face as you shrugged his arm off as politely as you could. This kid is determined. Too determined. “So’s my meeting. I have to go.” You started to walk off into the beaten forest path.

“Do you know about The Warden?”

You halted abruptly and sharply turned around. You let your smile and polite stature drop into pursed lips and sharp eyes.

“...Of course I do. Everyone does.”

Flinching slightly, he quickly recovered his confident facade. “No, that’s not what I meant. Do you know about The Warden?”

“Like I said,” you played stupid, “everybody does. Who doesn’t?”

He puffed his cheeks out in frustration. “Ugh, how could someone so smart be so stupid at the same time? I mean you met it didn’t you? It took your wing.”

You took a step forward and narrowed your eyes, fully facing him now. “How do you know about that? Who told you?” 

He stepped back. “I-I heard rumors a couple of years back that it got someone. I heard your name thrown around here and there.”

You gave him enough of a warning that you didn’t want to talk, but he ignored it and now he has to reap the consequences. At this point, you were so tired and drained from everyone trying to be buddy-buddy with you that you finally snapped. The only thing you wanted was to go home, you did not need this right now. 

“Well, Arthur, you shouldn’t pry into other people’s business. I’ve told you time and time again that I have to leave, yet you persist to stop me. Why? And where are your parents, didn’t they teach you any manners?”

He looked downwards and fiddled with his fingers. “They’re dead. T-The Warden took someone important to me. I… I thought you might be able to help me.”

Shit, you just yelled at a grieving orphan. You were a massive asshole weren’t you? Your eyes softened slightly and you frowned. “...I’m sorry for your loss. Is there anything I could do to make it up to you? Dinner perhaps? We can talk about how I could help you afterwards.”

He glanced up at you. “But-but what about your meeting.”

You winced. “Uh, I’m moving it forward, we have more pressing matters.” You paused awkwardly. “Do… Do you have anybody to ask permission? Any siblings?”

His shoulders drooped. “...No. I’m all by myself.”

Shit, you yelled at a grieving homeless orphan? God what kind of role model were you? 

“C’mon, kid. We’re going to my house.” 

His wordlessly followed you and avoided looking into your eyes. The walk to your childhood home was very awkward, neither of you attempted starting conversation. You sighed.

“Look, Arthur I’m sorry for yelling at you like that. That was really uncalled for, I shouldn’t have yelled or gotten mad. It’s just that- The Warden’s a… touchy subject for me.”

“It’s alright, Mx. Minecraft. You can make it up to me by… making me dinner and showing me some of your blueprints?”

He looked up to you with hope filled, sparkling eyes. You snorted. “It’s a deal, kid. We’re almost there.” 

You could see the silhouette of the house in the nearly setting sun. It was still the same as when you left a year ago. 

“Ya know,” you sighed out, “this is actually my Dad’s house. I’m just visiting him for a couple of weeks.”

“Where do you live then?”

“I live in the heart of L’manberg with my brothers.”

“That’s cool…” He trailed off. You frowned, it seems that he was nervous to meet your Dad. You probably should’ve mentioned that Philza was there to him before taking him here.

You stopped, grabbing Arthur’s shoulders. “Kid, you don’t have to worry about meeting my dad. He’s probably the kindest, most genuine man I’ve ever met. He’ll welcome you with open arms, that’s what he did with me and my three brothers. He adopted us all.”

He gave you a small smile. “Alright, Mx. Minecraft, I trust you.”

“Oh, please don’t call me ‘Mx. Minecraft’, it makes me feel ancient,” you lolled your head back and dramatically groaned out, making him giggle. “I just turned twenty, buddy. Feel free to call me (y/n).”

 Putting your hand on his shoulder, you led him to the front door. You twisted the old door knob and pushed the wooden door open.

“Dad, I’m home and I brought the beef!”

He popped his head out from the kitchen, his messy blond hair flopping onto his face. He gave you a joking smile. “Took you long enough, any longer and I would’ve locked ya out.” 

You watched as his eyes wandered over to Arthur. He frowned, revealing his frilly pink apron that Wilbur got him as a joke. Oh, you could just hear the gears in his head churning.

“...(Y/n), who’s this?”

Grinning sheepishly, you replied. “Dad, this is Arthur Fox. Arthur, this is my dad Philza Minecraft. I promised him dinner and somewhere to stay for the night. Do you have some of Tommy’s old clothes Artie could borrow for the night?”

He sighed, shooting you a we’ll-talk-about-this-later look. “Yes, they’re in the attic. I’ll grab them after dinner so he could shower before going to bed.”

Arthur timidly spoke up. “Thank you, Mr. Minecraft.”

Your dad softened and gave him a gentle smile. “It’s no problem, Arthur. And please, call me Philza. Mr. Minecraft makes me feel old.”

Arthur let out a loud laugh. Despite everything he went through, his laugh still sounds like an innocent child’s laugh. You chuckled, kids always had a silly little laugh. Philza grinned at him, a child’s laughter was something that he missed.

Arthur wiped at his eyes as his laughter died down. “I’m sorry, (y/n) said the same outside.”

“I did,” you smiled lightly at Arthur before looking back at Philza with mischief, standing up straight and putting your hands on your hips. “But I was funnier.”

“Pft, you wish. I was saying that before you were even born. So, I win because I’ve been saying it longer.”

“Whatever ya say, old man. Funniness over age.”

He playfully glared at you, placing an offended hand over his heart. “I’m not that old.”

“Ya kinda are, Dad. You’re practically turning to dust!”

He gasped. “I am not!”

“Are too!”

“Am not!”

“Are too!”

“Are too!”

“Am no- wait Dad, that’s cheating!”

“You still said it though!” He sang out, grinning at you cheekily.

“No, that doesn’t count!”

Arthur’s amused brown eyes bounced between you and Philza like he was watching a tennis match. Every so often, he would giggle at something one of you said. You both took your banter to the kitchen where you and Philza started to cook. Dinner was done and the table was set in no time. There was pleasant small talk as dinner neared an end

Your dad swallowed his last bite of beef and turned his attention towards Arthur. “So Arthur, how old are you?”

Arthur gave a small grin. “I’m ten.”

“Do your paren-”

You loudly coughed, throwing a discreet glare at Philza. Mouthing ‘don’t’ from behind your hand, you took a big sip of your water and stood up. “I’ll wash all the dishes. Arthur, would you like to look at some of my blueprints while we wait for my Dad to get you some clothes?”

His eyes shined with excitement. “Yes please!”

You chuckled, putting the plates in the sink and walking down to your old workshop to grab one of the blueprints you left in a filing cabinet. You grabbed the first draft for your prosthetic and the final draft for the automatic farm.

Upstairs, you situated the blueprints in front of Arthur at the dinner table. “Okay buddy, learn to your heart’s content. I’m gonna do the dishes. If you need something just give me a shout.”

Walking into the kitchen, you filled the sink with warm soapy water and got started scrubbing. You moved your wings around subconsciously as you wiped the pots and plates clean of grease. Humming in satisfaction when you were done, you dried your hands and sat next to Arthur who was looking at your designs with complete awe. 

“You like them?”

He nodded his head so fast you thought it might fall off and started to fling questions at you. You smiled fondly at him, it was nice to see someone so interested in how your inventions were made and not just how they worked. 

You two were mid conversation when Philza walked into the room with a bundle of clothes in his arms. You grabbed Arthur’s hand and led him up to the bathroom. You bent down and rested your hands on your knees, looking at him.

“Alright buddy, everything you need is in there, clean towels are in the closet. When you’re done, I’ll be in my room just over there,” you pointed to your door. “Last door on the left. I can show you where you’ll be sleeping for the night when you’re done. Does that sound okay?”

He gave you a gap-toothed smile. “Yes, thank you (y/n)! You’re the best!”

He closed the bathroom door and you stood there. You felt… oddly fond for the boy you just met only hours before. 

Philza cleared his throat and pinned you to the wall with a stern look. “(Y/n), explain now.”

“I will, but let’s talk in my room so Arthur can shower in peace. Poor boy needs it.”

He sighed and walked into your room. You had a long talk ahead of you.

(A/N): so, how do you guys like Arthur?

Taglist (comment if you want to be added):

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[theladyismyshepard]

37 kill for Daniela the red head, She kills one of the servents because of jealousy but the maiden is into it?? Maybe kinda nsfw

Sorry for the wait, my friend

I Always Feel Like Somebody’s Watching Me (NSFW)

TW: Violence

The sun was beating down on your back as you tended to the garden that you grew in the back courtyard. You had appealed to the Dimitrescus the benefits of planting your own vegetables and fruits and possibly the occasional pretty flower here or there. The Lady seemed uninterested in the thought altogether, making it clear that her mind was reserved for more stimulating subjects. Bela seemed halfhearted with her thoughtfulness, quickly zoning out. Cassandra had rolled her eyes and walked away after the word “garden”. Daniela was smiling though, her eyes glittery before she nodded along almost vehemently.

“I agree,” she said unabashed, ignoring her mother’s arched brow and Bela’s scoff. “Think of the ingredients we could grow ourselves instead of sending for delivery every other week.”

“Daniela, dear,” started Alcina, sighing almost exasperatedly, “Do you plan on going out and tending to this “garden”, hmm?”

You wanted to interject, it was the perfect moment to take responsibility for the care of the garden, and possibly even the grounds just to improve your worth around the castle. Yet, it required a lack in manners to interrupt a Lady when she’s speaking, and Alcina had a severe standard when it came to manners. And so you were forced to go with the smart move and bite your tongue as Daniela’s face dropped. That didn’t stop you from attempting to gain eye contact to give her a beseeching look.

“I’m sure we can find someone.” insisted Daniela, her eyes cutting to you before snapping back to her mother. “Someone very dependable,”

“I can do it,” you piped up, taking the opportunity, eyes dropping to the floor once Alcina’s gaze fell onto you.

“The question is will you,” drawled Alcina, eyes narrow as they looked you up and down. “As in, will I allow a human thing as yourself to control anything that is mine?”

You would have fell to your knees beneath the weight of the Lady’s attention had it not been for a certain redhead to stepped closer to you. You wanted to grab her hand, pull her close, wrap yourself around her for comfort, but you don’t. You never act on it, and she never dragged you to her bedroom cackling and giggling wildly as she did with other maids when she needed to get off. Though you were also the only one who didn’t emerge scarred and torn up.

“Of course, my Lady,” you conceded, bowing your head to show a sign of submission.

“Mother,” said Bela quietly, calmly interjecting, and waited until Alcina turned to address her. “I also think that a garden would be beneficial.”

Daniela had clapped happily when she realized her sister was aiding her in swaying their mother. Your eyes couldn’t settle between the three of the Dimitrescus. Alcina cocked her head to the side, adopting a fake look of thoughtfulness to cover how unimpressed she was.

“Oh, you do, darling?”

“Yes,” pressed Bela before her mother could continue on. “Imagine the access to ingredients for remedies to give the livestock. We could even grow foreign plants required for different potions!”

Fuck the fruits and vegetables, I guess.

And that was how the Lady was worn down and forced to give into her daughters desires. The garden didn’t necessarily consist of the produces that you originally planned for, but it got you out of the castle for extended points of time, and you weren’t complaining one bit. Castle Dimitrescu was a rather large estate, so there was plenty of room for the several varieties of roots, plants, and flowers that the Dimitrescus requested you take care of.

The heat of the sun had you pulling at the hem of your shirt to bring it up and wipe the sweat from your brow. The warm breeze hit you squarely on your exposed midsection, and you felt the dripping sweat drying grossly against your flesh. It felt as though eyes were upon you and when you let go of your shirt, ready to turn to check the windows of the castle, a person standing next to you nearly had you jumping out of your skin.

“Oh!” gasped the woman — a maid, “I’m sorry for scaring you.”

“It’s alright,” you assured, breathless and attempting to return your heart rate back to normal. “What’re you doing out here?”

Being outside was a luxury that none of the other maids could afford, so you were confused as to how this maid, Elle, had managed to avoid the lingering eyes that were everywhere. Her eyes averted as a slight blush came to her cheeks, and that’s when you saw the glass of water in her hand and your brain put two and two together. Oh.

“It’s hot today,” said Elle nonchalantly, even shrugging. “I figured you might need this.”

“Thank you,” you replied earnestly, grabbing the glass and taking greedy sips before you handed it back. “I appreciate it.”

“Well, I can’t have you fainting and bringing attention to yourself, now can I?” joked Elle, smiling bashfully.

You could’ve sworn that eyes were upon you, and you even went as far as to turn and check the windows, and while you thought you saw one of the curtains shifting, it also could’ve been a trick on your eyes. You furrowed your brow but turned back to Elle, who was looking at you expectantly, and for what, you weren’t sure. You smiled warmly.

“Thank you again, Elle, but I don’t want to hold you up any longer than I have.” You warned, making a face to emphasize, and she nodded in disappointment but reached forward to squeeze your hand.

“Stay safe,” she said, the maids’ usual words of departure.

“Stay safe,”

Eyes were watching you, but you couldn’t see from where, and that was the most dangerous predator: the one who hides before striking, and there was one predator who always had her watchful eye on you. Daniela. You gulped at the thought of Daniela catching another maid outside just to talk to you... no one, not even you were allowed to bend any of the rules, not even once... not when you were so easily replaced. Hopefully if you just went back to attending to the garden (rather stiffly), you could pretend that nothing would be amiss when you went back inside.

***

There was tension hanging in the air, thick enough to choke, and it had your spine as straight as a rod as you trudged through the pristine castle with your overall dirtiness, your shoes abandoned at the door. It was oddly quiet, and when the maids spotted you, they turned away quick, eyes wide with fright. Every step you took towards any of them, the maids took about six or seven steps away from you. Castle Dimitrescu might’ve been weird, but that was a new one...

You gave up on making conversation and instead wandered off to find a clean uniform to change out of the more comfortable wear you wore to tend to the ingredients. There was the nagging feeling that something was off in the air... Where were the Lady’s daughters? Their signature cackles failed to echo off the walls, and it left an uneasy silence in its wake. Now that you thought about it, you weren’t running into Elle either as you wandered deeper into the castle and found the maids’ quarters.

You quickly changed and made yourself presentable for your next task, and then you were again walking through the silent halls as you made your way to the kitchen. There was no real warmth to the kitchen, not when the stove had gone untouched for as long as you had been there. It wasn’t your place to question things around there, but you couldn’t help but to ask questions when you stepped inside and there was a silver platter with the cover still hiding what was underneath. What had you puzzled was the note that simply read your name propped right up against the cover.

You craned your neck when you felt eyes upon you yet again, but nobody was there... you knew better though and that’s what had needles prickling your skin and a cold sweat to break out. All that was missing was the giggling, but this really seemed like one of Daniela’s games she enjoyed playing. You turned back to the platter, and reached for the handle of the lid. After a shaky moment of building yourself up, you ripped the cover off like a bandaid, and froze, arm still raised.

Placed neatly upon the silver platter was Elle’s severed head. Her eyes were closed, and for that, you were grateful... you were too ashamed to look her in the eye seeing as this was all your fault. As your breathing hollowed out, that was when you finally heard a deep chuckle, one that had you going rigid... this wasn’t the Daniela that you had gotten used to, but it was one you were aware she could possess. Was she directing it towards you? You dropped the lid with a clatter.

“I didn’t like her very much.” said Daniela simply, and you gulped. “She liked you too much.”

You couldn’t miss the edge in her voice on the word. You finally blinked (your eyes suddenly burned) and looked away from the platter to connect eyes with the redhead. She wasn’t smiling and that was never a good sign. You forced a smile, one that you were scared was too obviously false.

“I didn’t like her either.” You choked out, fully turning your body away.

“You didn’t?” asked Daniela, her voice suddenly small and seeking reassurance, and you were struggling to keep up with her complete 180.

“Daniela...” You couldn’t say what you really wanted to... She was just bringing me water! “Why does it really matter to you so much?”

“Because you are mine!” She snapped, and you frowned.

“Doesn’t every maid here belong to you?” You countered, though you had to admit, you have more leeway than others did.

“They belong to the family, but you, you are mine, darling.” purred Daniela, stalking forward very slowly until she was before you. “No one else can even look at you the way I do.”

“But the other maids that you’ve...” You cringed, unwilling to finish, but Daniela picked up on what you were trying to say.

“I feed from them and that is all... Getting them a little scared makes the blood just a bit sweeter.” chuckled Daniela, and you frowned yet again.

“I thought you-”

“Slept with them?” Daniela drawled, now it was her turn to frown at you. “As tempting as it was, I think there’s one delicacy that I’m saving my pallet for.”

Her eyes roamed over your body with no holds barred, and you weren’t sure how you felt about the shiver that tingled down your spine. The fact that there was a severed head behind you was kinda throwing you for a loop. Daniela had her index finger and her middle finger tiptoeing up your arm until she was gingerly holding the side of your neck with obvious care. You gazed into her eyes and you were thoroughly entranced by the red headed beauty that would kill for you.

“Do you love me?” You whispered, almost afraid that what you were asking was a stupid question. Daniela’s face softened.

“I absolutely adore you, my love,” cooed Daniela, pulling you into a searing kiss that had your heart stuttering in your chest, and when the need for air had you pulling back, she already had her eyes open and watching you. “No one can take you away from me.”

Any sane person would hear the threat for what it really was, but there was nothing sane about the feelings she evoked from you just by being near you, even with Elle’s head served up right beside you. There was something about her possessiveness that could make you either feel very secured, or somewhat aroused, and you could hardly think of anything else but the fingers scratching at the hair at the base of your neck.

“I doubt anyone would be capable of taking me away from you.” You mused, and it was true. Bless the soul who tried to free you from the clutches of Daniela.

“Hm,” she hummed, her eyes narrowing thoughtfully as her eyes cut over every inch of your face. “Perhaps I should leave my mark for all to see?”

What surprised you the most was it seemed as though she was genuinely asking you. Her hand was still scratching the back of your neck, and her free hand reached up to rub soothing circles along your jugular with the pad of her thumb. Daniela’s compulsive attitude can lead her to doing whatever the hell she wanted without fear, but here she was, asking for your permission to drink from you. This redhead never failed to be full of surprises, and you found that you kinda liked that Daniela was so crazy for you.

“I belong to you,” You said quietly, unwilling to break the atmosphere that was enveloping the two of you, and you knew you said the right thing when her eyes shone with nothing but adoration and if you looked closer, love.

Daniela continued to cup the back of your neck with one hand, and used the other to hold you carefully by your shoulder, and she gently guided you to expose your throat just a bit more before she slowly bit into your throat. You gasped at the initial sting of your flesh giving way beneath the power of her teeth, but you allowed her to continue what she needed to do and permitted the subtle pull at your bloodstream. You felt the vibration of her own moan against your skin and it had you lightheaded.

“Daniela,” you groaned, feeling her teeth still inside of your skin with every syllable, and it also felt good when the hand on your shoulder rubbed down your arm and up your back.

“Does that feel good, darling?” pressed Daniela, unlatching just long enough to pull back and bat her eyelashes at you. “Do you love this as much as I do?”

Her tongue flattened against your bite mark, cleaning you of any trickling blood before she moved to the opposite side. She placed an open mouthed kiss there before she latched on once more, prompting your whole body to flinch within her grasp, but trust Daniela to hold on tight. It felt as though there would be a couple bruises by the time the next morning rolled around, but something told you that was a good thing to have within Castle Dimitrescu. It was like your own charm to ward off the evil that could lurk around the many hidden corridors.

You felt her pushing you back up against the table, and your foot brushed against the lid, causing it to scratch against the floor with an unflattering sound. The small of your back connected with the table, leaving you no more room to go backwards. Your hands flew to the edge as you used the table as support as Daniela basically leaned her full weight into you as she fed and marked you.

Your eyes flew open when she abruptly pulled away, her chin smeared with your blood and her eyes crazed with desire, but also soft with emotion and it was directed right at you. She never broke eye contact as she slowly dropped to her knees before you, and your breathing became irregular as she reached forward to push the end of your uniform up higher and higher until you had to shiver at how exposed you felt.

“Do you love me?” asked Daniela suddenly, bringing your wandering mind to a complete halt, and you looked down into her wide, almost innocent eyes as she stared earnestly up at you. “I never heard you say it to me.”

“I love you more than life itself,” You responded and you were surprised at just how honest it felt... You could die tomorrow and you’d have felt content enough to just allow it.

Daniela’s megawatt grin was so wide that you knew there was no way of it coming off anytime soon, not with the pure happiness radiating from it, and certainly not with the way it reached itself to her eyes. She giggled madly and soon it was the only indication of her because she disappeared beneath the skirt of your uniform and you jumped at the warm tongue that was persistent in searching your body. Your knuckles turned white as your grip on the table tightened and you lost yourself to the wetness of Daniela’s tongue on you, and you found that it was true...

No one could ever steal you away from the perfection that was Daniela. Not when she was the only one that could turn you on with a familiar severed head just inches away..

[shannygoatgruff]

Engendered

Genre: Pain and grief

Story Type: One-shot

Rating: M+18

Summary: Lagertha’s grief causes her to make a decision that may change things forever.

A/N:  I know it’s been a minute since I’ve posted anything. Truth is, I’ve hated everything I’ve done lately. But, I had a dream about this and just decided to write it. For some reason, I find writing internal conflict to be so much easier than fluff. 

As always thanks to @xbellaxcarolinax​ for being my beta reader. 

Engendered 

en·gen·dered / ənˈjendər·ed /  - verb; (of a father) beget (offspring).

“Be careful, Shieldmaiden Lagertha, Once Queen of Kattegat. Wishes granted by the gods are not always what we, in Midgard, seek.”

When the Seer had spoken those words all those many years ago, she had thought the old man crazy. Truth be told, the entire village thought him crazy, but none would admit it. He, with his blackened lips, fleshed-out eyes, and collection of potions and poultices that cluttered the small hut in the side of the hill that could scarcely be called a home. This hovel, with its animal bones hanging from the scaffolding like ornaments was hardly a dwelling fit for a pig, yet they had always flocked there to see him. 

She was no different from the rest of those who sought his visions. She needed him to tell her what the gods had in store, no matter the cost. The Seer’s readings were often so cryptic, they hardly could pass as law. Other than pondering the true meaning behind his words the price to pay for his company was relatively small.

What harm could come from licking his palm? Possibly the same harm that could come from enacting a ritual for the goddess many years past? 

Lagertha should have known better than to be so trusting, especially when galdr was involved. Nothing good had ever come from witchcraft, even if it was blessed by Freya, herself. She hadn’t been in her right mind. She was hurting and she needed him to hurt just as much.

When the new Queen of Kattegat had her first child, a son called Ubbe, Ragnar was overjoyed, and it crushed her even more.

She remembered seeing that sparkle in his eyes when their children were born. At Bjorn’s birth, the women of Frigga who had assisted with his delivery commented how beautiful he was and was destined to be a great warrior. When Gyda arrived, Ragnar announced that the goddess, herself, would be jealous of their daughter’s beauty. 

How proud both she and Ragnar had been.

Both times Lagertha had seen Ragnar’s eyes shine like the stars in Asgard. How she had looked forward to seeing that twinkle in those crystal blue eyes again with the birth of their third child. 

Their son, the boy that she would call Eluf, though he would never live to hear himself be called that name, looked so much like Bjorn. 

Eluf came too early. 

He proved to be the one thing their union could not overcome. His death would not make Ragnar stay. 

That is why she called him Eluf, if only in the confines of her heart. For he would always be her eternal heir, even if his father had forgotten the promises he  made to his family.

She tried to keep their family together. Oh, how she tried. The queen of Kattegat tried to save her marriage, much like she tried to save her stillborn son. She prayed to Freya and Frigga for strength and protection. She held onto everything she loved as tightly as she possibly could, suffocating Ragnar with her love with the same strength she used to clench her thighs together to ensure her precious Eluf stayed inside of her. 

But her grasp weakened and as he drew closer to Midgard, he tore her apart from the inside out. 

How much like his father the boy had been. 

Just as her precious son had pulled away from her, so had his father. Ragnar’s growing obsession with England made the promises of returning to the simple farm life they once shared a fantasy. How could a homestead with children ever again be enough for a man with such ambitions? 

Lagertha would swear that she could feel pieces of him tearing away from her every day. It was that tenacity that forbade him from being by her side when she needed him most. 

Secretly, she hated him for it.

Ragnar’s prophecy was told to him at their marriage that he would have many great sons. It was the idea of building such a home that kept them so in love and happy in their lives past. Lagertha had always assumed that she would be the bearer of those sons; the gods already blessing them with Bjorn. 

Never once did she imagine that she would have to endure the heartache of seeing Ragnar’s eyes dance with such pride over his sons born to another woman.  

Witnessing the birth of his first son born to a new wife was devastating, but then came another and another. With every healthy birth of Queen Aslaug, more of her died inside.

Why should this interloper take everything that was rightfully hers? 

This woman, this völva, had traveled to the former queen’s home and prospered from her pain. Lagertha had loved Ragnar from the very beginning, when they had nothing, were nothing. She had encouraged him, fought with him through his rise to power - buried two of his children, all to be replaced by this ... despot?

What right did they have to be happy? What right did Aslaug’s sons have to live when her beloved Eluf did not? The gods could not possibly be this cruel. 

It was her grief that made her do it - always going to the mound of earth in which her beloved Gyda and Eluf lay, desperately trying to make soft flowers grow in the frozen earth that covered their bones. No matter the strength of the frozen wind that whipped through the valley in the winter, or the smell of rotting wood from docked ships that rose from the lake in the spring, she was there, knelt at their marker whispering to her children. 

Lagertha just wanted a sign - some signal that the Valkyrie had taken their souls to Odin and been permitted to enter Valhalla on the merits of their ancestors. 

That’s how she knew that Freya had answered her prayers when the sedir had come to her at dusk that day. The rain had finally slowed, producing only a light drizzle and the smell of the earth was fresh. The soil that she had been running her hands over for hours, weeping and speaking to her children was soft in her hands. 

The hand on her shoulder was gentle and the voice in her ear was almost a whisper. She sounded like Freya, herself. The woman told her that Gyda was safe and was now enlisted as a Valkyrie. 

The witch with the voice of a goddess also told Lagertha of a way to see her son again and get revenge on those who scorned her. For so many years she had prayed for this. She had asked, no begged the gods for help in mending her broken heart and here Freya was answering her prayers. 

All she had to do was open the earth and remove the blood-stained rag of Eluf’s.

She also needed to retrieve a strand of hair of Aslaug, who was again with a child, sure to be Ragnar’s fourth son with this trespasser. Once she had those items, she was to burn them in an open flame and the goddess would do the rest. 

It could not have been more simple. The ground was already soft enough for digging and though it would break her heart to disturb the resting places of her babies, she would do it. If it would make the pain stop, she would do anything. Including being cordial with the queen and wishing her well on her fourth child. Sitting at the table with her and enjoying a meal, getting close enough to her to hug her and take a hair, would be easy. It would please Ragnar to see his two loves befriending each other. Lagertha could play that part.

And as the open flames grew hotter and the items were dropped inside, Lagertha closed her eyes and begged Freya to heed her prayers. 

That is when Queen Aslaug doubled over in pain, knowing that this pregnancy was unlike any other she had experienced.

********

“I understand everything perfectly. I want revenge.”

She had thought she saw glimpses of familiarity in his eyes before, but it was so fleeting that she dismissed it. Since the ritual in the woods, Lagertha hardly ever thought about Ragnar and his queen or his tribe of boys. Her son, Bjorn Ironside, had proven himself a mighty warrior, and she too had grown in reputation. She had taken over Hedeby. With so much to celebrate, she hardly had time to ponder on the absent Ragnar or his drunkard wife. 

Admittedly, there was a tiny bit of guilt when the youngest boy, Ivar, was born with twisted limbs. Lagertha knew how disappointed Ragnar had been knowing that he could never truly be Viking. The shame that must have put on his head. The same type of shame he should have felt for abandoning his first family. 

And the pain the queen had to deal with having a child that needed so much. Lagertha was sure it hardly matched the pain that she felt at losing not one but two children by the same man that she now called husband. Let alone not having that same husband not be there for the death of either of them.

The goddess had fulfilled her promise, no matter what the Seer warned.

Yet, there was something not quite right about the fourth boy. He had a dark presence - a brooding about him. Always sheltered, but always in pain. Not just physical pain, there was a pain behind his eyes. Lagertha saw it in the few interactions she’d had with him. 

It was not until that day that he slid across the floor of the Great Hall with all in attendance, while Queen Lagertha addressed her subjects, did she fully understand. 

Each time his knives stabbed into the wooden floor and he slid closer to her, his eyes became clearer. She had seen those eyes before. Not Ivar’s eyes, or even Ragnar’s, but someone else’s - an acquaintanceship with something behind them.

The boy, Ivar, perched himself on a stool and glared at her with such hatred. 

Eluf?

She stepped down.

Eluf?

She stepped down from her throne.

Eluf?

She stepped down from her throne and tried to speak calmly. 

Eluf?

She stepped down from her throne and tried to speak calmly, placing her hand on Ivar’s shoulder as if to touch her son through him. 

How was it that her son inhabited this boy’s body? Why was he speaking to her in such hateful tones? The words seeking revenge for the death of Aslaug were not Ivar’s, they were Eluf’s. She could tell by the cold, dead tone behind his eyes. 

She had seen it before. The quick flashes she thought she recognized between the vibrant deep blue of Ivar’s, to the murky pools buried deep within. Had those been the eyes of Eluf staring at her all that time? 

Surely, her baby boy wasn’t telling her that he wanted to kill her?

But he was. He did all the time. 

Eluf, her sweet baby, who never drew his own breath, breathed deeply through Ivar Ragnarsson. He wreaked havoc wherever he went. He was masterful and spiteful. He was brilliant and cruel. He was beautiful and destructive. 

Eluf brought about pain and death. 

This was not what the goddess promised. This was not what was supposed to happen. Ragnar was supposed to suffer the way that she suffered, she had not meant to suffer the whole world. Never did Lagertha mean to raise her boy from his peaceful death and reanimate him into the destroyer of Kattegat. 

Watching the flames lick the rooftops of the home just outside of the center of Kattegat, Lagertha could smell the rotting stench of the dead lying in the street, mixed with the burning tar and charred remains of her fellow countrymen. She thought back to how the Seer had warned her. 

Was that truly Freya that had spoken to her years ago, or Loki? What right did she have to ask the gods for revenge? She should have not interfered; just let them do their work with Ragnar’s fate.

All of this was her fault. All of this death was her fault. 

And to know that she would meet her death at the hands of one of his sons. But which one: Bjorn, Ubbe, Hvitserk, Ivar or Eluf? 

Oh Odin, what had she done?

******

“You are a god.” 

Legs dangling off of the back of the cart, Ivar watched as Kattegat grew smaller in the distance. 

The inexplicable anger in him had been sated for now. That inner voice, the one that made his heart pump faster and his jaw clench seemed to be at peace. He could rest; if only for a moment, he could rest. 

He knew this would not be the last time he saw his home, just like he knew no one would ever doubt him again.

Maybe this time, with the voice silenced he could find happiness. He thought he had found it with Freydis, but the voice grew louder than her most days. In the end, the voice was right. She was just like the rest, an obstacle in his way to greatness. She needed to be quieted. 

She had been right about one thing, he was a god. Not in the traditional sense, he now understood that. He had been engendered by the gods. Created by the seed of his father, in the womb of his mother and fused with Hel’s knowledge provided by his brother. 

He would go on to do many great things. Kattegat was just the beginning. 

The world would never forget Ivar the Boneless. 

His brother would always ensure that he would be ruthless. 

Fin.

@xbellaxcarolinax @youbloodymadgenius @zuxiezendler @peaceisadirtyword @peachyboneless @ivarthebloodyking @a-mess-of-fandoms @didiintheblog @we-are-only-halfway-home93 @conaionaru @flowers-in-your-hayr  @geekandbooknerd @inforapound @nukyster-blog​

[diochain]

Yooooo that wolf skull monster with the antlers coming out of John’s back looks awesome. Is that meant to be a shikigami? Do you mind if I ask what their technique is?

A JOHN ASK!! I'm so glad you think it looks cool sdkfjdsk I'll get into details about it in a sec! I’d love to talk about their witchcraft! :D prepare for an EXTREMELY LONG and in-depth post. The ghouls’ concepts are mostly fleshed out but what they actually do is still kinda unclear lmao

Though this is a long and relatively in-depth post, this is still subject to change, as I haven’t focused on it as much as I have other things since I created John!

John Lee-Tran (retconned name) possesses a bloodline witchcraft, or inherited technique, known as Five Ring Bestiary, from the Tran family. The chances of inheriting this witchcraft is actually extremely rare—the last user of it lived 193 years ago. Part of becoming a master of the technique is to be able to emulate the user's familiars without losing your own soul in the process. As the name implies, there can only be five “beasts” bound to the user at a time. They are ranked based on amount of cursed energy each is capable of using.

Once fully mastered, the user's appearance, manus and powers change depending on which familiar they have become the temporary vessel for. There are no written records on the full abilities of inheritors so, without any kind of norm or standards to adhere to, each user of this witchcraft uses it slightly differently.

John's unique usage of Five Ring Bestiary also summons the tamed ghouls to his side, making their fighting style very similar to that of Shikigami Users on a surface level at times. However, John specializes in only using parts of his body at a time as a vessel, allowing him to risk only fractions of himself while using the technique. “Bestial” is attached to the names of the ghouls bound to users of Five Ring Bestiary.

Her familiars are:

LURKER—Ring One

Summary

The Bestial Lurker seems to be some kind of swamp or marsh ghoul, originally birthed during the American Revolutionary War from the British during an attempt to travel from up a trade route in the New England Region (I’ll admit I forgot the name of this march, it’s real and historical, I just forgot lol). Sickness, death and grief that surrounded the marshes of New England, especially the mosquitoes, manifested into what became known as the Lurker. Covered in hair, possessing six legs and wings, the Lurker strangely specializes in stealth and long-term takedowns. If around for too long, people tend to get inexplicably sick, and can die.

Those with large amounts of cursed energy, though, should be fine, which was why it was rather perplexed by John. They were and are one of the only people on Earth who can actually resist the cursed plague that they give off, a symptom of the insects associated with the New England marshes.

Powers

The Bestial Lurker, when being emulated, is usually used in John’s arms or legs. This is because the Bestial Lurker adds a protective layer of sludge that can be thought of as an offensive defense. The longer someone is exposed to it, the more likely they are to be infected by the cursed plague. However, this includes John, so they don’t emulate the Bestial Lurker for very long. It does not provide much if any actual defense or physical boosts.

Physical changes include a sludge or opaque, viscous liquid to begin secreting from John’s skin. It attracts insects like mosquitoes or flies. Lurker is classified as the last-resort defense.

WENDIGO—Ring Two

Summary

Though called a wendigo, this familiar seems like a kind of bastard mix between both the wendigo and the Ojibwe pakàk, or baykok. They also frequently use weapons, sometimes made from the bones or cursed energy of those they have consumed. They eat humans to gain whatever cursed energy that person has, because that is all they can eat once they have “turned.” Skeletal and caked in old blood, the Bestial Wendigo was John's first familiar, having gained it when they were roughly 9. They have a deal: John will one day be killed and eaten by the Bestial Wendigo. Until then, the BW will remain subordinate to him. The BW makes regular attempts at John's life, but it seems an unlikely friendship has formed between the intelligent S-rank ghoul and S-rank witch.

Like its namesake, the BW feasts on humans—the more cursed energy, the more appetizing the human. Wendigos in the world of Salem are a class of ghouls that sustain themselves off human flesh. They are few in number globally but rather prominent in the northern region of the US and southern region of Canada. They are frequently cursed people or cursed ideas of people who were cannibals in life or legend. However, wendigo-class ghouls rarely have memory of who or what they may have been before cursed.

Powers

The BW, when being emulated by John, drastically weakens John’s bones but drastically increases his stamina, reaction speed, sense of smell, hearing, and taste. His ability to sense mana and manus also increases exponentially.

Physical changes include sharper teeth, slimmer arms, claw-like nails, black sclera, and ashen skin. This is mostly due to the fact that John only uses his upper body when emulating the BW.

The most notable techniques emulating the BW grants her is projectile slashes and ranged attacks that travel along the ground. BW is classified as the glass cannon. Despite this, it is still John’s most frequently used ghoul.

MOTHMAN—Ring Three

Summary

I don’t think I have to explain much about the background of Mothman. He’s pretty infamous in North America, but basically, in 1966, in West Virginia, there was a supposed sighting of a man-like figure with a 10-foot wingspan flying above a couple in the middle of the night. This creature became known as Mothman. Whether or not this creature existed before or after this supposed sighting, it became very powerful because of notoriety it began to hold. In only 50 years it became extremely well-known across the world, especially with the USA. It was one of John’s first missions as an AR to go check it out and he quickly tamed it. He refuses to explain the methods with which he did it, supposedly to preserve the ghoul’s ego—it is widely known Mothman has a massive ego.

Powers

The Bestial Mothman’s granted abilities have yet to be witnessed. This translates to what it does is so-far undecided lol.

TWIN BIRDS—Ring Four

Summary

An inseparable duo of birds based off the Rain Bird and Thunderbird, also a derivative of/bastardized reference to Fujin and Raijin of Japanese mythology, the Twin Birds came from a failed attempt to summon the Ring Five spirits. The two birds, which John named Hou and Yongun respectively. They were the most difficult to find, seeing as they required a summoning ritual, but the easiest to tame.

Overall, the concept of these two is the roughest and least finished.

Powers

The Twin Birds are ones John uses very infrequently because they must always be used together, and using both becomes somewhat pointless after a certain point when he has the 3 preceding Bestial ghouls. It’s not entirely certain what they do, but following the legends of the Rain and Thunderbirds, Hou heals and Yongun destroys.

ORIGIN OF ALL—Ring Five

Summary

The manifestation of the two creator gods of Vietnamese civilization, Lạc Long Quân and Âu Cơ—the dragon and the fairy. The summoning ritual comes with inheriting the technique, but is extremely difficult to pull off, and it is even more difficult to tame the two deities. This one requires a criteria of how pure one’s heart is, a fight, and then a judgement by the two deities. Ring Five will always already be reserved for these two. John did not have to fight alone for this battle, but did have to be the one to land the “final blow.” He cooperated with four others, the maximum amount, and was able to defeat the two gods, barely surviving the encounter. This battle happens only after Satoru Gojo’s encounter in Shibuya, when John realized they needed to step up their game.

It should be noted these incarnations of the gods are, in all reality, warped and false manifestations of the gods, as they are the perceptions of fearful humans.

Powers

Largely undecided, but decidedly overpowered. John needs to allot his body to them entirely in order to emulate them, however.

[ttttaehyungie]

a twist of fate | pjm x reader

a twist of fate | park jimin x reader oneshot

☘ genre | bff2l, soulmate au, fluff

☘ word count | 4k

☘ rating | PG-13

☘ summary | It was on one of those nights, sprawled lazily on the couch with the armrest as a pillow for your head, mindlessly scrolling through the threads as you speed-read them, that you first came across the term. Singular soulmates? It had you sitting up. Singular soulmates, put simply, was where someone may be your soulmate, but you’re not theirs.

☘ a/n | This fic was fueled by the recent return of my struggles with insomnia (but has, in turn, further fueled my insomnia as well...) and I just wanted to write some characters being dumb alrite HAHAH

The day your best friend’s name appears on your body was a day filled with panic for you. You still remember the immediate response your brain spat out the moment you saw the black letters of his name printed on your skin.

What the heck- NO.

It’s not that Jimin was unattractive- in character nor in looks. It’s just that, like every boy that age, he was obsessed with girls, entranced by any girl that so much as looked at him for more than two seconds. You couldn’t blame him. Being fourteen was just like that, or so you’ve heard. Being fourteen, pubescent and hormonal, people around you just magically became attractive, acne and brace-faces didn’t matter. Being fourteen, standing at the cusp of maturity and the newfound independence that it brought, but without possessing said maturity in its fullness yet, love and relationships were inevitably an exciting topic to navigate in all its sparkling novelty. Being fourteen, you knew that he didn’t really have feelings for you.

But now, at age twenty-two, his name still sits in its place under your collarbone. The cursive style of it has the starting letter of his name looping into the other remaining letters that resemble little waves with the way it’s strung together.

No one really knows all that much about soulmates, just that the mark appears after your soulmate falls in love with you. But as to how fleeting or how deep the feelings are, no one knows. Whether the mark fades along with the feelings is a mystery too. There’s little proper literature on the subject, and whatever you do know about the topic is the result of casually scrolling through reddit whenever you’re bored.

It was on one of those nights, sprawled lazily on the couch with the armrest as a pillow for your head, mindlessly scrolling through the threads as you speed-read them, that you first came across the term. Singular soulmates? It had you sitting up. Singular soulmates, put simply, was where someone may be your soulmate, but you’re not theirs.

You’d dismissed it away back then, writing it off as hogwash floating around on the internet where there’s no information gatekeeper.

Now? It’s become a real fear.

Because you’ve fallen in love with your best friend.

Har har, what a cheesy romance trope, you know. But what were you supposed to do when, during that Christmas break of your first year of college, you had the shocking revelation that Jimin had grown up.

You barely restrained yourself from gawking at the sight of your best friend walking down the street towards your rendezvous point. You’d gone off to different colleges, neither of them far from your hometown, but not close enough that it was convenient to see each other anytime. So you haven’t seen each other in four months. And apparently, in the time that you’d both gone not seeing each other, Jimin’s body had suddenly gained all this muscle in a lithe and toned kind of way. Studying contemporary dance full-time had really changed his body, his once lean and slender limbs now becoming sinewy and firm.

He’d really become a…

“...Hunk.”

“What?”

“Hug!”

You barrel into his arms, and his familiar musk eases you. It’s a strange sensation, feeling the ridges of his body where soft and pliant flesh used to be. But he rests his chin atop your head, and the gentle weight of it is still the same as ever.

“Did you miss me? Or are you just using me for my body warmth?”

Even though he’s changed physically, he’s still the same dork as ever, and it has you smiling both with mirth and with the assurance that he’s still the same Jimin despite the distance of four months between you.

“You’re probably the one using me for body warmth, Mr I’m too cool to wear a jacket to the movie theaters.”

“That was one time!”

It earns you a jab in your side that has you squeaking and writhing in his arms. Yup, some things stay the same.

It’s at your yearly Christmas get together with the gang that things start to go wrong.

Up to that point, you’d blamed the odd sensation on the initial surprise at Jimin’s change in physique. But now, looking at him in his black turtleneck and silver hair, standing by the fireplace and laughing with Tae, his eyes creased in laughter in that oh so familiar way, it has your heart squeezing in a very unfamiliar way.

It’s just because you haven’t seen him in a while and you’ve missed him, you rationalize, taking a sip of the drink in your hand.

Or it could be the alcohol. Yes, it must be the alcohol.

He’s still the same Jimin as ever, you muse, yet something about him just feels so… different. It’s like he’s grown up so much, even though he’s still retained his dorky rambunctious nature.

On the drive here, one arm on the wheel and the other on the backrest of your seat, and the setting sun behind his profile, you couldn’t help the way your heart leapt in your chest.

But maybe it’s just the golden hour sunshine that had him bathing in radiance.

Yet, you knew the view of him was just one thing. It was also in his aura. Leaving for college had forcibly hurled all of you into independence, and Jimin’s had left him becoming someone with a quiet hum of reliability.

Even his chronic tardiness had been left behind with high school Jimin. You’ve known Jimin since preschool and after all these years of knowing him, you’re well-accustomed to the pouty apologies that he doles out each time he’s late- which is always. When he’d offered to pick you up at your house at 5pm to drive you to Hobi’s, you’d fully expected to only have him swing by at 5.30. To your surprise, when you’d made your way downstairs at 5, you’d found him sitting in your living room chatting with your mum, as he apparently had been doing for the last 15 minutes.

Jimin notices your arrival and you don’t miss the quick once-over he gives you. But he doesn’t say anything about it as he gets up from the couch- the same couch he’d once stained from tripping and spilling chocolate milk all over way back in middle school- and promises your mum that he’d make sure you come back in one piece. When you got to his car, instead of the candy wrapper and crumbs-strewn car you were expecting, you were met with a surprisingly spotless interior instead. Your previous perception of your best friend- little brother to be taken care of at all times- was shattered with each new discovery that left only a sturdy and dependable version of him in its wake.

You go to take another sip of your drink, only to find that you’ve unknowingly emptied the cup while you were musing over your best friend’s recent transformation. Frowning into the cup, you decide to get a refill.

From the corner of his eye, Jimin spots you moving off the couch and it’s clear you’re heading to the kitchen where the drinks are. The flush of your face is a tell-tale sign of your tipsiness, if your quiet and withdrawn demeanor weren’t already a dead giveaway. He sighs and apologizes to Tae, cutting him off mid-sentence, and heads over to the kitchen after you.

You’re just about to gulp down more of Yoongi’s mulled wine when a hand wraps around yours, preventing the tilt of the cup and stopping you from ingesting any more of the inebriating liquid. A pair of stern eyes are trained on yours, and you wilt under his gaze, letting him take the glass from you.

But no. Your brain suddenly speaks through the fog. Thoughts of him have already plagued your mind all night, keeping you from having fun. But he’s not going to stop your fun any longer. You reach back for the glass, but it’s a weak attempt that’s easily countered as he pulls it away and out of your reach. He quirks an eyebrow at this.

“Stop controlling me,” you whine.

“I’m not,” he scoffs. “I just know you, and know that you won’t like missing the rest of this gathering just because you drank too much too fast.”

“But I’m fine!” Your voice comes out a little louder than you expected.

“Just slow down on the drinks, okay?” His tone is hushed as he attempts to placate you. “How many glasses has it been?”

“Not even that many.” Unlike him, you can’t be bothered to keep your exchange discreet. “Just give me the damn drink, Jimin!”

Unsurprisingly, your bickering has caught the attention of the others. Back in the living room, it’s Hoseok that has been badgered into playing peacemaker. He enters to see the two of you squabbling in his kitchen. But he also sees something else. Someone- most probably the instigator of all chaos in the group aka. Jin- has sneakily hung mistletoe above the drinks station, likely in hopes of catching two unsuspecting people as they got drinks together.

Which turns out to be you and Jimin.

Hoseok’s bright laughter cuts through the thick tension that has settled over the room. You look at him, only to find him pointing at something above your heads, and that’s when you finally look up and spot the mistletoe.

When you look back at Hoseok, the smirk that sits on his face is smug and unbudging.

“You gotta kiss now,” he sings in an equally smug tone.

“No,” you refuse. “No way.”

“Uh-uh, you know the tradition. You’re not escaping this.”

You shake your head adamantly.

“Kiss. Kiss. Kiss,” he goads. “C’moooon it’s just a peck.”

Jimin, who has stayed quiet up till now, finally speaks up. “Am I really that unappealing?”

He’s unreadable, wearing an expressionless mask.

“Okay, fine.” You’re unsure what his words mean, and it has you relenting, giving in to him as you so often do. “It’s just a kiss.”

You lean in, expecting just a chaste peck that will placate Hoseok. But you’re taken by surprise as Jimin cups your face, hand slightly cool on your cheek from your alcohol flush. The sensation is refreshing and you find yourself leaning into it slightly. His face hovers near yours, and the proximity has your heart pounding. Instinctively, your eyes flutter shut as he closes the final few millimetres between you. The kiss he lays on you is hesitant but the tenderness is undeniable, his plush lips nipping yours gently. He pulls back slowly and you can’t help the yearning that grows in tandem with the distance between you. Before you can say anything, he breaks eye contact and turns to Hoseok.

“There. Happy?”

Hoseok is nothing but pleased.

“Definitely.”

You’ve kissed. Jimin and you have just kissed. You kissed Jimin. Well, technically, he kissed you. You just stood there in shock the entire time. But the point is, Jimin, your best friend, and you kissed.

You spend the rest of the night by his side under his insistence that he keeps watch over you. He still refuses to let you drink a sip more. Not that you were putting up a fight anymore after what had just transpired.

At least your quietness for the rest of the night can be pinned on your tipsy state- you’re known to be a quiet drunk.

The rest of the way back home is spent mostly in silence too as you struggle to process what’s just happened. Even up to when you’re pulled up at your house and the engine is cut, you and Jimin merely exchange quiet goodnights.

The silence surrounding it persists till the next day. You’re hanging out in his room, watching a movie. You had said yes to the invitation to laze around in his room for the afternoon way before the unexpected events of the previous night. Even though the thought of seeing him had you antsy as hell, you couldn’t think of a good enough excuse to flake on him, so you dragged yourself over to his place.

It hadn’t been too bad when the movie was playing, you could just fake that you were watching the movie intently. But when it came to an end, so did your excuse for your unusual quietness. So here you are in his room, an empty bowl of what used to be popcorn and an incredibly awkward silence sitting between the two of you.

“Hey, ____,” he begins quietly.

“Hm?”

“We’re still best friends, right?”

Best friends. Right. You can’t deny the way your heart sinks a little at that. Quickly, before he can notice, you plaster on a smile.

“Of course we’re best friends, what are you talking about? We’re Jimin and ____. The dynamic duo. The inseparable pair.”

Jimin smiles faintly at that.

“It doesn’t have to mean anything, y’know?” he starts again. “The kiss, I mean.”

“What?”

“I mean, Hobi was just pestering us into it so, yeah. Can we just forget about it?”

It has you pausing for a beat, but you scramble to agree.

“Yeah, yeah. Forget about it.”

That was all three years ago. You’d been friendzoned a whole three years ago. But still, you couldn’t get over your feelings after three years. You said you’d forget about the kiss, but you never did.

What hurt even more than being friendzoned though was the growing possibility that you were singular soulmates. After that Christmas break, things with Jimin had just gone back to normal, your best friendship persevering over geographical distance as you returned back to your own college campuses.

The kiss had certainly complicated things in that you suddenly had all these feelings for the person who at one time had simply been your best friend. Of course, it wasn’t just the kiss. Perhaps it was that first semester you’d spent apart- the first time your previously inseparable pair had ever really been separated- that made your appreciation for him grow. Or maybe it was the growing up he had done over that time that had you seeing Jimin in a different light and finally considering him properly as a man. The kiss had merely been the seal on the confusing feelings that had been bubbling up inside you since your reunion till the Christmas gathering. You had to come to terms with it- you’d fallen in love with your best friend.

If you were his soulmate, your name would surely have appeared on him by now. But he never mentioned it and the dynamics between you two only continued on as best friends.

And it sucked. You were in love with your best friend, your soulmate, but you weren’t his.

You’d tried dating around, in the last few years. Well, if your name hadn’t appeared on him, then maybe it’d appear on someone else. Maybe you just hadn’t met them yet and hadn’t fallen in love with the right one yet. Heck, maybe when they fell in love with you, their name would appear on you just under Jimin’s. It was an odd idea, you know, and you’d never heard of anyone else having that experience before. Perhaps you should launch your strange query out into the unknown void that is reddit and hope to find a comrade somewhere out there in cyberspace.

But the thought of it, imagining a name under Jimin’s, was just plain revolting to you. And what would they even make of it, having to play second fiddle to someone who’d been in your life through all the finger-painting and scuffed knees and awkward puberty and the countless late-night conversations on anything and everything? After all, your long-standing friendship with Jimin had been built on the kindred spirit that you’d serendipitously discovered in each other all those years ago in the playground of your childhood.

You always had to suffer through this train of thought, didn’t you, each time you were about to meet Jimin. You exhale, huffing out your frustration, and wrap your shawl around you as you step out of your car. It’s his graduation show tonight and the formalwear was a dress code requirement. You’d left all your formal dresses at home and had to borrow your college roomie’s instead. But the one she’d loaned you was strapless and failed to conceal your soulmate mark, hence the shawl to hide it.

By the time you get seated in the auditorium, it’s only a couple of minutes till the show begins. The program booklet keeps you occupied as you search for Jimin’s name to take note of which items he’s in so you can look out for him. But you know that even without it, you’d still spot him any time he’s on stage- his stage presence powerful and captivating enough to hold the audience rapt at attention.

The lights dim, and the conversations in the hall quieten with it. The anticipation for the show to begin is palpable. With a bang, it starts, the first item full of fierce and strong movements. You sink back into your seat, settling in for the entrancing show that the dance majors never fail to provide.

The show goes well, and Jimin’s appeared a number of times now. He exerts this magnetic pull on you, your gaze following him from when he first steps on stage till he runs off into the wings. Having followed his dance journey for so long now, you can see just how much his full-time training has paid off- the lines of his extensions are long and poised, his turns are immaculate. His movements exude passion and emotion, and you can’t look away.

That’s probably why you notice it. It’s as he’s running off stage that he stumbles. It’s small, and he’s almost at the wings, but you see how his ankle rolls and a pang of worry reverberates through you.

The enchantment from earlier is broken and replaced by nothing but concern. Each jump that he lands no longer has you dazzled, but wincing instead as you imagine him landing on his busted ankle. You know Jimin and you know his work ethic. He’ll put the production over his well-being any time and only speak up about it after everything is over and his body left battered with abuse.

There’s a slight relief when the lights finally come back on at the end of the show, but it’s not in its entirety. You need to see Jimin.

You’ve been to enough of his shows to remember the path backstage, and you sneak into the dressing rooms, slipping past the families and friends of the exhausted but happy dancers now crowding the lobby in the usual post-production celebrations.

Now that you’re backstage, your next challenge is finding the right door to Jimin’s dressing room. You spot someone ahead of you carrying an ice pack and figure it must be the person Jimin finally, and most likely begrudgingly, admitted his injury to.

“Jimin-ah,” the person calls, as he opens one of the many doors in the corridor.

“Ah, thank you so much,” you hear Jimin’s cheery voice ring out. You roll your eyes. It’s so like him to be putting on fake smiles to hide just how bad the pain is so that he won’t cause his friend to worry.

Your heels clack annoyingly against the floor, but you can’t find it in you to care to be quiet as you race to see him.

“Jimin!”

“____?”

Maybe you should have knocked. Or maybe you should have texted him that you were coming backstage. But then, you can’t find it in you to regret not doing either of those things because you burst into the room to find Jimin, drained and still in his final costume. That is- a shirtless costume. In your peripheral vision, you register his shocked expression, but your eyes are locked on something else.

Sitting there, just underneath his collarbone, is your name.

Jimin reaches for the first thing he can grab, which happens to be the ice pack, and attempts to cover up the mark, but that only has him hissing from the icy sting on the thin and sensitive skin of his chest.

“You idiot.” Your words are harsh but your tone is nothing but soft.

Sensing the seriousness of the conversation about to go down, his friend excuses himself from the dressing room. But you barely register that either, your mind still fixed on the visual memory of the soulmate mark on your best frie- no, your soulmate’s chest. The mark that matches yours in placement and in font.

You approach him slowly, and kneel next to him where he’s slumped on the floor and leaning against the wall. With a trembling hand, you gently hold his wrist and pull the ice pack away. There it is, skin slightly reddened from the cold, but the delicate swirls of the letters of your name sit crisp and delicate on his chest. Your thumb strokes across the letters, across your name imprinted on his skin.

“When?” You take the ice pack from him and settle it on his swollen ankle.

“Three years ago.” It comes out as a whisper.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” your voice is soft, your eyes shimmering with tears from welled up emotions. He holds your gaze in his as his thumb wipes away the tears that have spilled over.

“I thought you wanted to remain as best friends.”

A sardonic laugh escapes you before you can stop it. “And what gave you that stupid idea?”

Jimin averts his eyes with the next statement, the boring linoleum floor of the dressing room acting as his anchor as he verbalizes the thoughts that had wrung his heart out for so many years now. “I’m not your soulmate, and it’d be really selfish of me to force you into a relationship with me just because you’re mine.”

Your jaw drops. Then you sigh and shake your head lightly. A gentle tug on your shawl has it slipping off your shoulders and folding haphazardly into his lap. You get the satisfaction of watching his eyes go wide, his gaze trained on the script sitting just underneath your collarbone. The thought that it’s an exact replay of your own reaction has you giggling.

“But I-” he stutters, index finger rubbing at his name as if it would rub off. “But you said? We’re still best friends?”

Then his head snaps up to look you dead in the eyes, brows furrowed.

“Wait. Why didn’t you tell me?” he cries.

“We were fourteen!”

“Since we were fourteen?! You knew since we were fourteen and you didn’t tell me?!”

“I figured it was nothing more than pubescent hormones!” you scoff defensively, arms crossed in indignance. “Need I remind you just how many girls you were obsessed with that year?”

“Just one,” he mumbles and you barely catch it.

“What did you say?”

“It was just you,” he whispers. Your arms go slack as you see the earnestness in his eyes. He clears his throat and looks away. “I mean, I’m sure you know the struggle- what if I’m the only one who feels this way? And what if I lose my best friend because we’re not meant to be?”

The way his words resonate with your own sentiments so deeply reminds you just why you’re best friends. He’s captured your thoughts and struggles so astutely, as if you both shared one mind. Perhaps that’s why you’re soulmates after all.

“Is that why you asked me if we were still best friends?”

All you get is a quiet hum in response.

“And is that why you told me the kiss didn’t have to mean anything?”

He sighs. “Like I said, it would have been selfish to just keep you for myself, even if you’re my soulmate. Your soulmate could have been out there somewhere.” He finishes the thought with a chuckle and a shrug. “But not gonna lie, I wish you’d told me sooner. Do you know how difficult it’s been to love you from afar all these years because I thought I wasn’t your soulmate?”

“Oh believe me, I definitely know that struggle firsthand,” you say, echoing his earlier sigh of exasperation at both of your stupidities. “We’re idiots, aren’t we?”

He rolls his eyes, but he’s beaming as he asks, “are we still best friends?”

You snort. “Definitely idiots.”

“Well at least now I know I’m your idiot, idiot.”

[ieatmypizzawithaforkandknife]

MAG 019 - Confession (part 1)

Summary: Jonathan reads the first half of the statement of Father Edwin Burroughs, regarding “his claimed demonic possession.”

Our first two-parter! Not that I realized that when I listened to the episode the first time, despite it being right there in the title, because I have the observational skills of a blind muskrat...but I’m excited because I know there will be more multi-parters in the future. I like the episodic format right now, but I know that as Things Begin To Happen, I’ll appreciate the increased breadth and depth of longer stories.

89 Bullingdon Rd is the third street address featured in the series so far, the other two being 93 Lancaster Rd in episode 5 and 105 Hill Top Rd in episode 8. Unlike the first two, however, this one actually exists - kind of. According to google maps, the house numbers on Lancaster Rd in Walthamstow run from about 1 to 85, and the numbers on Hill Top Rd in Cowley run from about 1 to 75. But 89 is right in the middle of the range of house numbers on Bullingdon Rd in Cowley, and while google maps says there’s an 89A but not an 89...it’s close enough. On one hand it’s super cool that these locations are relatively real (the towns are real, the streets are real, it’s just the exact buildings that aren’t). On the other hand 89A is a little too close to 89, and I wish Jonny had picked a number completely outside the range of addresses like he did with the first two, just to avoid crazy fans descending on real people’s houses.

It is definitely worth noting the proximity of 89 Bullingdon Rd to 105 Hill Top Rd. They’re only about half a mile (or about a kilometer, since this is in the UK after all) away from each other as the crow flies. And for both of them, the location itself seems to be tied to the paranormal happenings of the episode(s) they’re featured in. In episode 8, Ivo Lensik feels that unnatural burning start when he’s alone inside 105 Hill Top Rd, which stops as soon as Father Burroughs arrives. In this episode, Father Burroughs feels that same unnatural burning start when he’s alone inside 105 Hill Top Rd, and it only stops when Ivo uproots the tree. And in this episode, Bethany claims her problems are being caused by the Bullingdon Rd house itself, though she doesn’t explain what made her think that. But it’s very concerning that she can’t seem to see the only creepy thing about the house that we’re aware of: the old Latin word written in faded blue paint on the exposed wall.

The word “mentis” is Latin alright, but Father Burroughs translates it as “mind” which...isn’t quite right. “Mentis” doesn’t strictly mean “mind”, it means “of the mind”. The endings of Latin nouns change based on how they’re used in a sentence, so if you’re talking about the word “mind” as the subject of a sentence (or as the word in general) it is “mens”. “Mentis” is specifically the possessive form of the word. I don’t know whether this was deliberate or accidental on Jonny’s part, since if you look it up the dictionary entry shows “mens, mentis”. (It’s standard practice to include both the “subject” form and the “possessive” form in the dictionary since they’re different.) It makes me wonder if this word was part of a phrase and if there were other words hidden under the wallpaper. (Also, small shout-out to anyone reading this who is also a Latin geek, and I hope I explained it well enough that the non-Latin-geeks also understand that explanation.)

On the subject of language, this isn’t the first time Latin has appeared in connection with the paranormal. Ex Altiora, the Leitner found in episode 4, was written entirely in Latin (including the title), and the Lord’s Prayer was written in Latin on that long strip of singed paper found in the second trash bag in episode 5. It’s interesting that the same constellation of details from the trash bag incident are also in this episode: Latin, Christianity, and burning.

Latin isn’t even the only dead language to make an appearance this episode. When describing his experiences performing exorcisms at the beginning of the episode, Father Burroughs recounts: “I was once cursed at in Sumerian by a young man who was illiterate.” In episode 12, the phrase muttered by the hospitalized man that seemed to summon the “lightless flame” contained the word “Asag”, which is the name of a Sumerian demon that could boil fish alive in their rivers. Father Burroughs doesn’t appear in episode 12, but if he had been at that hospital, I think he would have pegged that guy as possessed and wanted to have an exorcism performed. So is there a connection between Sumerian and possession and burning? And how do all the different dead languages that have appeared so far (Latin, Sumerian, and Sanskrit) fit together?

I am also very interested in that nurse, Anna/Annie/Anne Kasuma/Willett. (Seriously, how many names does one person need?) For my purposes, I’m going to call her “Annie” because she seems to go by that. In this episode’s statement (made in 2011), Father Burroughs gives her surname as Willett, and in Jonathan’s wrap-up at the end of episode 8 (which he recorded in late 2015 or early 2016), Jonathan gives her surname as Kasuma. As an older, fairly conservative Catholic (she was a member of the congregation at Father Burroughs’ church, fully believed in demonic possession, etc.), it is highly unlikely that she changed her name for any reason other than marriage or divorce. Ivo Lensik described her as “Malaysian”, and Kasuma is an Indonesian name, whereas Willett is found overwhelmingly in predominantly white countries (the U.S., England, Australia, and Canada are at the top of the list of countries where the name is found). So it would make the most sense to me if Kasuma were her maiden name and Willett a married name. BUT when Jonathan mentions her in the wrap-up to episode 8, he calls her “Mrs. Kasuma”. Since everything else fits with the idea that Kasuma is her maiden name and Willett her married name, I’m thinking Jonathan just messed up the honorific, since he also referred to “Miss Popham” at the end of episode 15 when “Popham” was very clearly Laura’s married name. (This overly detailed surname analysis brought to you in part by my ongoing obsession with genealogy. If anyone reading this has anything resembling a passing interest in the subject, feel free to hit me up about it. I will gush.) All of that nitty-gritty was not without purpose: I think she’s important somehow. I could be reading too much into things, but why would Jonny give her a name change if it weren’t somehow important? Even I realized the nurse from episode 8 and the nurse from episode 19 were the same person on my first listen-through, when I missed or forgot 90% of the details in any given episode, so I don’t think he was trying to trip us up. And she has a direct connection to 105 Hill Top Rd: she grew up on that street, and had a lot of information on the property’s history dating back to before she was born, possibly indicating her family lived on that street even longer. But we haven’t met anyone else with either surname, so for now that’s where it stands: possibly a lead, muddled with a probable mistake.

I was so glad when Father Burroughs made the differentiation in this episode between perception and will: “Bethany told me that her will was still her own, but she could no longer trust her senses, and had found herself doing much that she did not understand.” She tried to eat a small slab of slate, and she apparently couldn’t perceive the word “Mentis” that was literally written on a wall. This might be the first time that the author of the statement calls attention to the recurring theme I’ve been calling “altered reality”. This “altered reality” is a heavy presence in the second part of this two-parter, but I’ll wait to talk about that in that episode’s post. Coupled with this “altered reality” is the “eating of something you really shouldn’t be eating”. In this episode, it’s Bethany trying to eat a slab of slate before being abruptly pulled back to reality by Father Burroughs, only then realizing what it was. Hinted at in this episode, and shown in more detail in the next one (minor spoiler, I guess?), is Father Burroughs eating human flesh and only realizing what it was when the police arrived. The only other time I remember these two themes working in tandem is in episode 3 when Graham Folger ate a notebook. No one stopped him or made him realize what he was doing, so we don’t know for sure that his reality was altered, but it makes the most sense to me that he, like Bethany and Father Burroughs, truly didn’t realize what he was doing. I’m not convinced that the events of this episode (and the next one) are actually related to the notebook incident in episode 3, but it’s an interesting parallel.

On a completely unrelated note, I’d like to talk a bit about Father Burroughs’ “possession” itself. First off, I get that Bethany saying “I’m so sorry...it wants your faith” was supposed to be an ominous line, but why is that the only thing she said throughout the entire attempted exorcism at the hospital? She couldn’t even say, “Hey, man, this isn’t working”? All she could do was look at him with pity and say that? I’d be OK with those being her only words if whatever was “possessing” her also affected her speech the way it did to Father Burroughs later...but she specifically established that she was free to speak and act as she wished, it was only at certain times that her perception of reality was altered. So I’m a little annoyed at her for not giving Father Burroughs (or us) any kind of useful warning or helpful information during the failed exorcism.

I was really confused by the apparent theft of the sacramental wine, too. What was the significance of that? Was it just an example of something weird Father Burroughs noticed that keyed him in to the fact that All Was Not Well, or was there something more to it? (This is only a semi-rhetorical question - if the answer to this was said outright or implied in this episode and it isn’t a post-S1 spoiler, please do fill me in. I sometimes miss stuff that’s super obvious to other people.)

I also find it interesting that he can say “God” towards the end of this episode. He stumbled over it, but by contrast he was completely unable to say “Lord” and “Jesus” at the very beginning. Not sure if this is significant, since there’s no real difference between the words “Lord” and “God” in my estimation. Jesus is specifically Christian, and while “Lord” tends to be associated with Christianity, it’s not exclusive. “God” is the most general of the three terms, yes, but in context he is very obviously referring to the Christian “God”, so his difficulty with getting certain words out isn’t based solely on their contextual meaning. Jonny could have written it without him getting out the word “God” at the end and I think most people listening would have understood that’s the word he was going for. It’s either some kind of clue, or Jonny just got sick of stuttering.

Father Burroughs’ call for protection is the point at which he knows something is Very, Very Wrong, as he feels his lips move even though he himself isn’t moving them. But, as with so many of these stories, Things Were Bad Long Before You Realized It. Bethany told him “it wants your faith” years before the Hill Top Rd incident. He himself admits that his pride led to his downfall, since he initiated an exorcism/blessing on Hill Top Rd when he wasn’t supposed to be doing them at all. But it wasn’t just his pride - it was something taking advantage of his pride. I think that, as much as any person can be, Father Burroughs was a victim of whatever possessed him. He made mistakes in his life - his sins, if you’re looking at it religiously, as he did - but he never wanted to be evil or commit crimes like cannibalism. Like the characters in so many of these stories, I don’t think he deserved what he got, and I mostly just feel bad for him.

His call for protection, he says, was answered by something that was not God, and when Jonathan reads the words that Father Burroughs’ lips were forming (“I am not for you. I am marked.”) we once again hear that creepy static or interference. And I still can’t decide if this is supposed to be some kind of clue or if it’s just to make things creepier. It feels like a clue, but I can’t figure out what exactly it’s supposed to mean. Most of the times I’ve noted it appearing (probably not a complete list - I’m working on it) it appears during a specific quoted phrase or instance of someone speaking: “Can I have a cigarette?” in episode 1. “Isn’t it funny, Amy, how you can live so near and never notice. I’ll need to return the visit someday” from not-Graham in episode 3. “Some hungers are too strong to be denied” from Angela in episode 14. Laura’s sister Elena asking her “how lost I was, in a low, grating voice” in episode 15. If the examples were limited to things like this, then I’d say that it occurs whenever some as-yet-undetermined otherworldly monster is given a human voice to speak through. But it also occurs the first time Ex Altiora is said in episode 4 and the first time The Boneturner’s Tale is said in episode 17, as well as two different moments during the recounting of the story inside TBT. So how is it connected to the Leitners? It didn’t occur when Jonathan read the title Key of Solomon in episode 4, which is implied to be a Leitner. And there’ve been a few other occurrences where something obviously supernatural is happening but that doesn’t involve speech or quoted words at all: When Laura describes the light changing from appearing like an approaching candle to sunlight (which it still wasn’t...) in episode 15, and when Jonathan reads the description of the bleeding books in episode 17 (”red dripped and pulsed from the cart”).

I don’t know what to make of the creepy static yet. But my specific concern with the most recent instance, when Father Burroughs “said” “I am not for you. I am marked” is: Who are the “I” and the “you” referring to? Is the “I” supposed to be Father Burroughs, or the thing “possessing” him? And who on earth is the “you”?

This post is part of a series where I write my thoughts about each episode and obsessively connect dots in an effort to figure out The Big Mysteries of the series. All posts in this series are tagged “is this liveblogging?” Comments and messages are welcome but I have only listened to season 1, so I ask that you not spoil me for anything beyond episode 40. In the words of Jonny Sims…thanks for listening!

[naughtydaaikon]

A Rose By Any Other Name...

Title: A Rose By Any Other Name... (Chapter 1/2)

Also on Ao3!

Fandom: Jibaku Shounen Hanako-kun

Rating: T (warnings for major character death, but it’s not gonna have a sad ending, I promise!)

Word Count: 7,480 words

Summary:

Death wasn’t as dramatic as stories made it out to be.

Nene had read plenty of books growing up. Romance, drama, horror (her favorite!), and of course, tragedies. She had never been a big fan of that particular genre. It was always too melodramatic for her tastes, and not in the whimsical, romantic way that she liked. Death was always tragic, that was undeniably true, but in the stories, it always seemed as though the dying person would cling desperately to life, fighting with every fiber of their being to cling to that one final breath. Nene didn’t fight when she died.

Oh, she had thought as it hit her. I’m dying.

That sucks.

Predictably, Nene dies. Fortunately, contrary to what Hanako claimed, death wasn't necessarily the end. 

--

Notes: Okay, so like this was posted on ao3 forever ago, and I just realized that I never posted it here, so I’m correcting that right now, I guess. I hope you all enjoy. Please leave a comment, like, and reblog if you enjoy. Also shoot a message to me if you want to talk Hananene. I forget about tumblr sometimes, but I will surely answer eventually. 

-------

...Would still smell just as sweet.

 -------

 Kamome Academy was a place where legends were born and made real. 

 The school had been the one unchanging fixture within Shibuya of what was now Tokyo’s bustling financial district. Kamome had stood for a near century, its walls still made from the same stone that had been used to construct it all of those years ago, back when it had first been built over an old wooden school house that shared its land with an old Shinto shrine to the god, Inari. 

 There were strong spiritual roots here, even in the iron jungle that was Tokyo. 

 Perhaps that was the reason so many spirits were born here — were bound to this place. 

 Within the crowded, lively halls of Kamome Academy, secrets and rumors had a way of becoming tangible; real. All you really had to do was breathe life into that secret and it would animate itself. 

 Or in some cases — reanimate.

 “Hey, have you heard this rumor?” A girl leans close to her friend during their lunch period. They sit at the same desk, hunched over, giggling. It is here that a rumor is whispered, a rumor to be spread. “If there’s someone that you love with all your heart, you should go to Kamome’s outdoor pool. If you throw a 5 yen coin into the pool and wish for your lover to be yours, the mermaid who lives in the depths of the pool will grant your wish.”

 “Really?”

 “Yes! It’s said that when she was alive she fell in love with a mortal that she couldn’t have, for she was a mermaid and he was a human. In the end, she tried to change her fate.”

 “And then what happened?”

 “What do you think happens when you try to change your destiny? She turned into sea foam and died!”

 And so, she was born. Or was it reborn?

 Just — like — that. 

 -------

 Death wasn’t as dramatic as stories made it out to be.

 Nene had read plenty of books growing up. Romance, drama, horror (her favorite!), and of course, tragedies. She had never been a big fan of that particular genre. It was always too melodramatic for her tastes, and not in the whimsical, romantic way that she liked. Death was always tragic, that was undeniably true, but in the stories, it always seemed as though the dying person would cling desperately to life, fighting with every fiber of their being to cling to that one final breath. Nene didn’t fight when she died. 

 “No -- no, Yashiro! You’ve got to fight! No, no, no--”

 Oh, she wanted to fight, of course. She wanted to kick, to punch, to scream about how badly she wanted to live. She wanted to perform a long soliloquy about the unfairness of it all, the spotlight shining directly on her as she decried her fate. After all, who wanted to die at sixteen? There was still so much that she hadn’t done! 

 “Yashiro, hold on!”

 She hadn’t gone on a real date, hadn’t gone on a long romantic walk underneath the starlight, nor had she been swept off of her feet, or even kissed. The subject of her own mortality had been a constant burden that she had carried with her since living in  Shijima’s pseudo-perfect world. How could she not think about it, after all? Though, at the moment of death, it was as though all those feelings crashed within her, and the impact was both sudden and brutal. It was a strange duality, wanting so badly to live, and yet having not a slither of energy or ability to fight off that impending finality.

 It was her fate, after all.

 No, she couldn’t fight.

 Nene had simply slipped away.

 One moment, she was there — filled with light, with warmth. She had been helping Hanako with something —  though, that was difficult to remember. What had she been helping him with? A yorishiro, perhaps. Yeah, that sounded right. One moment, she had been reaching to undo the 

seal on a yorishiro. An action that she had done so many times before. She hadn’t even considered that this would be the moment that the sand within her hourglass would finally run out. 

 That was all that it took. 

 She doesn’t even feel being stabbed.

 Then she’s losing feeling in all of her limbs, growing numb —  cold.

 “Yashiro!”

 The most difficult part of dying, Nene thought, had been lying in Hanako’s arms as he held her and screamed. She remembered that with almost crystal clarity. Had she ever seen him cry before? Yes, she had. Thrice -- once as Amane, when he had still been full of life, bruised and sobbing in an empty classroom. Then once more on the school’s rooftop after he had encountered his brother, and again back in the painted world as he admitted how badly he wanted her to live. She had felt awful, then. He wanted her to live, to survive  —  and she wouldn't, even when he had taken on her wish to live for another 99 years.

 An impossible wish.

 Too impossible to grant.

 A selfish wish. Just who was she to try to defy fate, after all? 

 She had promised herself that she would never be the source of those tears again, though. I’m just breaking all of my promises, she thought as she gazed up at him, his voice growing so far away. His voice sounded like nothing more than a distant, far off echo. He seemed so alive right now -- amber eyes burning, red and swollen with tears, as though he had true flesh to bruise and swell. He had been trembling, shaking her as he cried her name again and again. 

 Oh, she had thought as it hit her. I’m dying.

 That sucks.

 Nene had wanted to comfort him, to cup his cheek and promise that everything would be fine. She would be fine. She wanted to lie to him -- to assure him that her own mortality was nothing but a fallacy to be ignored. What happened? She wondered, watching his expression, as tears that she could not feel fell onto her skin. They should have been wet. Under normal circumstances, she might’ve even panicked about him getting her skin wet. Didn’t he know that she’d turn into a fish if she got too wet? 

 And with that last, foolish thought  —  she was gone.

 Here  —  and then not.

 No, death wasn’t the hard part.

 It was leaving him behind -- knowing that she had caused that pain within his eyes. That was the hardest part.

 ------

 It was a bright and sunny morning when she regained consciousness.

 At first, she hadn’t found anything to be amiss. The school bell hadn’t even rung yet as Nene stood just beyond the entrance to the school building. Strange, she thought to herself, looking around and taking in her surroundings. It was still too early for the rest of her classmates to arrive, earlier than she normally even came into school. Had she needed to finish something for Aoi in the gardening club? That was usually the only time that she came in early. “That has to be it,” she said, satisfied with her answer.

 Something had felt off.

 It was an odd feeling, as though her skin was pulled too tightly over her own body, as though her organs didn’t fit correctly inside of her. There was an acrid, bitter taste in her mouth that just didn’t seem to dissipate. Something was wrong; she couldn’t place just what. Nene’s lips twisted into a frown as she tugged at her bottom lip with her teeth. Come to think of it, she didn’t remember even coming to school. She didn’t even remember the previous day. Had she cleaned the toilets with Hanako? Had she eaten dinner? What had her mother prepared for her and her father? Her stomach felt -- off. There was a dull throbbing sensation in her belly, as though she had eaten something that hadn’t sat right with her. Absentmindedly, she rubbed the spot.

 Had she remembered to clean Black Canyon’s cage? She had to clean it out every Wednesday.

 What day even is it? Nene wondered, that awful feeling only growing, like bile rising in her throat. She could feel it gathering in her throat as she made it to the school gardens. It was empty, of course. It was still far too early for anyone else to be there. She looked around, checking the soil and growing even colder as she did so. 

 Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

 Something was very wrong.

 The last time she had gone to her gardening club, they had harvested the tomatoes and cucumbers that had finally finished growing. She knew that she had meant to come in early and plant new vegetables for the summer season like Aoi had asked her to do, and if Aoi had delegated the task to Nene, that meant it was her job to get it done and hers alone.

 And yet -- 

 All of the summer vegetables had already been planted. Some of them were even fully grown. The squash plants were large and supple. They would need to be pulled soon. 

 How much time had passed? 

 When was it?

 It couldn’t still be Spring. Hadn't the trees just been blossoming with soft pink petals days before? Calm down, she thought to herself, though it felt as though her heart was about to burst out of her chest. Her hands felt cold and clammy, as though they were covered in sweat.

 One, two. Breathe.

 Try to remember. There had to be an explanation for all of this  — 

 What was it  — 

 The memory came to her suddenly, barrelling through her mind like a bullet train. 

 -- There had been new supernaturals that had cropped up, plaguing the schools with their wretched pranks. Hanako had called them Amanojaku, imp-like troublemakers who had begun appearing around the school, whispering in the ears of the students before their cruel persuasion eventually incited the object of their torment to mischief and violence. It had started with arguments amongst the students within Nene’s class. Simple things -- everyone just seemed more on edge than usual, until the moment that Lemon-kun had thrown a punch right at Akane-kun’s face.  

 And then...

 And then what? 

 It’s fine! She thought, even though she was already falling to her knees, nerves threatening to overtake her. I can just ask Hanako! He’ll know what happened!

 She’d talk to him  — and then he’d fill her in. Then, everything would make sense  —  

 “Yashiro?” A voice whispered. She could barely even hear it, though she recognized the voice immediately. She could feel her breath catch in the back of her throat. Hanako! She thought. Good! It was just the person who she wanted to see! Nene smiled, all but scrambling to her feet as she turned around to face him. He was the same as he normally was  — translucent as the rays of sunlight shone through his body. It was as though he was there, and yet not. A fading fixture in a solid world.

 Haku-joudai hovered around him, though the two orbs appeared to be agitated about something. They shook in place, dashing around him as though in a frenzy.  Hanako, on the other hand, hadn’t moved an inch.

 “Hanako-kun!” she cried, delighted as she began to run towards him. “Something really weird is going on!” Tears of frustration and relief filled her eyes. 

 It was only then that something about his reaction struck her as strange. Normally, Hanako would’ve already been all over her, wouldn’t he have? He’d be floating near her, arms wrapped around her as though he were a second skin. 

 But  — 

 Hanako hadn’t made a single move towards her. He simply stood there, staring at her, lips parted in what seemed to be disbelief. 

 Wasn’t he normally happy to see her?

 His usual cheshire smile was gone, replaced with a look of pure horror. His large eyes seemed even wider, pupils constricted as his body trembled hard. “Yashiro,” he breathed, sounding as though the very action of speaking was a laborious effort. “Yashiro  — I’m so sorry.”

 An apology.

 What was he apologizing for?

 She laughed, unsure of herself. “Hey,” she said, taking another hesitant step towards him, as that feeling of wrongness in the pit of her stomach only mounted. Why was he looking at her like that? The expression of his face was difficult to place. His eyes seemed swollen, lips quivering. It was like he didn’t want to look at her. Was he feeling guilty?  “What are you apologizing for?” She couldn’t remember. Had she complained to him about cleaning the toilets again? It wasn’t like him to be sorry over something like that, though.

 She smiled, “There’s nothing to be sorry for, Hanako-kun.” She grabbed his hand, meaning to calm him. The moment that she does, however, she noticed that his hand felt different. It wasn’t cold. In fact, she could feel a warmth emanating from him. It was reminiscent of how his skin had felt in the picture world. Soft. Warm.

 Strange.

 “Hanako-kun -- I’m glad that I ran into you here,” and truly, she was. She could mull over the warmth of his skin later. Finally, things would begin to start making sense!

 “I wanted to ask you what happened the other day?” she began slowly. “With the Amanojaku!”

 No answer.

 Why was he looking at her like that?

 “Hanako-kun?”

 He swallowed as though there was something thick trapped within his throat. “Yashiro,” from the moment that he spoke, he seemed to come back to himself. He was pale, shivering as he slowly lifted a hand to her cheek. He squeezed the hand that she was holding, before lacing their fingers together. “Yashiro,” he repeated her name, but it sounded like he was in pain. 

 He still hadn’t answered her.

 Hanako leaned against her, moving so close that for a moment, she thought that he might kiss her. She grew warm, cheeks burning when he rested his forehead against her. His eyes squeeze closed. He felt as though he were actually alive. How was that possible? Hanako’s touch had always been cool, but his skin was so warm that Nene couldn't help but melt into it. As bemused as she was, it felt nice to be held like this by him. Like she belonged there -- in his arms. The school was quiet all around them, and for a moment, she wondered if time had stopped.

 The romance novels that she read often described moments like this. It was the moment that magic became real, and the feelings of the two lovers became too overwhelming to be contained. Perhaps there would be a confession  — an embrace or even a warm kiss. Nene felt swollen with excitement.

 It felt —  perfect.

 Right.

 “You need to move on,” he spoke suddenly, jolting her right out of her thoughts. 

  —  And the spell had been broken.

 “Move on?” She asked quietly. She didn’t understand what he meant. Move on from what? 

 His eyes averted, looking lower, towards her abdomen. His skin seemed to turn ashen before his eyes flickered back to hers. “You  — you don’t feel that?” He asked quietly. His question makes her pause. 

 Feel what? 

 “Why aren’t you answering my questions?” It didn’t make any sense. This evasiveness was ridiculous even for Hanako, who always kept his secrets locked close to his heart. It was normal for him to use a question or some other means to distract her when he wanted to keep his lips sealed, but this was far too much. He kept on answering her questions with more questions. Really -- there had to be a limit to how much Hanako could keep from her! 

 His eyes flickered back down to her abdomen again.

 He grit his teeth, untangling their fingers to her disappointment and bringing them to rest on her shoulders. “Look down,” said Hanako, choosing to be evasive once more. Still, his insistence that she look at herself made her hesitate. She didn’t want to. She wanted to fight him more -- to demand that he answer her questions, but from the look within his eyes, Nene could tell that this was serious. She was missing something important.

 But what was that?

 Nene could feel that harsh, heavy feeling in the pit of her stomach returning. Come to think of it -- didn’t her belly hurt? There was a dull throb there, right beneath her ribs. It didn’t feel like a stomach ache. No, the pain was much sharper.  It had been building since the moment that she woke up in front of the school. Finally ripping her eyes away from Hanako’s she looked down at herself. 

 -- And then she saw it.

 A gaping hole, ripped ragged and bloody,was torn right through her. It was right beneath her ribs. Crimson blood stained her uniform. There was so much of it. The skirt of her uniform was entirely ruined, soaked through with the fluid. She could even feel the warm, sticky substance seeping into the fabric of her tights. “...What…?” she whispered. The pain dissipated, leaving only a numbness in its wake. And cold -- it was so cold. A part of her had been gouged out and she hadn’t even noticed. Not until now.

 “Hanako-kun,” her voice shook. “Hanako-kun -- my stomach--”

 She’d been stabbed.

 She’d been stabbed  —  

 She’d been stabbed.

“Yashiro!” Hanako’s voice brought her back, grounding her. He pulled her against him tightly, his body a solid anchor within the chaos that had begun to swirl inside of her. Her visage flickered, as though she were nothing more than a candle about to be snuffed out. “Yashiro! Stay focused! I know -- I know this can be confusing at first,” his fingers ran through her hair, brushing through the strands like he had done before when he had come to harass her during her English class before. “It sometimes takes awhile to get a sense of yourself again.” His grip on her was crushing, but she relished in the feeling of it. Hanako made sense, even if none of this did. “Focus on me, okay?”

 She could do that. Nene closed her eyes, breathed deeply. She filled lungs that no longer required air, and shook like a leaf in the autumn wind. The air felt crisp as she inhaled, just as it always had. Nothing felt any different. She could still feel all of her limbs. She had two hands, two legs, and two feet. She could feel Hanako as she clung to him, nails digging into the fabric of his old school uniform. “Hanako-kun,” she said when she finally trusted herself to speak. “What happened?”

 Silence.

 He didn’t answer -- not at first. No, he simply buried his face into her hair.  Inhaling deeply, then he released a ragged breath that seemed to be ripped from his chest. When he pulled back, meeting her gaze, his eyes were set with a sort of weary, grim determination. 

 And she knew.

 She knew without him even having to say it. Though, the words still knocked the wind out of her when they finally did come. 

 “You died, Yashiro.”

 No -- dying hadn’t been dramatic. But... what had come after was.

 ---------

 Days seemed to blend into one another over the next few weeks, each night dying into day again and again. 

 Rinse and repeat. 

 Nene was never quite sure if she was awake or not. She had read about narcolepsy for class once. She thought that what she was experiencing now was most similar to that. There were fleeting moments of consciousness. She would blink and awaken back at the school, before blinking again and finding herself back in a sea of darkness that was thicker than the blackest of nights. 

 When she was awake, Hanako was usually never far away.

 He’d appear minutes after she did, a bone weary and hollow guilt etched into his eyes as he always encouraged the same thing over and over again.

 “Pass on, Yashiro.”

 She didn’t listen, of course.

-------

 Nene came to realize rather quickly that coming to terms with your own death was quite the shock. The awareness of one’s own demise didn’t come right away. No, your body did everything in its power to maintain that illusion of life. She still felt things, phantom sensations of what should be. She couldn’t feel the warmth of the sun on her skin, but something within her brain (soul? She didn’t have a brain anymore -- that had died with her physical body) told her that the rays would brush against her skin like a sultry embrace, and so she perceived it as such. She didn’t have skin to feel the coolness of the wind sweeping over her, and yet, she shivered. Her chest burned when she held her breath, yearning for oxygen that she couldn’t breathe. Though, gradually --

 Those sensations…

 Started.

 To.

 Fade.

 Her awareness was even more fleeting.

 From the moment that she realized that she was dead, Nene had trouble maintaining her form. She would simply blink in and out of existence. Here one minute -- gone the next. She would often wake back up in the school -- by the entrance, in the practice garden, right in the middle of her old homeroom class. Masaki-sensei would be in the middle of a lesson. Aoi would be sitting in class, scribbling notes with a far off and misty look in her eye. She’d never see her, of course.

 No one did.

 Her desk had been outright removed from the class. An empty spot in the classroom was the only acknowledgement that she had once existed. Though, perhaps that wasn’t the only reminder. No one sat where her desk had once stood. When students walked past that spot, they would cast a sad, pitying glance towards it. She’d hear whispers when there was a lull in the lesson. They were always the same words. Whispers that were as loud as screams echoed throughout the entire school -- building to a crescendo that was impossible to ignore.

 Poor Nene-chan.

 It was always the same. 

 Did you hear how she died? She was found stabbed in the school courtyard! Isn’t that awful?

 Poor Nene-chan, indeed. 

 “Insensitive, isn’t it?” A soft, yet almost dreary voice spoke to her. Nene blinked. She was in the school hallway now. How frustrating! She couldn’t seem to get a hold of herself. Her sense of self was off, just as Hanako had said. She was worried that she would disappear for good if she wasn’t careful. “The way that humans discuss the dead has always left something to be desired.” That voice sounded so familiar.

 It gave Nene something to grasp. A familiar voice -- soft, distant, and feminine. 

 “Nanamine-senpai!” Nene found her voice, yelping out loud as she finally noticed the girl standing right in front of her. It was as though Nanamine-senpai had been out of focus, a blurry image in a camera that she had been unable to discern until that very moment. Her head just felt so foggy. Was she disappearing? 

 You are dead, a fact her mind was quick to remind herself of. You shouldn’t even still be here.

 “You haven’t crossed over yet,” Nanamine-senpai observed. She leaned against the adjacent wall, hands folded neatly across her chest. She was as beautiful as always, resembling a painting more than a person -- a beautiful piece of art that had been handcrafted and placed into the real world. Perhaps that was why she seemed so doll-like, her movements perfectly precise, her voice like a distant dream. The sunlight filtering in through the windows from the hallway bathed her in a warm, honey-like hue. “Perhaps you should.”

 “Hanako-kun….said the same thing…” Speaking was difficult. It was as though her tongue was laden with lead. It was difficult to remember how to form her words, like there were some kind of delay between her thoughts and her mouth. Then again, she didn’t have a real mouth anymore. 

 Dead. 

 She was dead.

 Her insides shuddered, squirming at that thought. She could feel herself flicker again -- her consciousness fading to darkness before finding purchase in the school’s hallways once more. Sakura still stood there, watching her. “You should listen to him,” the elder girl advised. “Nothing good comes from remaining bound here.” Her tone became almost wistful. She turned slightly, glancing out of the nearby window, as a caged bird would stare longingly outside of the gaps in its cage. 

 “I wish that I had known that, before.” 

 Before? Before what? Nene wanted to ask what she meant by that, but the words never seemed to reach her lips.

 The other girl didn’t elaborate on her meaning, either. Instead, she took her hand in hers, holding it in a similar manner to the way that she had back in the tea room Boundary. Imploring, asking for understanding. “Go, Yashiro-san.” 

 “Go where?” Nene rasped, her form trembling as her hand squeezed around Nanamine’s. “Where do I have to go?”

 There was nowhere to go now. There was nothing to do. There was nothing to be. She was stuck, frozen in place from the moment that she had been stabbed. Nene had a whole list of things that she had wanted to do before she died. She’d wanted to get a boyfriend, get her first kiss, go on a date. Maybe one day she’d grow into a sexy older woman with men fawning all over her. One day she might’ve even gotten married!

 Nene had wanted to stream Space Hamsters Strike Back on her laptop, curled up beside Hanako on the floor of his bathroom. She’d wanted to watch his eyes light up as he watched all of the modern special effects. Nene had heard that the effects made it feel like you were really in space while you were watching. She had downloaded the movie, and planned to bring her laptop with her the day after they had gone after the Amanojaku. 

 She wanted to see him get all excited about the stars, telling her all of the facts that he knew like the back of his hand. When he was like that, the mask of Hanako fell away until he was only Amane -- a boy who wanted to be an astronaut. The boy who wanted to go to the moon or to Scorpius. The boy whose life had been cut far too short.

 Kind of like her.

 A tight knot formed in her chest. Right where her heart would have been if she still had one. It felt as though her feet were cast in iron, given a weight that she hadn’t felt since she was alive.

 “So, you’ve made your choice,” Nanamine-senpai murmured, watching her with hooded, secretive eyes.

 Her choice? Nene clung to the sick feeling of sloshing acid that formed in the pit of her stomach. It was real. It anchored her in place -- kept her from disappearing, even as her consciousness began to slowly fade.

 “Staying isn’t always the better option,” she informed her, dropping her hand. Her lips curled into a sad smile. “A wish cannot always be granted. Even if it is, it might just chain you in place. You can become imprisoned by that wish.”

 Nene didn’t understand. How could a wish become a prison? 

 “Nanamine-senpai,” Nene asked quietly. “How do you know that?”

 The older girl remained quiet, her eyes holding an answer that Nene didn’t want to acknowledge. Why do you think that I know, they questioned. Tsukasa-kun was a supernatural who only granted wishes to spirits, after all. How else had Nanamine-senpai been able to form a bond with him if she didn’t already intimately understand the danger of such wishes? Her wish had become the elder girl’s shackles.

 Crimson eyes widened, understanding dawning within them. “Nanamine-senpai…. Are you…?”

 “It doesn’t matter what I am, anymore,” Nanamine’s voice was clipped. She didn’t want to talk about that, then. “Every wish comes with a cost. Are you prepared to make such a sacrifice, Yashiro-san?”

 Was she?

 “You all keep saying that!” Her form flickered. Here and then not -- as though she had glitched out of reality. “You tell me it’s better to pass on! Then you say that it’s up to me to make a choice! Make up your minds already!” All of the frustration at the unfairness of the situation erupted.

 Stupid supernaturals! They kept things from her, tried to force her to make decisions that she didn’t want to make, and all looked at her with that hopeless, resigned expression that she had come to loathe. 

 It was all too much.

 She was still just too young. Before meeting Hanako her biggest concern had been her thick ankles and whether the boy she liked would return her feelings! Nene had been thrust into a world far more complex and layered than she had ever been able to fathom before. A world of wishes, apparitions and separate pockets of reality where all manner of creatures roamed, and all of her older concerns seemed paltry in comparison. Still, she had toed the line of the Near Shore and Far Shore for so long that she had come to love this dark world, filled to the brim with ancient legends and rules that were too difficult for her to comprehend.  

 It had always been her destiny to die.

 Though, that didn’t mean that she needed to fade away, either.

 Hanako. She thought of his sad, remorseful eyes. He had promised her a wish that he hadn’t been able to grant. He must be agonizing over that. He probably felt as though he had failed. 

 Did he always feel shackled by his wishes? Like Nanamine-senpai? Had her own wish added yet another chain to the restraints that bound him? 

 There were two paths laid before her, and while she knew what the easiest choice would be, she found herself yearning for the other more treacherous road that offered her nothing but overgrown thickets and branches that could easily snag her into place. It was a merciless path. Perhaps she’d even end up as bound as the rest of the apparitions who frequented this school.

 Even so....

 Hanako was at the end of this road, wasn’t he? 

 Nanamine-senpai smiled, a slight slither that seemed almost cut onto her face with knives. “Just remember this, Yashiro-san--” The girl leaned closer, resting her hand on her shoulder. She squeezed it, though Nene was unsure if the gesture was meant to be comforting or not. 

 “ You’re a spirit of the Far Shore now, Yashiro-san. That means if you stay long enough to manifest a wish…”

 Nanamine-senpai didn’t even need to finish her sentence.

 Nene knew.

 “He’ll come to grant it.” 

 Strangely enough -- that didn’t frighten her. At least, not completely. 

 -------

 And come, he did.

 Nene wasn’t surprised to see Tsukasa when he finally sought her out. Her wish had already manifested, building itself in her heart until her entire spirit was consumed by it. It sang its song in every molecule of her form, making sure that even if she vanished, she was never gone for long. This time, she was on the roof of the old school building. She opened her eyes, and could see the sun shining down on her, even if she couldn’t feel its rays. The wind blew against her, causing her hair to blow across her face.

 “Aaaaaaaaaaaah!” A loud, boisterous voice cried out. She recognized it immediately, flinching as her hands balled into fists. “Amane’s assistant died! You really died! I mean -- I knew that you would, but that’s a lot faster than I was expecting!” He laughed, floating in the air before flying above her, lowering himself so that his face was right in front of hers as he hung upside down. It was an action that reminded her almost too cruelly of Hanako. The boy had his face, after all, even if that was where the similarities ended. 

 He stared down at the wound that had yet to repair itself in her chest. “Hey! Someone stabbed you! Squish!” He reached for her, mimicking the stabbing motion with his hand. She grimaced, but she took a step away from him, eyes narrowed as she covered the wound with one of her hands. “Hey, when you got stabbed, did it make that sound? It kind of sounds like that, right?”

 She didn’t want to think about that -- or the sound of it.

 “Tsukasa-kun…” Nene said hesitantly, watching him with wary eyes. 

 “That must’ve broken Amane’s heart,” he giggled, eyes closed and grinning wide. He had a smile that was like a wild animal, all teeth -- a warning. “Did he make a good face?” She didn’t like it when he spoke like this, eyes darker than the obsidian. “I wish I could’ve seen that!”

 She didn’t answer his question, her mind flashing back to Hanako’s face as she had died. No -- it hadn’t been a good face, at all. She bit into her lip -- hard.  “You’re here for a reason, aren’t you, Tsukasa-kun?” She was sure that if she was still alive, she would’ve ran from him. She would’ve cowered away and called for Hanako, probably. All of those fears seemed so far away now, like a distant memory. Tsukasa would do as he pleased, whether it was favorable for her or not. 

 Her words seem to snap him back to attention. “Yes! Your heart called me. You have a wish, don’t you?” He had such large eyes -- round and wide until they thinned, pupils zeroing in on her. Malicious curiosity shone within them, as though he were looking right through her. It was as though he were peering into her soul. She forced herself not to cower from him even if there was still a part of her that wanted to run and cry. “I do,” she answered, voice trembling.

 Well, dead or not -- she couldn’t change her crybaby ways completely. 

 “You know what it is already, don’t you?” Nene’s hands clenched around the hem of her skirt. 

 “I do,” he sang as koku-jodai danced around him. The orbs were just as excitable as he was. “You want to stay with Amane, right? You want to be with him from the bottom of your heart!”

 His smile softened, startling her as he moved closer, invading her space. She wasn’t able to move away quickly enough as he grabbed both of her hands, entwining their fingers the same way that Hanako had done back when he had first granted her wish.  “You want to make him happy.” She didn’t expect him to look like that. He almost seemed like his twin at that point -- kind and gentle, though those words were not what she would’ve ever chosen to describe Tsukasa. 

 Why was he behaving this way? She had almost expected to be run through or hurt in some way. Though, she remembered even he had stopped himself from hurting her at one point. You’re not supposed to hurt girls. Had Hanako told him that? 

 She nodded, “Y-Yes.” She wished she could get her treacherous voice under control. 

 “Are you scared?” he asked cheekily, grinning as he stuck his tongue out at her. “I won’t hurt you. I’m here to grant your wish. And well… I like your wish.” 

 That made her pause. He… liked her wish? 

 “What--?”

 “We both want Amane to be happy.” He flew above her, koku-jodai practically vibrating as they circled him, glowing darkly as his power gathered. His response only served to further confuse her. He wanted Hanako to be happy? If that was the case, then why did he torment his brother? He had called them arch-enemies before. Rivals -- and yet, it seemed as though Tsukasa-kun genuinely wanted to help her. Hanako's eyes were always so sad and regretful whenever he saw him. A question formed in her throat, scratching at her vocal chords. “Do you really?”

 “Yeah!” He stretched his arms out wide, as though he were going to fall to the ground and make a snow angel. “He and I are playing a game, but that’s not really what I’m here to talk about, is it?” He tapped his lip with his index finger, smirking as sharp fangs bared themselves. 

 She would get no more answers out of him. 

 A game.

 She wasn’t sure what kind of game he was playing, but Nene was certain that neither Hanako nor the other spirits who got drawn into the web that he cast wanted to be a part of it. You’re confusing, Tsukasa-kun, she thought sadly, lips drawing into a deep frown. She wondered if anyone truly understood the boy in front of her. The members of his little broadcasting group didn’t seem to, all drawn together by the wishes that they had made to him, with the exception of Natsuhiko-senpai. She wasn’t sure why he was there, to be honest. Had Hanako understood him at some point? 

 Would she ever really know? 

 “Your price has already manifested. I’ve granted you an audience, so be sure not to be boring and disappoint me!” 

 An audience?! With whom?

 She didn’t get the chance to ask him what he meant before the floor opened up underneath her.

 “T-Tsukasa-kun!” she cried out, flailing out, trying to grab onto something to no avail.

 “Bye-Bye!” He waved at her, and then --

 Lights out. 

 -------

 The next time Nene awakened, she was surrounded by a pitch black void. 

 There was nothing in this abyss -- nothing but emptiness and vast space. There was nothing to feel here, nothing to think; nothing but everlasting and far stretching darkness as distant as the eye could see. She wondered if this was the true afterlife. Was this where she was supposed to be? Was she only clinging to her worldly desires, tethering herself to the Near Shore when all that actually awaited her was an endless abyss? 

 Her final resting place.

 It was almost peaceful. If she let herself, she could drift off into an endless, calm slumber. There would be no more pain. No more suffering. No more agonizing about her life, cut far too short. She hadn’t even had her first kiss. How cruel was that? Sixteen years old and deader than a doornail. Sleeping was much too tempting.. She could feel the desire tugging at her chest. It’d be so easy to simply close her eyes and drift off into nothingness. It’d be so easy. So peaceful. Right. This was fate, wasn’t it?

 Her eyes were so heavy.

 Maybe she could take just a little nap?

 She could think about it more later.

 “It’s kind of nostalgic -- like having a friend again.”

 Nene’s eyes snapped open almost as suddenly as they had started to drift closed, suddenly alert. No. She couldn’t leave -- not yet. Not when Hanako was still tethered to the third floor girl’s bathroom of the old school building. She couldn’t believe that she had almost forgotten about him! No, she couldn’t fade away. Not while Hanako’s eyes still held that haunted, tired look as though he had seen more lifetimes than she could count. He was dead -- and yet, he couldn’t rest.

 If he couldn’t rest, then neither should she. 

 Hanako wanted a friend. Hanako was lonely -- bound to his duty, to a penance that seemed far too great to burden a fourteen year old boy with. He’s a murderer, she reminded herself. That was true. Hanako had killed, but as she thought back to the way that he had looked on the floor of that empty classroom, all covered in bruises and bloody marks, bandages covering older wounds that had no business marring his skin, she couldn’t find it within herself to blame him. He had never told her why he had killed his brother, nor had he ever told her what had happened to him all those years ago.

 There just hadn’t been enough time.

 “Pass on, Yashiro.”

 No, she couldn’t rest yet. 

 Hanako’s words only served to piss her off. He was always talking like that, making it seem as though all the dead had to look forward to was annihilation. He was a slave to rules and order -- what should be. There was still so much to do! Hanako was still at Kanome, after all. If he was there, then she would have no choice but to stay as well. She was his assistant and his friend. What would he do without her? He had urged her to move on, but that was just him being his normal, self-sacrificing self. Of course he’d say that. He was determined to make himself miserable, but Nene would be damned if she let that continue. 

 She wouldn’t.

 Hanako needed to be protected, too!

 That thought filled her like air, grounding her -- providing her with an alertness that kept her steady even in the recesses of this abyss. 

 Poor little lost spirit. Why do you scoff at death? 

 Nene could hear a voice in that abyss. It was a whisper, something that slid gently against the edges of her consciousness. It beckoned, called to her sweetly as she imagined a lover would. It was insistent, and yet too soft for her to discern its words until it slowly became more clear and present. That was, at least until the voice slowly became clear and present. It filled the space with an energy that rocked her to her core. It demanded attention now, as though it had grown tired of being ignored. She wasn’t alone here, and yet whatever she shared this space with was just out of her grasp. Nene grasped at air that wasn’t there, reaching -- searching for that voice.

 Hear me, Spirit. I am here with you.

 “I’m not alone?” Nene asked as she finally found her voice. There was an echo when she spoke, one that seemed to vibrate throughout the dark abyss, filling each of the spaces as it reverberated again and again. “Who are you?” 

 There was a rumble in the darkness, something deep and warm -- like laughter. 

 That is the question, isn’t it? Funny, how those who come here never seem to know the answer to that question. 

 Was the voice talking in riddles? Nene had never been very good at solving those. She wasn’t sure who this person was -- but who did you talk to when you finally died? The answer hit her suddenly, and she wondered why she hadn’t thought of it right away. “Are you God?”

 The rumble was back, ouder this time, and it shook her as it reverberated through her like ripples of a raging river. Was it… amused by her? 

 Some have called me that. That seems to be the only thing humans can come up with, at least.  I’m not God -- or anything of the sort. 

 She didn’t understand. If this voice wasn’t God, then what was it? She panicked for a moment, flailing out into the void wildly out in fear. If not God -- then was it a demon?! She didn’t voice that thought, but it seemed to recognize her fear, regardless. The laughter is deep and echoing.

 I am from this land. You died on my land, and so you are tied here. Your soul refuses to pass on. 

 That much was true. She still had things that she needed to do, after all. If Hanako was still at Kamome, then she needed to be there, too. She was sure of it, even more sure than she had been when Hanako had tried to lock her away in the picture perfect world. She hadn’t belonged there. Even with the news of her impending death, she wanted to live with him in the real world. That wish hadn’t changed. 

 You are a funny human. I’m quite curious -- who are you?

 Nene sputtered, “Me?”

 Yes, you. You have yet to fade away. You have yet to accept death. You even solicited the help of that apparition to appear here. Why is that?

 Why couldn’t she accept death? 

 She knew the answer to that question immediately. 

 “My name is Yashiro Nene.” Her voice was like steel as she spoke, steadier than it had ever been.  “ I have someone that I can’t leave behind,” she answered firmly. 

 The void pulsed. She could hear a subtle sound, like the beating of a heart that only increased in volume until her ears rang from it.

 You are a lucky one, little spirit. Your fate has been tied to that of another. It is a bond that transcends even death.

 A bond that transcended death? She had heard that before, hadn’t she? 

 I’ve heard your wish, spirit -- Don’t come to regret it.

 -- And then, a star burst into a kaleidoscope of colors before her eyes, illuminating the darkness. 

 ------------

 “Hey, have you heard this rumor? There’s a mermaid that lives in the outdoor pool --”

 -------------

[imaginexmeintheuniverse]

5 times you infuriated me and 1 time you made it okay

A/N: okay so the 5 times concept is something i enjoy writing very much, however i am aware that in this piece in particular, a lot of the ideas are underdeveloped and probably especially dont make sense with the ending when you look at the relationship, but please keep in mind that this ‘5 times’ theme i chose focuses on those kinds of incidents so there are a lot of other times in between (and i dont have the time or energy to turn this into a super long fic but perhaps one day.. ) so this is what happened!

Warnings: mentions of torture (like in the 7th when Bellatrix takes to Hermione)

Tags: @expellimarvelous and for some reason my hp taglist got lost so let me know if you’d like to be added!

↠↠↠↠↠↠

I. Bad Start to the Sixth Year

Your sixth year at Hogwarts seems to be off to a good start as you laugh and snack on sweets with two of your three your best friends on Hogwarts Express. Or at least it seemed like it was off to a good start until the train arrives at the station, and Harry is nowhere to be found.

Waving off Ron and Hermione with a promise to catch up, you insist on going to look for him by yourself. Your search leads you all the way to the other side of the strain where the blinds are conveniently drawn. You can hear a voice muffled through the closed door, and you become filled with dread when you identify who it belongs to.

Sliding the door open a crack, you see a familiar head of slicked-back platinum hair. You aren’t able to make out what he says, but you do see him bring down a foot to meet Harry’s nose.

“Malfoy, what the fuck?!” you burst out, causing the Slytherin boy to jump in surprise.

“Y-Y/N- I-I—”

“I don’t know what the bloody hell you think you’re getting away with, but you better get the fuck off this train before I curse you,” you snarl, shoving him aside to get to Harry. Seeing that he’s been petrified, you take your wand out of your jacket pocket and mutter, “finite,” to which your friend thankfully wakes up, blinking a few times. He doesn’t move much, as he tries to regain control of his muscles, and you insist he takes a moment to do so.

Throughout this, Draco has gone so quiet you think he might have actually left, but when you turn your head to meet his stormy eyes, you’re filled with rage, once again.

“What the fuck are you still doing here?! Get out!”

“But Y/N, I-I'm—”

“I don’t want to hear it,” you say in a lower tone as you tend to your friend, not even sparing him another glance.

Why is it that just when you think there might be a redeemable quality buried deep in Draco Malfoy, he always does something that proves otherwise?

II. Welcome to the Slugclub

“Okay, okay! I was gate-crashing! Happy?” He admits, trying to shake off Filch’s grasp on his jacket.

His eyes that used to be sharp and bright, have recently become sullen. They lock with yours for a solid moment before he’s ushered out by Snape.

Your eyes linger on his figure as he’s led away from the party— probably longer than they should have, but you can’t help noticing how thin he’s become. You’ve barely seen him all year, despite having a few classes together. He was never that hefty to begin with, but it looks like he hasn’t eaten or slept in ages. Other than his usual perfectly tailored wardrobe, he now wears dark circles under his eyes, and it’s impossible not to notice how the contours of his face have become that much sharper and his already pale skin has adopted a sickly pigmentation.

You and Harry follow the pair out, but for different reasons. You know that Harry wouldn’t be happy about yours because of his suspicions, but Draco looks like he’s crumbling under stress.

Eavesdropping only proves Harry’s doubts about Malfoy, and he then decides to rejoin the party as to not get caught by Snape, but you hang back, telling him you need to go to the loo.

You wait in the shadows until you hear Snape’s steps scurry away before approaching Malfoy who stays behind, sitting on a ledge. A half-smirk appears on his face upon noticing you like he’s been gathering an arsenal of insults to shoot at you, but really, under the snide mask, he marvels at how lovely you look tonight.

“Straying from your date with Potter?” he spits out Harry’s name like it’s revolting to have on his tongue. “Wouldn’t want anyone to think Potter’s lady is ditching him in favour of a more refined pureblood—”

“He’s one of my best friends!” You roll your eyes and flail your hands up in exasperation. “And how is the nature of our relationship any of your business?!”

He snorts, leaning his back on the walk behind him and crosses his arms over his chest nonchalantly.

“You know, I came out here to check and make sure you were okay!” You shout at him hands coming up to furiously push your hair back. “I can’t believe that for a second I thought that— no- but you—”

“You thought what?” His voice has become softer, hard exterior starting to peel away in your presence. He stands from his seat, mild concern washing over his features.

You shake your head, looking anywhere but at him. “N-Nothing—”

“Tell me,” his hands place themselves on your biceps, long fingers curling around your arms gently.

You fall victim to his intense gaze, getting lost in the grey seas of his irises. His features aren’t as hard as they usually are and the grasp he has on you is delicate; like he’s afraid to hurt you and you almost feel like you can let your guard down. Almost.

“Is it true?” you ask him, diverging from the subject and he raises an eyebrow in response. “Did you hex Katie Bell?”

He opens his mouth, and then closes it without a word when he realizes he has nothing to answer to that and you’re the only person he can’t lie to. That’s enough of a confirmation for you. You let out a breath of disbelief and he starts to panic, because contrary to the backwards dynamic the two of you share, part of him does care what you think. “Y/N- p-please listen—”

All emotion leaves your voice as you tell him, “Just leave me alone, Malfoy.”

You shrug him off, and spin on your heel, breaking the eye contact. Walking down the hall, you leave him there to bask in the silence and his dark thoughts.

III. Hair Like You

You’re already teeming with rage as you scour the castle for Ron, who slipped you one of Fred and George’s prank snacks that ended up changing your hair color. Running into Draco Malfoy, of all people, really puts the cherry on top of the shit sundae.

To make things worse, it looks as though he’s going out of his way to get to you when he spots you from across the courtyard. At first he squints, not fully sure if it’s you with the new physical change, and then tails you down two hallways, not giving a single damn how creepy he may look.

“What do you want, Malfoy—”

“It seems like you’re more obsessed with me than I had originally thought,” he snickers, catching up with your quickened pace.

That’s when it hits you, and you instantly halt, causing him to smack into your back. Spinning around to face him, your eyes widen in horror as you take in the familiar platinum blonde hair— the same shade you saw in the mirror earlier.

“That’s just great!” You throw your hands up dramatically. “Now I look like you!”

“Please, don’t flatter yourself—”

“Oh, sod off, Malfoy!”

“You know, it really doesn’t look that bad. Maybe you’re starting to have better taste.”

Despite knowing full well that that was Malfoy speak for a compliment, you’re in no mood for it. “Oh, well I’m so glad that the Slytherin prince thinks me, a lowly commoner, 'doesn’t look that bad’ just fu—”

“No! No! No! Y/N! I didn’t mean—”

“—ck off! Because on top of looking like the most insufferable git in the entire school what I really wanted was to receive a backhanded compliment—” And just then, you spot the familiar redhead with bad influences for older brothers from across the hall who you’re even more pissed off at than Malfoy.

“I don’t have time for this,” is all you say as you bolt down the hall towards Ron, screaming, “YOU’RE DEAD, WEASLEY!”

IV. Held Hostage

Hermione’s screams are enough to make you feel like you’re being gutted, and when Bellatrix takes her knife to your arm, you’re absolutely terrified. At least this means your best friend has a break from her torture. In the meantime, you nearly bite through your cheek to hold in your own screams whilst the saddistic woman spells out the hateful term that’s been thrown at you your whole life, carving it into your flesh.

After what feels like hours, the death eater sits back up, admiring the her work with a sickening grin on her face, and you want nothing more than to smack it off. Or at least you would if you didn’t feel like you’ve been drained. What you do feel is defiled; like your own skin is no longer yours, and the blood that runs through your veins doesn’t belong to you.

And Draco Malfoy has been standing on the other end of the room this whole time whilst his barbaric aunt tries to get information out of you.

The rest of what happens is experienced through the blur of hopeless tears your eyes are clouded with, until Harry picks you up off the floor after Bellatrix had pushed you and Hermione to save herself from the falling chandelier. A certain fire surges through you as you regain full consciousness.

You see Harry and Draco fight over his wand, and instinct kicks in as you lunge forward, efficiently tackling the latter to the ground. Snatching the wand out of his hand, you throw it to Harry. The blonde boy’s struggles are weak under your weight, almost half-assed as you feel the tension start to leave his muscles.

“Why?!” you shout in his face, grabbing him by the collar to keep him down. Tears well your eyes, but your gaze pierces through him nonetheless. The feelings of helplessness and emptiness are long gone as angry tracks burn down your cheeks. “Why—”

“Y/N!” Harry scoops you off him in one swift motion, pulling you to where your allies have regrouped. “This isn’t the time- w-we have to get out of here!”

You don’t say another word, and your infuriated eyes target the conflict and fear that resides in Draco’s. He’s left with the image of your anguish and fury engrained in his mind long after you disapparate.

V. Crossing Over

The Dark Lord himself beckoned him, and for a second you thought he might resist, but then his mother called him, extending her hand for him to come to her, and you saw him break.

“No!” You cry out as he starts to take hesitant steps towards the death eaters. “Draco, don’t do this!” His already shaky demeanor falters for a moment at the sound of his first name falling from your lips. “You have a choice.”

Steeling his nerves, he doesn’t allow himself to look back, because he would surely crumble under the weight of your gaze and the pain etched into your features. He continues forward, into the arms of a proud tyrant, and you swear your heart drops out of your chest.

Then, the whole scene with Neville’s heroic spirit ensues and you feel the fire within you flare up again when Harry tumbles out of Hagrid’s arms. Death Eaters that have been backing Voldemort start to disappear, leaving an unevenly distributed cloud of darkness.

Everyone else starts to retreat to the castle to regroup and fight as one, but you chase after the fleeing Malfoy family. It’s as though you have no control as your legs move under you on autopilot and as fast as they can go.

You’ve almost caught up to the trio on the bridge and can no longer help yourself.

“Coward!” You yell, trying your best not to let your voice crack, with no avail. It’s all you can do to keep the tears from spilling freely. Draco meets your eyes with his own that portray a boy who is terrified out of his mind, but you’re relentless. The truth isn’t always easy. “You’re a bloody coward, Malfoy!”

Avoiding your fiery gaze, he turns into his mother’s comfort. Not once do his eyes meet yours again before he disappears in a whisp of black smoke.

What you feel is rage, but with that rage comes with an added indescribable pain and disappointment.

+ Midsummer Night’s Dream

The next time you see the infamous Draco Malfoy is just over a year since he disapparated in a whisp of black smoke. Little do you know, immediately after apparating, the boy fell to his knees in the arms of his mother. He broke that day, and hasn’t been able to put himself back together since, contrary to the proud Malfoy mask he wears out in public. He hides behind crisp suits and perfectly-coiffed platinum locks. It’s enough to have anyone who reads the Daily Prophet fooled about how the heir carries onto a successful path despite everything that has happened.

But not you. He never could fool you of anything, really. So when you and your friends spot him taking a seat alone at the Three Broomsticks you know something’s up, because a refined Malfoy doesn’t just hang out amongst mere commoners like that.

“What is he doing here?” Ron spits out, red fury already starting at the tips of his ears and seething from his narrowed eyes.

As if on cue, Draco’s eyes lift from his glass to meet yours.

Hermione sends you a sympathetic smile before mumbling calming words to her boyfriend. The Malfoys and Weasleys always did get each other riled up.

Harry, who sits beside you, gives you a gentle nudge with his shoulder to get your attention and you can immediately read his expression. He can read yours just as easily and can see that you’re starting to get anxious. “Y/N…”

“Harry, it’s okay,” you simper, standing slowly from your seat. “I’ve got this.”

He casts a glance towards the blond across the room before his eyes come back meet yours, sending you a look as though to ask if you’re sure. You give him a nod and he sends you off with a comforting squeeze of your hand.

As you make your way to the table for one, you’re so focused on slowing your heart rate that you’ve arrived at your destination before you know it, seeing the shiny black dress shoes in contrast to the uneven wood panels of the pub’s floor. When you lift your gaze, it’s then that you realize he’s been staring at you the whole time.

“Malfoy.”

“Y/N.”

The sound of your first name rolling off his tongue lights something inside you— and it’s not pretty.

“What are you doing here?” You ask, your voice is steady, but with a strong undertone of something darker. Like the calm before a storm.

“Can’t a man enjoy a butterbeer on his own?” Despite him being absolutely terrified of you, he somehow manages to exude a certain lightness. You look at his untouched pint and raise an eyebrow and he knows you aren’t in the mood for small talk.

“Cut the shit, Malfoy.”

Recognizing the beginnings of anger in your tone, he stands as smoothly as he can manage and gestures towards the door. The last thing he wants is for you to snap because he knows very well what it’s like to be on the receiving end of your fury.

He follows closely behind as you lead him out into the dim lighting of Hogsmead. The summer air doesn’t feel as heavy as it has for the last week, and the sky proudly shows off the twinkling stars. It would be a perfect night if not for your circumstances.

You stop in your tracks and spin to face him so briskly, your forehead almost hits his chin. “You have one minute to talk before I hex you where you stand.”

“You always did excel in hexes and jinxes—”

“Fifty-five seconds, Malfoy.”

“Uh- erm- o-okay—”

You have about zero patience left. The anger thats been quietly bubbling for the last year has been on the brim of overflowing the second he walked in tonight, but so has all the pain and sadness you’ve kept locked up all this time. “You’re wasting my time.” You prepare to stalk off, but a firm hand pulls you back by your elbow, and for the the first time since the war, your face with Draco Malfoy. It’s the first time tonight that you can really see him. He looks worse than ever.

The silver pools that once resided in his irises look like shells of what they once were. And he sure felt that way, until he saw you. That’s when he realizes how empty he always is until he’s around you. My, how he took that for granted all these years.

Trying your very best, you fight against the urge to give into the part of you who still cares for him and wants to know the last time he had a good night’s sleep. You also try to fight against the water accumulation behind your eyelids, but it only makes it worse.

“What?! What do you want, Draco?!”

The use of his first name is the only sign he needs to be brave for once. Without further hesitation, he leans down to capture your lips in a kiss. Once over the initial shock, you give in for only a half second before you come to your senses and push him back, both hands planted firmly on his chest.

“What the bloody hell are you playing at?!”

“I-I- Y/N, I-I’m so—” Right then, is one of the few times you see what he’s really feeling on the inside be expressed on the outside. “I-I just-I thought—”

“You- you thought what?! We’d ride off into the sunset on the back of a unicorn and live happily ever after?!” You don’t care how frantic you look right now. You don’t care that the midsummer night wind is whipping your hair into complete and utter chaos. And you definitely don’t give a single fuck about how the drunk people stumbling by you giggle uncontrollably. You pause for a moment as you wait for them to be out of earshot, and once they are, you let out a frustrated breath and resume. “Did you honestly believe that you could kiss me, and then everything— all of the absolute shite of a mess would just go away?!”

His gaze drops to the ground that his shiny dress shoes stand on, with a few platinum strands that fall from their place. Those are the only visible signs of something amiss with the well-dressed man. But you see something else cloud his features: shame. The last time you saw that, which was also the last time you saw him, he left. He always left you while you were angry, enraged, and never stuck around to face the truth.

Draco Malfoy decides that this time is going to be different.

He has felt as empty as his eyes appeared for months, but when his gaze rolls back up to meet yours, you see the grey storms you saw when you first met him. Sure, they were masked by an outer shell that was brimming with entitlement, but they have now what they had then. Purpose.

“Y/N,” His hands twitch as he fights the urge to reach out for yours, deciding against it in favour of using two words you’ve been waiting to hear. “I’m sorry.” You soften, releasing the tension you didn’t realize you carried in your shoulders. The angry tears that stung the backs of your eyes melt to something peaceful as they escape their ducts. “I’m sorry for everything I put you through. I know I don’t deserve another chance, or any of the chances you’ve given me, but if you’ll give me one more I promise I’ll be better. Everything you’ve ever said about me is true; I am a coward, but I’m not leaving this time.”

“And what if I want you to leave?” You ask, testing the waters, more than anything else.

“If you tell me to leave— if that is what you truly want, then I will. Tell me to leave, and you’ll never have to see me again.”

“Okay, then leave.”

“Is that what you really want?”

“Y-Yes—” You stammer out a complete lie. Every cell on your body knows it’s a lie, and apparently so does he.

“I don’t believe you.”

More than anything, you want to fling yourself into his arms but you feel like your feet have been colashoo-ed to the ground. A corner of his mouth quirks up into a soft lopsided smile as his hands raise to thread fingers through the top of your hairline, smoothing wild strands away from your face. His touch is so careful and delicate than you could have ever imagined. He leans down slowly and stops just as his lips have brushed over yours, asking for permission, “I won’t if you don’t want me to.”

Syllables get caught in your throat, and channel themselves through you body as you move to slate your mouth over his. The sensation is so delicately mind-blowing, and it leaves you absolutely breathless when you pull away to lean your forehead against his.

All you can manage to breathe out is, “stay”.

The way your breath fans over his lips is intoxicating, and he’s certain he’s never seen anything more beautiful, no work of art finer, than the way you’re looking at him.

“I’m not leaving this time. Never again.”

His grasp tightens as he pulls you back to his lips and your fingers curl around the light fabric of his shirt. Every emotion and feeling accumulated over lost time is poured into this kiss.

This time, what you feel for him is something stronger and far different than anger.

[aph-honk-kong]

Fanged and Fair

When two equally-matched beings meet up for afternoon tea. [There’s really heavy making out please proceed with caution]

   A fairy does not only invite one over for tea. 

  There is always an ulterior motive, the hope that they may ensnare their unsuspecting guest and steal all that they have, or subject them to a fate even worse. There is no rejecting the invitation, either, especially if you are one of the night folk.

  When Aleksander finds the gilded card on his mantlepiece, sent by a fair one named Stellan, he is almost certain he will die. Many of the night folk who visit a fairy never return. But maybe he will change that. Maybe he will drain this fairy of his blood and plunge iron into his flesh, ridding the world of another of their kind. He will dodge the stakes and hide from the sun, and he will win.

  He dresses in preparation, hiding every inch of his skin with his ebony-black robes and covering his face with a veil. The sun cannot touch any inch of him if he plans to leave the fairy’s house alive.

  Just as an extra precaution, he slides an iron knife into one of his coat’s many pockets. One can never be too careful when dealing with fairies. 

  Aleksander reads up on the rules of etiquette while walking to Stellan’s house. If he violates even one of them, his fairy host is then allowed to punish him as he sees fit, which usually means killing him. He has salt in his pocket to counteract the effects of fairy food before it can magick away any rational thought.

  He arrives at Stellan’s house, a pretty little thing painted beige with a forget-me-not blue roof. The porch is trimmed with pots of hyacinth. Aleksander steels his nerves and knocks.

  The door swings open almost at once, revealing a young man too beautiful to be a killer. His sheer, pastel-blue blouse and shorts swirl as though in water, kept on his body only by the hyacinth blossoms around his wrists and ankles. Cornsilk hair falls into his eyes, and his blue-violet eyes are alight with dark glee. “Good afternoon.”

  “Good afternoon.” Aleksander bows, mustering a smile when the fairy bows back. “I take you’re Stellan?”

  “Yes, that is what you may call me.” Stellan holds out a hand. “May I have your name?”

  Many a night-folk has died here. They gave their true name to the fairy, and in the process gave their life away too. He will not fall for the same trick. “You may not. But you may refer to me as Aleksander.”

  The vibrant blue morpho wings on Stellan’s back flutter in agitation, but their owner shows nothing. “Very well. You may come in, Aleksander.”

  He dips his head in thanks before stepping over the doorway and into the house. The living room smells of lavender, and the furniture he can see is plain and pale. It certainly does not have the frivolous flamboyity that fae homes are usually known for.

  Stellan’s hands are on his shoulders before he knows it, finger drawing circles in the thick dark fabric. “May I take your coat?” 

  Aleksander glances back briefly; the fairy has a pretty silver ring on his fourth finger, one that’s far more beautiful than his own jewelled weapon. “No, thank you,” he responds. “It’s a bit chilly today, and I would rather not risk falling ill.”

  Those eyes, lined sultrily with silver ink, narrow. But he does not insist. “Please wait in the sitting room while I set the table.”

  How easy it would be, to lunge while Stellan’s back is turned. It would take no effort at all to pin him down, to drive his knife deep into his neck with the power that an explicit invitation gifts him. But he cannot. Not yet, at least.

  He goes to sit down at the soft sofa. The sitting room happens to have two ceiling-to-floor windows, and Aleksander is suddenly very grateful for his veil. He stares at the assortment of items on the tea-table, at books and needles and blocks of resin. They all look too normal to be owned by someone so wicked. 

  Stellan is humming, and he can be heard even beneath the sound of clinking cutlery. Aleksander reaches into his pocket and touches his knife for good luck.

  There is suddenly a soft fluttering of wings, and Stellan lands right behind him. “Tea is ready,” he announces in his soft, hypnotic voice.

  He follows him to the dining room, watching the soft, fluid sway of his hips. He follows this floaty, pretty fellow to the most dangerous meal of his life.

  The dining table, he observes, is set with a teapot, flower-painted teacups and a gilded, silver tea-tower. If it weren’t holding food with the ability to kill him, Aleksander would find it pretty.

   “I spent so much time preparing for this afternoon,” Stellan wisps. His gossamery clothes flutter in the gentle breeze, long sleeves flapping at him as though trying to reel him in. “I hope you will like the food.”

  He sits down in a chair the fairy pulls out for him, keeping his eyes trained on him. Stellan takes his seat across him and lifts up the teapot with long-fingered hands. “I brewed some rose tea for us today.” He pours Aleksander a cup. The cloying scent of the golden tea is nauseating. “The fae type, of course.”

   The fae’s inability to lie comes in handy again — now he knows he will need salt to counteract whatever effects the fae food has. But he cannot simply whip out the pouch of salt he has in his pocket, not when Stellan is watching with those mad periwinkle eyes. So Aleksander slips his hand into the pouch and takes a pinch, then nonchalantly passes his hand over his teacup while reaching for the sugar pot. The salt falls in, thankfully escaping his host's scrutiny.

   “Here.” Stellan places a canapé of sorts onto his plate. It is glistening with brown sauce; the puff pastry is glossy.

  “Thank you,” Aleksander says. He cannot sprinkle salt on the pastry where it will clearly be visible, so he goes for the next best thing. He casually picks up his teacup and saucer, wetting the tip of his index finger while he drinks the tea. It is heavy and bittersweet, and he’d be long-gone if not for the salt inside. He then slips his hand back inside the pouch and picks up a few grains of salt with his wet fingertip. The canapé goes down harmlessly.

   Stellan is watching him as he chews. Aleksander swallows and smiles behind his veil. “It is excellent.”

  “I am glad to hear that.” He retrieves a tart from the bottom layer and nibbles at it. “Please, take more.”

  To refuse would be a death sentence. Aleksander takes a dainty, cheese-filled choux pastry next, and wets his finger again under the guise of wiping his mouth. He manages to eat that without getting into trouble, but his veil catches a few crumbs. Swiftly, before Stellan can say anything about it, he brushes them away.

  He must start a conversation soon, lest silence reign for too long and he is declared inhospitable. Aleksander wipes his fingers on his napkin and looks up, saying, “your cooking is truly phenomenal. I have never tasted anything like it.”

  “Thank you.” Stellan bows his head in acknowledgement. His light, fluffy, white-gold hair glows in the abhorrent sunlight and resembles a halo about his head. “They do say that fae food has downright enchanting effects on the eater, after all.” He smiles, showing his pointed teeth from behind those pale rosy lips. “But one must be very careful with seasoning when working with them. Just a tiny bit of salt is enough to ruin the taste.”

  Aleksander notices how his eyes linger on the tea. At least he can’t say anything about it. “If even somebody with such an uncultured palate as myself can appreciate this, it is most definitely good.” 

  His long eyelashes flutter coquettishly; those manic eyes seem to pierce right through him. “Don’t say that,” he whispers. “Some would consider you as a man who is quite well-versed with the gourmet. After all, I believe you are here for the most enticing type of fae food?”

  He knows, he knows, he knows. But he must play the part of the polite host and cannot directly trap him. Stellan is fully aware of this, surely. Aleksander shrugs, feeling light-headed. He sneaks himself another grain of salt. “I’m not sure which type you speak of.”

  “You don’t know? I’m talking about fairy’s blood. It is incredibly sought-after, especially by those who roam in darkness.”

  “By those like me, you mean.”

  “Yes.” Stellan grits his teeth; still he cannot lie. Grudgingly, he continues, “I do not know why they want it so badly when us fae cannot even be turned.”

  “Some say that fairy blood has healing properties, but that’s not true.” Aleksander runs a thumb over the iron ring he has on — his only defence lest his host stop being amicable. “There are many rumours surrounding it and it’s difficult to know which is true and which is not.”

  He drinks from his cup, lips shiny with enchanted tea. “Well, what do you think? You are one of those dark things, surely you must know the truth.”

  Dark things. Not another of the folk, but a mere thing. And they wonder why the night folk despise the pretentious fae. This is his chance. “I do not know, for I have never had fairy blood before.”

  “Really?” Stellan tilts his head, gazes at him from behind those long eyelashes. He brushes his hair away and exposes his neck, creamy and flawless. Though he has not yet tasted it, Aleksander knows that it will be more delicious and deadly than any of the foodstuffs on the tea-tower. “Well, you have a fairy right in front of you, and permission to taste their blood.”

  It is so tempting. He cannot tear his eyes away from Stellan, baring himself so unabashedly. Every cell in Aleksander’s body screams at him to attack, to pin him against the wall and sink his fangs into his neck. 

  Stellan removes his silver ring and places it on the table in plain view, blinking placidly at him in a convincing image of surrender. “Go on,” he purrs, “you know you want to.”

  Goodness, he does. The rowan berries around his neck protect him from the glamour of the offer, but the mere tone in which it’s said, magical or not, is almost enough to convince him. His velvety voice envelopes Aleksander, makes his heart race. Heat pulsing through his very being, he stands up before he can stop himself. He hides his hands behind his back and slips off his gloves.

  The closer he gets to Stellan, the harder it is to hold back. His pretty pink lips are smirking softly; his eyes gleam. Aleksander drops the gloves onto the floor and reaches out to take ahold of his chin.

  He strikes.

  Grabbing his wrist, Stellan prevents the iron ring from making contact with his skin at the last moment. Fixing Aleksander with a frenzied glare, he takes his ring finger into his mouth and tears the ring away with his teeth, spitting it out onto the table. “You won’t take me that easily, night-folk,” he sneers. 

  “But I will have you.” Aleksander twists his wrist free and grabs his shoulder, pressing his fingers into the soft fabric of his blouse. He grabs Stellan’s chin with his other hand, hissing, “I will have you, and you will yield to me.”

  “Will I?” His other hand is on Aleksander’s arm, nails digging in in an attempt to free the bruising grip on his face. That courteous host is long-gone. 

  Shaking his hand off, Aleksander pushes Stellan against the wall of the dining room. He bares his teeth and bites his neck, probing the marks with his tongue as he does so. He breathes him in deeply, all the while trying to keep Stellan pinned against the wall.

  He’s writhing underneath him, trembling and teary-eyed. Aleksander feels him press against him beseechingly, as though he wanted to be bitten all this time. He bites him a second time, just to hear him gasp. When he pulls away, he’s light-headed too, panting against Stellan’s pierced neck. His fangs graze lightly against his skin.

  Mere seconds after the bite, Aleksander’s vision begins to blur. His mind, which was running a mile a minute with a plan on just when to pull his knife out, goes fuzzy. He feels warm and floaty, as though he’s had one too many glasses of good wine. His arms slacken.

  Losing control, he leans in and nips Stellan, not hard enough to draw blood but enough to sting. He sighs, tilting his head back to show more of his neck. The floaty fabric of his blouse yields to Aleksander’s insistent fingers. He cannot tell if he intended to bite and suck along his foe’s collarbone, leaving the tiniest pink marks along the pristine skin, but the sensation feels amazing. Aleksander trails them down to his sternum, relishing every twitch with every nibble.

  Stellan is clearly as intoxicated as him, high on his bite just as Aleksander is high on the aphrodisiac that is fae blood. Stellan releases his piercing grip on his arm and twists his fingers in his hair, pulling him in until their lips brush together. He tilts his head slightly in question.

  Aleksander smashes their lips together, tasting tea and sugar as he kisses him. He groans, butterfly wings fluttering lightning-fast. Stellan traces his bottom lip with his tongue. Heat seems to pulse from them both, setting them aflame with hatred that has miraculously transformed into desire. 

  He can hardly breathe when he pulls away, arms covered in the red crescents his foe’s nails left behind and lips stinging. Stellan looks downright ruined, with bite-marks all over his neck and collarbone and swollen lips. His eyes are glazed over. With dark satisfaction, Aleksander notices that his blouse has been pulled away to expose one of his slight shoulders. 

  They stay like that for a while, panting and delirious against the wall. Aleksander is the first to speak, breathlessly announcing, “if fae blood can make a night-folk do this, I am not surprised that many want it so badly.”

  “You seem to be a peculiar exception, for most night-folk strong enough to taste fae blood never leave the fairy alive.” He smooths down his ruffled hair, trying in vain to cover the marks left by their passionate duel. “In any case, since you have managed to survive this afternoon, I see no reason why you may not come again.”

  “To risk my life once more?”

  He shakes his head. “No, to have more of this.” Stellan gestures at his bruised neck. “Though if you would like to be kissed within an inch of your life again, I would not be against it.”

  “Neither would I,” Aleksander says. He cups his cheek gently, running his thumb over a mark at the corner of his mouth. “So when I arrive tomorrow, I expect I’ll be served un-enchanted food, and be guaranteed to leave here alive?”

  “Tomorrow?” He smirks. “Certainly, Aleksander. I will be waiting tomorrow afternoon, with treats far more delicious than the ones served today.” He pecks him on the nose. “I will be looking forward to it.”

  He bends down to pick his gloves up and slides them back on. “Until then.”

  He must be the first of his kind, to not only survive afternoon tea with a fairy, but take their blood and nearly bed them. Aleksander leaves the cottage with a grin, already anticipating tomorrow’s thrill.

[wxlawson]

[ WAGNER ‘WOODY’ LAWSON. 42. CISMALE. HE/HIM] is here! They’ve lived in Silver Lake for [ THREE YEARS ] and are originally from [ TENESEE]. They are a [ MANAGER AT A DUDE RANCH ] and in their downtime love [ COLT STARTING ] and [ TAKING NAPS IN THE HAYLOFT ]. They look a lot like [ MILO VENTIMIGLIA] and live [ IN OASIS APTS ]

Name: Wagner ‘Woody’ Lawson

Age: Forty-Two

Birthday: January 25, 1979

Sign: Aquarius

Home: Quaint two-bedroom home with a small yard

Occupation: Manager at a dude ranch

Character Quote: “Sometimes I feel like Jesse James / Still tryin’ to make a name / Knowing nothing’s gonna change what I am” ~Troubadour by George Strait

Pos. Traits: Hard-Working, Steady, Humble

Neg. Traits: Blunt, Firm, Dissonant

Likes: farm work, aged whiskey, loping through the open country

Dislikes: people who push around others, well-done steak, warm beer

Aesthetic: tennessee whiskey, the smell of fresh hay, roping

~bio~

Born in Tennessee Wagner Lawson was raised along the banks of Mississippi mud, never given a chance to be anything but the down-home country boy, which had always suited Wagner just fine. His daddy was a colt starter and former rodeo champion, having won national titles for roping and reining. From the moment Wagner could waddle he was following his daddy around everywhere, at first just watching as his father worked and as he got older helping with the chores himself. He found that spending time tending to the many horses cathartic and volunteered for just about any chore that would get him around them. Never once did he need to be asked to pitch in to do what was needed at the family ranch, from picking vegetables in the garden for his mama to helping his daddy check the cattle fences. As far as most childhoods go, his was pretty perfect. Sure, sometimes his dad drank too much and sometimes his mom just would not stop fussing over him, but he had no cause to complain.

His father, seeing his boy take an interest in horses at such a young age decided to help Wagner begin to follow in his footsteps. As a kid he enrolled Wagner in the pee-wee portion of rodeos where his wife would take pictures of the young boy struggling to stay on the back of a wildly running sheep, but in the end, he stayed on. He almost always did. With natural talent like that his father was quick to get his son started on the path to becoming a bull-rider. His mama threw fits and got into fights with his daddy, it was too dangerous, he could be hurt, killed even, but as he got older and started to have a mind of his own there was nothing that he wanted to do more. So he practiced, and practiced. By sixteen he was competing on broncs, a safer alternative to the bull, and was cleaning up at junior rodeos, his room becoming full of belt buckles, the tack room full of all the special made trophy tack he had won. But being bucked was far from his only talent. At age ten he had broke his very first colt and at twelve he was winning local roping competitions. He even became adept at helping his dad sort and catch cattle, something he was never fond of but did anyways as it was expected of him. Despite how it sounds, his childhood wasn’t all work. While never the best in school he managed to get passing marks and had a group of boys he roughhoused and fucked around with who were constantly getting him into trouble as a teenager.

Fast forward a few years and he was one of the hottest young bull riders to hit the circuit. But his career as a rider didn’t last as long as anyone would have hoped. The reason? He fell in love. Some would have called the pretty woman he fell in love with a buckle bunny, what with her affinity of dating all the big rodeo stars, but when him and her spent one night together the rest was history. Now twenty-two and married with a baby on the way, Wagner knew he could not be as hell mell as he had been for the past few years. He now had a family to think about; and so, he quit bull riding and switched exclusively to broncs. It was still dangerous, but the risks less than if he was on the back of a bull. Life went on and for the most part the little family was happy, until tragedy struck. On the night of his twenty-eighth birthday, with his wife and little girl in the stands, he overtightened the strap around his hand. At first everything seemed to be going well, he had one of his best times, but as he threw himself off the bucking bronco his hand caught. It was an instant disaster. The animal began to panic, bucking harder and higher, with Wagner hanging on for dear life. His only blessing was that the first hoof to his head knocked him out cold. He was rammed into the side of the fence and drug for minutes before those in charge of wrangling the horse were finally able to calm it down. In the midst of the chaos, his wife, fretting over her husband, had not noticed her daughter slip down through the stands calling out for her daddy. No one noticed her presence in the ring until it was too late. All it took was one wrong move from the frightened animal and the sunshine of Wagner’s life was no more.

The blow to Wagner’s own head had been so severe that he was kept in a medically induced coma for two-weeks, giving the wounded flesh time to heal. When he awoke, his whole world was shattered. He grieved, and as he did his grief turned to anger. Anger at the situation, anger at the long arduous healing process, and anger at himself. But all that anger had to go somewhere, and with the only person around during his recovery being his wife, she took the brunt of it. It took him a little over a year to fully heal physically, and during that time he began to develop a dependency on his pain medication. He spent his days sitting in front of the tv drinking beer after beer on top of the opiates as his wife worked in a small diner to try and keep the roof over their heads. One day, a year and half after the tragic accident, the woman had decided that she had had enough. She gave Wagner an ultimatum, get help or she was gone. It led to largest fight yet, a massive blowout that made it clear where Wagner stood.

At that point he was nearing thirty and with nowhere else to go moved back in with his parents. His father though older now was still tough as nails and no patience for his son’s pansiness as he called it. He put Wagner to work. Sober or not he was expected to help, and if he didn’t, God help him. At first he railed, his rage boiling over and eclipsing everything. Rather than argue with his son, the elder Lawson simply gave him a new task. It would be his only job- start the colts. It was something Wagner had used to excel at, but his anger and rage at the horse’s mis compliance made things difficult. The gentle animals became scared of him and began to lash out. One colt in particular, a beautiful bay, resented Wagner more than any of the others, and he let him know it. That was Wagner’s wake up call. He ended up forming a bond with that colt that pulled him out of his stupor and set him back on track. His special relationship with that animal also earned him a nickname, Woody, because wherever Woody went, Buzz followed. Buzz and Woody quickly began racking up wins in roping and reining competitions, and for the next years, Woody allowed himself to feel the happiness that had come into his life. The two traveled all over the countryside, with Woody picking up odd jobs such as stable hand or working cowboy. Until one competition where in the middle Buzz came up lame with an injury too bad to fix, leaving Woody the tough choice of having to put his beloved companion down.

The loss of his friend sent Wagner ass-first back into the destructive patterns of his life, drugs and alcohol once more waging war inside his body. Only this time he wasn’t a young man, and the substances were taking a heavy toll on his health, not that he cared. His parents, unable to reach him, packed his things and kicked him out. Woody’s father, unable to completely give up on his son, reached out to an old friend who owned a dude ranch an hour outside of LA. For over a year Woody lived there, forced to claw his way back to sobriety through back-breaking labor. The option was always there for him to quit the job, fend for himself, but the company of the horses and being the source of looking after their well-being brought him back from the brink much like it had the last time. A year and a half later he was completely back on the wagon, though he can be known to slip with the drinking whenever the subject of his daughter is brought to the forefront of his mind, mainly around birthdays, his and hers, as well as holidays. 

Wanting more independence Woody turned in his resignation, thanking his father’s friend for getting him back on his feet. Much to his surprise, rather than accept his two weeks notice, he offered Woody a promotion: to oversee the entire running of the dude ranch. It is a big job and one he takes very seriously, knowing that the overall welfare of the horses depends on him, even if he is no longer responsible for their day to day care. That was three years ago.

Since then he’s moved into an apartment at Oasis Apartments in Silver Lake, a place where he could have his freedom yet still manage his responsibilities. Anyone who’s ever been inside his apartment will say it looks like a country movie blew up, with saddles scattered on stands throughout the place and rodeo memorabilia hung up throughout, but for him, it’s the closet thing to home.

[coffeeandcalligraphy]

I must know *everything* about this immediately so 💛💔💞💟

For some context, this book is (for now) about 15-year-old Eva who commits to living off-the-grid with her neighbour Lillian and Lillian’s three kids, Charlie, Vera, and Jack. Upon the passing of her husband, Lillian is convinced the sun is an evil, poisonous force that drives people to their ultimate deaths. To protect herself and her family, she spontaneously leaves her life behind and takes Eva, a now close family-friend, with her, to a remote cabin where they only live at night. Eva is thrilled at first, having come from an emotionally absent household, but quickly realizes something is not right when Lillian’s only daughter Vera turns up dead shortly after her sixteenth birthday. 

(IT GETS CULT-Y)

💛: what is the title based on?

This book is so new (as in I came up with the idea 2 days ago!!!) so I don’t know if the title will change/stay relevant, but my idea is that Lillian (the mother) believes the sun is a toxic force that essentially drives people to their ultimate deaths (usually suicide but can also be a bit of a hex and cause accidental deaths). She is... wild!!! Hence: The Sun Only Drowns Us !!!

💔: give a brief character bio of your 3-5 MCs

Eva:

Our MC + narrator (named by @imdisappointed!!! we have all the “eve” MCs apparently? that’s how it be)

15 at the start of the book

Kind of soft. Though she comes across as naïve, she isn’t fully, and does recognize the strange/wrong in the situations she’s in. She’s quite emotionally removed because of her upbringing, and I’d describe her as a generally passive person. She doesn’t stand up for herself, even when she knows things aren’t right (which oh boy! are they! not! right!) and is easily scared into submission. She desperately wants to please people, and will commit to bizarre situations even if they make her feel uncomfortable. She kinda gives me Wanda from The Host vibes??

Here’s a snippet that kind of describes her vibes for a scene I just wrote: I didn’t know what I had done. WhyJack wanting me to be his airplane meant I was guilty. I didn’t realize I didnot have to have done something wrong to be convicted.

Lillian:

Mother of Charlie, Vera, and Jack

She’s WILD

Lillian wants to appear as a normal, loving mother, but can’t hide her unhinged, abusive habits. While she is the only “healthy” mother figure Eva knows, she is not at all the loving mother Eva sees her as. She feels betrayed by her husband’s passing, and uses his death as a means to propel the isolation of her family off-the-grid. She’s possessive and obsessive over all of her children, but particularly Charlie (the oldest).

Charlie:

In his early twenties (I’ve written him in as 23 but could be subject to change)

Though he appears as an aloof, strange character, he actually is kind of personality-less? Everything about Charlie is reflective of his mother, who he’s very close with. He’s kind of a sponge in this way, who’s willing to do anything for her. I don’t know enough about him just yet (though I wrote an entire scene with him lol), but not going to lie--it’s getting messy and he has not one single good vibe!

Vera:

I honestly don’t think Vera’s going to be in the book (at least not in the fictive present) just because she dies very early on lol. I don’t know very much about her, just that she’s very young when she dies (cause of death: the sun), and that she does not like her mother. She’s very much closer to her father, and doesn’t like the circumstances in which he died/her mother’s reaction to his death/living off-the-grid. She’s not having it! 

She and Eva are the closest in age, so I’m excited to explore their relationship, as Eva is more friends with her mother, than her. 

I might change her name just because it’s kind of close to Eva, but also knowing what I know this may or may not actually work??? We shall see...

Jack:

A youngin! (He’s five)

He and Eva are by far, the closest in the story, and Eva is known to have babysat him, despite that fact that he has siblings (if that says anything about the siblings). Jack is obviously naïve to his mother (and also older brother’s) toxicity, but finds comfort in Eva. They have a bit of a “language” together (games they play, nonverbal communication). He looks up to her, and stands up for her more than she stands up for him, even when she wants to.

💞: which future scene are you looking forward to writing?

I’m just hyped to write the first chapter! I have a scene of that done (maybe the third scene), so now I just need to work backward and stitch it together. I also have the opening written, and have an idea for how it may end. I also already wrote this random scene, but I’m excited to stitch it into the book--it’s a bit spoilery and since it’s so early on, I won’t share what exactly it’s about, but here’s an excerpt!

Hehushed me, his hair damp and rank with lake water. Flecks of it pattered ontomy ankle, and made the flesh there feel starry with bleach. “I brought yousomething,” he said, adjusted himself closer to me, and pulled a soft plum fromhis jacket pocket. He tossed it once, so it glittered, airborne, and caught itwith his teeth. Charlie didn’t bite into it further than that. He only used histeeth to pull a single flap of loosened skin from the plum, like he thoughtthis would impress me. 

💟: how is your style different in this work compared to previous ones? has it more shifted for the story or just developed in general?

I think this is the first work I’ve been able to really write with my own style, in the genre I like to write, with the audience I want to write for from the beginning. While I love FOSTERED (I truly adore her), the series did not start out in my found style or my genre. I started those books when I was really getting my footing with writing, which I’m grateful for, but since I’ve written nothing but this series for years, I have never really written something with the idea coming to me as an adult litfic novel (really I’ve just adapted an old idea multiple times to suit my needs). 

I’ve wanted to write a book outside of FOSTERED for so many years, but have not gotten a single novel idea for the last five years lol. This was the first, and it overwhelmed me with how quickly it came on?? While there are so many holes still since it’s so new, I’m confident it’ll turn into something, which I haven’t felt in so long. I initially was actually scared to make it a novel because I’ve been trying to work on Houses With Teeth and I haven’t written a novel outside of FOSTERED since I’m Disappointed (which was almost five years ago), nor with brand new characters I have to start with from the ground up. But it’s been motivating (and distracting as I try to write a term paper lol) and I can’t wait to explore this idea even more!

You can also bet I will come on here with an update once that first chapter is sorted!

--Rachel

[yeenybeanies]

Gone Hunting pt. 3

final installment probably! At least for this little story. This one took a hot minute to get out, but ¯\_(ツ)_/¯  also as a sidenote: devin doesn’t care what pronouns people refer to them as. most people, arthur included, refer to them as she/her, & they could not care less  

arthur morgan, charles smith, & devin clarke ( oc ) 

1586 words

language, blood, and some violence warnings

feel free to leave comments in the tags!! thanks!! 

part 1 | part 2 

" I heard it that time. ”  

“ Shh! Quiet! Don’t wanna wake them––– ” 

“ Is it far away? Sounds so faint–––”  

“ ARTHUR WAKE UP!! ”  Devin ducks and scuttles along their sleeping cowboy companion’s side, trying desperately to rouse him. The quiet crunch of boots on rock and sand reaches their ears as one of the bandits comes into view. The borrower freezes, not even daring to breathe. They intend to stay silent, but the second bandit looms right over Arthur’s middle, and over them. They can’t help it; they let out a squeak, which has both bandits looking right down at them. 

Oh no. 

Devin swears their heart stops for a moment. There’s no way the bandits don’t see them. Panic threatens to overwhelm them, but they do manage to secure one clear thought: if they run, they might be able to distract the bandits long enough for Arthur to wake up. 

And so they run. They bolt. They dash away from Arthur, fighting every instinct that screams, begs for them to find cover. They run towards the fire pit, placing themself even more into view. They even wave their hands! And make noise! Oh, they are going to get themself killed for this useless goddamn cowboy! 

“ What the hell is that thing? ” 

“ Might be worth somethin’! ” 

The bandit further from Arthur takes one step forward, only to stop short as a flash of silver sails through the air just in front of his face. A gross, gurgling noise draws attention to the second bandit, now clutching his neck around that silver––a throwing knife––buried into his flesh. He stumbles, tripping over Arthur and falling onto him. 

Finally Arthur wakes up. He jolts with a start to see a man bleeding out on his lap with a knife in his neck, and another man running towards––towards Charles! And Charles, being the badass he is, needs only to flick his wrist again and send another knife flying. It embeds its way into the bandit’s left eye, dropping him on the spot. 

Arthur blinks, a little slow to process what’s just happened in the five seconds he’s been awake. When everything clicks, he flinches, pushing the now-dead bandit off of his lap, and clutches his hat to his chest. 

“ Devin? ”  The worry is thick in his voice. He peeks under the hat, only to find the borrower missing. Fear sets in quickly, like ice in his veins. Arthur twists, looking around himself frantically.  “ Devin? Devin, where––– ” 

“ A-Arthur . . .! ”  

His head snaps up.  “ Devin? ”  

“ So you two do know each other. ”  Charles says, shifting to stand from his crouched position. His hands are cupped before him. Peeking just over his curled fingers, Arthur can see the top of a tiny head–––

“ Devin! ”  Arthur scrambles up to his feet. There’s Devin! . . . in Charles’ hands . . .. It hits him like a landslide. Devin is in Charles’ hands! Charles is holding Devin! Who is supposed to be a secret!  “ Er . . .. ” 

“ So this is  ‘ Devin, ’  then? ”  Charles glances down at the little being. They look . . . terrified. They stare right back up at him with big ( relatively speaking ) brown eyes. Charles feels a twinge of guilt for scaring them ( how would he feel if he was caught in the palm of some giant being? ) but he doesn’t see much a way to avoid it.

Arthur thinks his heart has stopped. With how his mouth is hanging open, he’d think that he’d be bound to catch a fly. A few guttural noises, a weak attempt at speech in this shocking moment, leave him, but nothing is coming just yet. He isn’t sure where to look: to Charles or to Devin. 

“ . . . Arthur? ”  The man’s dumbfounded look is enough to draw Charles’ attention away from the little being in his hold.  “ Are you going to say something? You have a fair bit of explaining to do. ” 

“ Uhm . . .. ”  All eyes drop back down, following the squeak from Charles’ hands.  “ It was an, uhm––an accident, ”  Devin offers. They struggle to minimize the shake in their voice. Charles lifts a brow.  “ I’m not suppose to be here, and, uh . . . you weren’t supposed to see me. ” 

“ She’s––she’s a friend a’ mine, ”  Arthur manages finally. He swallows down his unease and clears his throat.  “ She and I were talkin’ when you came to my tent, and I had to hide her, and . . . well . . . here she is now. ” 

“ Where did you . . . hide her? ”  

“ His hat. ”  The borrower answers before Arthur can, a hint of their prior resentment resurfacing. Charles frowns at Arthur. 

“ You put her in your hat? ”  His voice is flat, unimpressed.  “ That’s why you’ve been acting weird. You couldn’t just, I don’t know, discretely set her down somewhere to avoid this whole thing? ” 

If Devin were in better spirits, they might chime in again to chastise Arthur as well. That’s what they’d said the whole ride over! But Arthur already got that earful for a good portion of that ride. 

“ W-well, I––how could I? You didn’t give me much opportunity to––I mean . . .. ”  first he had to hear it from Devin, and now from Charles? Arthur huffs.  “ Can we just––– ”  he needs to refocus ( change the subject ).  “ Devin. Are you alright? Not hurt, are ya? ”  

The borrower perks up. They still look uncomfortable, scared, but they seem to be calming down . . . a little. Arthur’s fingers twitch, wanting to reach out and lift them from Charles’ hands, but he isn’t sure that’d ease them any. 

“ I, uh . . . no, I’m not hurt. ”  They look up between Arthur and Charles, feeling awkward and very, very small. Earlier today was the first time Arthur had ever held them, and now they’re in the hands of someone they don’t know. 

“ Well. ”  Charles shifts his hold, offering the borrower to Arthur, who immediately cups his own hands to accept them. Understandably, they aren’t too thrilled with being passed about, but Charles figures they might be a bit more comfortable with someone they know.  “ Devin. I’m Charles Smith. ”  He bends down, getting almost to their eye level. His lips quirk up slightly in what he hopes to be a reassuring smile.  “ Any friend of Arthur’s is a friend of mine. And I think I’m a bit better at keeping secrets than he is. ” 

Arthur groans.  “ I reckon I’ll be apologizin’ for this one for weeks . . .. ”  His fingers straighten, letting both parties see each other better. Yeah. This has been quite the mess, this hunting trip. 

“ Try months, ”  Devin corrects. Whether there’s any merit in that correction or not is up for debate ( though more likely not; they do have a soft spot for the cowboy, despite everything ). Arthur can only shoot them a sheepish look. 

" We should get rid of these bodies, ”  Charles says, straightening back to his full height.  “ And you should change your pants. ” 

Arthur grimaces and looks down at himself. His pants are soaked and splotched with blood, still wet and sickeningly warm. Thankfully he has another pair in his saddlebag. He can change after they’ve moved the dead bandits. Fingers curl inward again to cup around Devin so Arthur can move them somewhere safe and out of the way. 

“ Devin, I–I’ll say it a thousand times, ”  he starts, knelt and setting the borrower down on a rock,  “ as many times as I got to: I really am sorry for this, er . . . debacle. Hope you’d know I never mean to put you in any sort’a danger. ” 

“ Hey. ”  Devin reaches out before Arthur can fully pull his hand away, settling their tiny hands on his index finger.  “ I know. I do know, Arthur. Just get me home safe and we’re square, okay? Sound like a deal? ”  They pat that finger and offer up a smile––the first they’ve given Arthur since before they left this afternoon. He can’t help but return it, nor can he help the warm feeling blooming in his chest.

“ You have my word, Miss Devin, ”  he promises. 

Charles waits for Arthur by the bodies, having removed his knives from their respective throat and eye socket. Once Arthur joins him, the two men set to carrying the corpses one at a time away from their campfire. They dump them a few-hundred yards out, far enough away so that any scavengers they might attract wouldn’t bother the camp. 

Upon their return, Devin is still where Arthur left them, much to his relief. He quickly changes into his clean pants, and settles down next to the rock he’d set them on with a heavy sigh. Charles does the same on the other side, albeit a little farther away, not wanting to crowd Devin. 

“ Quite a day, ”  Arthur muses. 

“ You can say that again. ”  Devin huffs a sigh of their own and sits down, leaning against Arthur’s resting arm. To put things lightly, it’s been a stressful day for the both of them. Devin looks over at Charles, studying him for a moment. They’re sure he’s doing the same, if not more subtly. It’s strange to not hide from him, but they managed to get through it with Arthur. They can get used to Charles just the same.  “ Devin Clarke, ”  they say. 

Charles hums, looking at them directly. 

“ My name, ”  they continue.  “ I realize I, uh, didn’t fully introduce myself earlier. ” 

His expression softens, a smile curving his lips.  “ Nice to meet you, Miss Clarke. ” 

“ Just  ‘ Devin. ’  We’re . . . all friends here. ”  

They should get some rest, all of them. Tomorrow still awaits, continuing the debacle, as Arthur called it. At least now, though, Devin doesn’t need to hide––not until they get back to camp.

[completelynobody]

Legis....It’s you

Olidas' Afternoon, 15th day of Summer's Warmth, Year 45 A.E.

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

United Merchant's Guild Hall, Freehold of Proust

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

Lex Legis handed over the parchment containing the completed form he was required to fill out in order to be considered for the position.

"All the information you asked for."

The halfling behind the counter accepted it, and looked it over with a skeptical scowl.

"Right....Mister Legless..."

"Legis," He interrupted, "Lex Legis."

The halfling gave him a sidelong glance.

"That's what I said...Legis...anyway, the Kaelinth city guard is currently at a full roster. If you're dead-set on a city guard position, Jobrak will be where the action is."

Lex nodded.

"Wherever...its fine."

The halfling set the parchment down.

"If you're so motivated to be a guard, why not try one of the kingdoms? The lords are always looking to hire guards, or outriders."

Lex shook his head.

"Nobody in any of the kingdoms had any use for my father. Now, I don't have any use for them. I'm perfectly happy in Proust."

The halfling shrugged.

"Suit yourself. I'll get this information into the works. Someone will come out to talk to you shortly."

Lex nodded.

These guild people were very thorough. He liked that.

After a lifetime of uncertainty, things were finally following a logical order for him.

Born to off-world parents, Lex never really was accepted by the children his age, who were born native to this world.

His father, being an off-worlder was forced to find work where he could. That meant the Legis family often had to move from settlement, to settlement.

Despite his father's prowess in battle, none of the native born rulers particularly cared to hire him on.

Probably due to the blue tinted flesh, inborn to his race.

The Zenythri, a people who could trace their lineage back to beings hailing from the outer planes devoted to law and order, were rare enough on the world his family escaped, before the Illithids ravaged it. Here, on Alluria, the Legis family was positively unique.

Unfortunately, uniqueness was not a favorable condition in this world's different societies.

When Lex reached fifteen years of age, he left his family back in the lands of the western frontier, and made his way as a mercenary adventurer.

Using all his father had taught him of the art of marksmanship using blaze-dust weapons, Lex had made a name for himself among the ranks of independent men-at-arms.

In the intervening decade, Lex had shed blood on two continents against all manner of foes.

He preferred to take jobs working for established rulers...much the same way his father had tried.  Despite their resistances to hiring men like him. Men who were different.

No matter what the cause, some part of him could not be brought to work for any entity opposed to the established authority.

After ten years of it, Lex had seen enough though. The disorder that invariably accompanied the nomadic lifestyle of adventuring was wearing on him.

He chose to settle in Proust.

Lex couldn't quite explain why, though. Perhaps it was the inherent disorder of the freehold's lack of any centralized authority that called to him? A situation that, on some inborn level, he felt he could rectify.

The closest thing to a governing body in the freehold was the United Merchants Guild. Moral ambiguities aside, they represented order in the region. It was that order that appealed to Lex the most.

Of course, the money wasn't bad either.

"Lex Legis?"

A comely human female was holding his parchment. She cut an impressive figure, standing rigidly amidst the bustling happenings of the guild hall.

"Here, I'm here."

He stood and waved a hand to gain her attention.

She looked at him with a blank expression, belying no prejudices she may have due to his unusual skin tone.

"You're here applying to join the guard?"

He nodded.

"Yes, someplace fixed though. One of the towns or cities. I'm not exactly eager to patrol long stretches of empty roads."

She smiled.

"I completely understand. Follow me."

She lead him back to an out-of-the-way office, deeper in the guild hall. Holding open the door she beckoned him inside.

Once in, she closed the door and rounded the desk.

Settling into her chair, she indicated the empty seat across from her.

"Make yourself comfortable Mr. Legis."

Lex sat, hands folded in his lap.

"My name is Dandria Dustil. I'm chief recruiter for the guild's security forces here in Proust."

Lex studied her. Her dark hair and features, as well as her tan skin tone spoke volumes as to her origins.

"You're Redgulan, are you not?" He asked.

She blushed.

"Yes, originally. I was born on a farmstead north of Lanterum. But I moved to the city when I was very young. Lived there until the attack eleven years ago. Now I'm a proud citizen of Proust."

He nodded with a slight smile.

Changing the subject, Dandria pretended to recheck the information on the parchment.

"So you're aware of the fact we're looking to fill the ranks of the Jobrak guard, yes?"

Lex nodded.

"Like I told the small-fellow out there, wherever is fine."

Dandria offered a nod in return.

"It says here your preferred method of armament is a blaze-dust pistol?"

Lex smiled.

"Its a family thing. My parents and I came here from another world with the rest of the refugees escaping the Illithid armada. Where we came from, my father was a fairly respected warrior. His weapon of choice was the same as mine is today."

She offered no indication of approval or disapproval.

"Those weapons have become more common since the war. The old Admiralty made use of them extensively. Did you serve?"

Lex shook his head.

"I thought about it, but if my father wasn't good enough for them, then they weren't good enough for me."

She clicked at him with a humorous tone.

"Oooh...a bit of callousness? That'll come in handy here in the freeholds."

He shrugged.

"Let's just call it a pragmatic indifference."

She smirked.

"Fair enough. It also says here you've done wok as a bounty hunter?"

He nodded again.

"Yes. Tracking down lawbreakers mostly. Bringing crooks to justice just appeals to my nature, I guess."

She quirked a brow.

"Were any of these 'crooks' guild members?"

He chuckled.

"A few."

Dandria reclined in her chair.

"Then why come work for the guild if you know we don't exactly operate within the law all the time?"

Lex shrugged.

"I figure, here, you are the law. Doesn't affront me much if the laws of other regions are being bent. Just so long as what's law here remains consistent and equally enforceable."

She smiled again.

"They are indeed."

She leaned forward and used a quill to sign off on the parchment.

"You can go ahead and report to the constabulary headquarters in Jobrak. Bring your gun. I suspect you'll need it sooner than later. As far as I'm concerned, you're the newest copper in the Jobrak city guard."

Lex smiled and got to his feet.

"Thank you Miss Dunstil. I'll head out first thing."

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

Heindas' Evening, 10th Day of Summer's Ebb, Year 47 A.E.

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

The Nymph's Nest brothel, Jobrak, Freehold Territory of Proust.

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

"Yes, Lord Idald, I am fully aware of your status in the Kingdom of Redgulus. But, as I've repeatedly reminded you, you're not in Redgulus."

Lex shook his head when he took in the state of the Redgulan nobleman's appearance.

Half-dressed, covered in spatters of vomit and other less identifiable stains. The noble shook a fist toward him.

"I am Rosgrave Idald, second son of Count Hernon Idald!"

He waved a sheet of wine-stained vellum at Lex.

"And I've just gotten word of my father's passing! So...naturally, I am grieving in the proper Redgulan fashion! I'm getting drunk and sporting with harlots!"

He waved the vellum so hard, he threw off his own balance. He stumbled into Lex's partner, a gruff Dwarf named Gaorge Stonepalm. Gaorge shoved the nobleman to the floor.

"Keep off of me with all that mess!"

Gaorge clenched a fist.

"Or I'll spill the contents of yer skull all over this lovely carpeting!"

Several of the courtesans who worked at the brothel looked on from an adjoining room.  Lex could hear their whispers of disgust.

He gently reached out and clutched Gaorge's wrist, giving it a quick squeeze, calming the dwarf.

"I am sorry for your loss Lord Idald. But that doesn't mean you can shirk your bill here. These ladies have provided a service for you, and they expect to be compensated. If you don't pay up, my partner and I will have no choice but to take you to the city's jail, and hold you until your family sends funds to cover what you owe, as well as post your bail. I'm quite sure the last thing your poor, beleaguered mother needs right now, in this difficult time, is word that one of her sons is sitting in a freehold city's jail cell because he refused to pay his brothel tab."

The lord rolled onto his ass and sat on the floor, drunk and incredulous.

He began to weep.

"I'm sorry!"

He grabbed a fat coin purse from his belt and threw it at Lex and Gaorge.

"Here! Just take it! Take it all. I don't care anymore!"

He accentuated his words with more waves of the vellum.

Gaorge smiled and picked up the pouch, testing its weight.  He looked to Lex.

"This ought to cover the bill, and then some. A pittance for our troubles?"

Lex shook his head and took the coin purse.

"No, Mister Stonepalm, we're duly compensated for the work we do."

He opened it and counted out enough coin to cover the nobleman's bill. He handed the coins to Gaorge.

"Go settle Lord Idald's account, I'll get his lordship on his feet and out of here. I'll see about getting him a room at the Red Boar Inn. Meet me there."

Gaorge smirked as he eyed up the ladies who were turning on their sultry charms now that the Dwarf had gold in his hand.

"You bet Legis. Say...an hour?"

Lex glared at him.

"Ten minutes. And that's to pay the bill already due, not for your own sport.”

Gaorge scowled.

"Pelor’s balls, Legis, yer too uptight sometimes. Whatever. I'll meet you in ten."

Lex nodded and crouched down, helping Rosgrave to his feet, and tucking the coin purse back into the nobleman's belt.

"See you there."

He threw the nobleman's arm around his shoulder to help support him.

"Come on now Lord Idald, let's get you somewhere you can sleep this off."

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

Hexdas' Midnight, 23rd day of Autumn's Rest, Year 49 A.E.

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

Beggar's Alley, Jobrak, Freehold of Proust

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

Lex cursed and he crouched behind a stack of ruined crates, and quickly went about reloading his pistol.

Lex really hated the undead. Especially vampires. Even more so when those vampires liked to cast spells at him.

He looked across the alley to his partner Gaorge. Smiling, as he worked at reloading, he called out to the wounded dwarf.

"How we doing over there, Stoney?"

The Dwarf clutched at a wound on his scalp that was still gushing blood.

"Me? Oh, I'm just fuckin' dandy! Its all fresh mangoes and perky pixie-tits over here!. How about you, Legis? Still fiddling with that stupid gun? Anyone ever tell you swords don't need reloading?"

Lex smirked as he tamped the ball and powder tight.

"And anyone ever tell you that swords require you to get awfully close to the raging vampires you're trying to vanquish?"

He peered up from behind his cover to see the vampire was working out the somatic component to another spell.

He crouched back down and cursed again.

"He's warming up another one Stoney! What's the plan?"

The dwarf pulled his hand away from the wound and rubbed his bloody fingers together. He laughed.

"Same strategy my father's great grandfather, Orlock Stonepalm used against the dreaded Minotaur Lord of the Sullen-Depths Labyrinth!"

Lex chuckled.

"Let me guess...we rush it?"

The Dwarf hefted his axe and nodded.

Lex shook his head as he pulled back the firing mechanism.

"Our Warforged colleague, Constable Spade, tried that already. He didn't fair so well."

Gaorge shrugged.

"Maybe the bloodsucker will be surprised we'd be dumb enough to try it too?"

Lex rolled his eyes.

"Alright, on three...I'll put a ball in the bastard while you clear the distance and hack it down."

Gaorge smiled.

"I can agree to that."

Lex grinned.

"You know why I love being partnered with you Stoney?"

The dwarf's face crinkled in confusion.

"No, why?"

Lex smiled wide.

"You're real easy to shoot over."

Gaorge rolled his eyes this time.

"Kiss my ass Legis."

Lex laughed.

Garoge smirked.

"You ready Legis?"

Lex nodded.

Gaorge set in a crouch.

"On three, right?"

Lex peered up again.

"Yep."

Gaorge nodded.

"Alright....THREE!"

He burst forth from behind his cover and rushed down the alley at the Vampire.

Lex laughed and quickly stood up, taking aim.

As the dwarf closed the gap, Lex saw the vampire's eyes go wide for a moment before it completed its spell.

He pulled the trigger, and in less than a heartbeat, the familiar buck of the explosive recoil shook his arm.

At the same moment in time, the vampire's spell was unleashed.

Lex felt his muscles begin to seize up.

He braced himself against the tightening sensation, trying to steel his fortitude against the vampire's arcane power....

Gaorge heard the whistle of Lex's shot whizz over his head. The vampire's spell must not have gone off properly, because he didn't see any brilliant flashes or feel the heat of any explosions.

Gaorge almost pitied the creature when his axe buried into its head, splitting it like a ripened fruit.

The creature dissipated into a gaseous state and drifted away in the night winds.

He sighed.

"Well Legis, looks like it got away this time."

He paused, awaiting some sarcastic, yet dry reply. When one didn't come, he turned and looked back up the alley.

"Hey Legis, did you hear me?"

He saw Lex, standing motionless in the shadows. His arm still extended, aiming the pistol at where the vampire was.

"Legis, you alright?"

He started walking back towards his partner, who refused to answer.

"Come on man! Its gone! Quit posing and come help me pick up the pieces of what's left of Spade. Knowing Jimur, he'll want to melt down the poor bastard's body for the raw Adamantine."

Legis still refused to answer, much less drop the aiming pose.

The dwarf walked a little more briskly toward his silent and still partner.

"Come on Lex, what in the hells is wrong with you?”

He kicked a small, empty wooden keg at him.

Legis made no attempt to move, or block the projectile. It made impact, and knocked Lex down.

Gaorge's heart sank when he heard the distinct sound of rock, striking rock, and cracking.

The dwarf ran as fast as his short legs would carry him to his now fallen partner.

He dropped to his knees when he found Legis laying in the alley, completely petrified.

The keg he'd kicked had knocked over the living statue, causing it to make impact with the cobblestone alley.

The arm holding the pistol had broken off at the shoulder. The chest cracked diagonally from the broken shoulder, down to the hip.

Gaorge tried to frantically hoist the statue back up to its feet, but the blood on his hands caused him to lose his grip..

He watched in horror as his partner's form impacted the ground again, separating the upper section from the lower along the fault line.

"Oh gods...Legis. I'm so sorry."

Thirty minutes later, Gaorge pushed a wheelbarrow filled with the parts of the fallen warforged constable, and the pieces of his petrified and shattered partner, into the Jobrak City Guard headquarters.

"Someone help!"

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

Bocdas' Afternoon, 8th Day of Winter's End, Year 50 A.E.

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

Hallink Gemnibbler, the gnomish enchanter, smiled as he gazed upon his completed creation. He turned to his current patron, Jimur Fletcher, who stood nearby.

"Well? What do you think?"

Jimur stepped out of the shadow of the large bodyguard who was never farther than an arm's length from him.

He casually looked over the creation.

"Is it alive?"

Hallink clicked his teeth.

"He is most certainly alive. It took me a few months to piece everything together properly, and I had to make a few necessary adjustments here and there...but yes. I think its all in all a successful experiment."

Jimur looked at the gnome with a dubious glare.

"So you just pieced the poor bastards together, and brought him back to life like this?"

The gnome nodded.

"Yes. I'm afraid the warforged was a complete loss. And the petrified constable would have been as well. Luckily there was enough of the fallen warforged's....chassis...left to act as a new body."

Fletcher looked first to his bodyguard, then to the creation.

"So he's a living golem?"

Hallink shook his head.

"Technically, he's a half-golem."

The bodyguard let out an agitated groan, but otherwise remained silent.

Jimur turned to face Hallink.

"So he's alive, but has golem parts?"

The gnome nodded.

"Yes, I suppose that's accurate. Save for his head, and torso, his body is primarily artificial."

Jimur looked back at the creation.

"Well...when can he get back to work?"

The gnome laughed.

"Whenever you'd like."

Jimur's eyes narrowed.

"You put him back together physically...but is he 'all-there' mentally?"

The gnome shrugged.

"Depends on how mentally stable he was before. There's also bound to be some slight residual affect to his state of mind. He's really been through quite a shock. But...I took steps to ensure he won't pose a danger to the general public."

Jimur stared at the creation.

"What kind of steps?"

The gnome walked over and stood next to Jimur.

"I wove a few mentally binding spells into the whole construction process. He's going to fairly single-mindedly perform his duties as a constable. But unlike a true golem, he is capable of his own thoughts and able to plan his own courses of action. The spells are more like safeguards. Directives, if you will."

Jimur turned to him.

"Oh yeah? What are these directives?"

The gnome smiled.

"Ask him."

Jimur quirked a brow and turned to the creation.

"Officer....what are your directives?"

Lex Legis blankly looked up at Jimur Fletcher.

"Serve the public trust. Protect the innocent. Uphold the law."

[wrongeddeadthenevermourned]

Name: Michael Audrey Myers (Alies: Xavier Schroeder)

Meaning of Name: Michael: meaning "who is like God?", Audrey: meaning noble and strength,  Myers: meaning "mayor", the Old French mire meaning "physician", or the Old Norse myrr, meaning "marsh" Nickname(s):   The Shape, Evil on Two Legs, The Boogeyman, The Boogeyman of the Midwest, The Nightmare Man, Scary Man,

Age: 18-61.

Birthday: October 19, 1957 (Or Unknown, depending on thread)

Location: Haddonfield, Illinois

Species/Nationality:  Possessed/Human, American

Accent: ...American. *Squints* Midwestern. Ope.

Language spoken: English, Selective Mutism.

Powers:   Brute/superhuman strength, High-level intelligence, Immortality, Durability, Endurance, Presumed healing factor, Stamina, Stalking, Tracking skills, Stealth, Evasion, Knifemanship, Teleportation, Evil(Minimal), Despair(Minimal), Death(Average), Malice(Minimal),

Crimes:  Serial killings, Nigh-familicide, Animal cruelty, Breaking and entering, Grand theft auto, Mutilations, Incest (forced to by the Cult of Thorn), Rape (forced to by the Cult of Thorn), Stalking, Theft, Torture, Destruction,

Occupation/Goal(s): Killer/Slasher,  Killing everyone in his family and anyone who gets in the way of that.

Illness/Allergies: No Allergies (While Possessed), (As a Human) Hey Fever, Persistent depressive disorder, Disruptive mood dysregulation disorder, Psychopath, Catatonia, Possibly also a Sociopath, Lacks Emotions, Easily over Stimulated/Hyperactive, Schizophrenia, Conversion Disorder, Selective Mutism, May be Autistic. He also perhaps suffers from some childhood abuse and/or neglect from members of his family. Perhaps major rage/anger Issues from early childhood experience. Intermittent explosive disorder.  Especially triggered by Sexual interactions of any kind. Likely do to being sexually abused at some point in his life... Antisocial Personality Disorder.

Faceclaim:  Ian Somerhalder

Description: He looks pretty much exactly like Ian himself does, as Ian looks very similar to the few times we actually SEE Michael’s face. However, he has blue eyes instead of the brown he Michael had as a child, and he has a patch of scarred skin over his left eye from an attack after he was sent away, also damaged eyes from having a hanger stabbed into the left one and then being shot in both of them.  Gun wound scar on his face. As well as other levels of varying degrees of scarring on his face. Has patches of burned flesh and other remnants of old wounds from blades and such else, covering his body.

Outfit/Accessories/Jewelry: Janitors Coveralls, Halloween Mask of William Shatner that’s old and misshaped. I A KNIFE!/ Casual every day clothing and items (While ‘Human’),

Height: 5′10″ to 6′7″

Weight: 205-215lbs

Body Build: Athletic/Agile

Backstory/Background:

Michael was born on October 19th, the second child of Peter and Edith Myers. He grew up as an average child in his era. His family had been a middle class family of the time, owning a two story home and seemingly being a normal, functional family. In spite of what would later try to prove otherwise, in the young boys life. It was in his infancy while his mother was recovering in her room, separate from Michael that Thorn would come to the hospital and visit the ward where Michael as well as other infants had been kept. It is during this time that Michael would become marked with a supernatural/magical trigger of sorts that would go unnoticed for a large chunk of the boys life.

Michael was then taken home and raised as any average normal middle class child of his time could be. He had been mostly content and happy, for a boy who had just turned six. However, Michael had often been plagued with night terrors of another boy who had been named Enda. This boy had scared little Michael due to Enda being disfigured or deformed in some way, as well as the subject of the dreams themselves. Which often involved Enda being rejected by what could only be thought to be Enda's 'true love', Deirdre.  This would soon lead to Enda murdering Deirdre during a feast on Samhain, later to be known as Halloween.

With these terrible nightmares so early in his life, Michael was often left terrified or anxious at times. Which would build up until just after Michael had turned six. Where it could be speculated that he might have been abused in some way. However, the night of Halloween had seemingly gone off as it normally did. With Michael having gone out trick or treating with several local boys of his age, and friends of his. Returning home Michael had managed to snag some candy off his sister Judith who had been spending the night handing out candy to children. But before Michael fully entered his home he had spotted a strange man that his sister had invited over. 

Still dressed in in his clown costume as he was sorting out his candies his sister and the strange male friend of hers had eventually left Michael to himself. Though this did not last very long as something had Michael approaching his sisters room. Perhaps it had been Laurie's crying. Which had often happened, with her being a small infant at the time. Michael wanted Judith's help with their younger sister, who Michael had showed great affection toward, but was still very young and couldn't begin to know what to do to calm the infant down. However, what he had seen in that room triggered something dark and evil with in him.

After seeing Judith and her friend getting sexual with each other Michael moved away from his sisters door quietly and went to find a place to hide. Once he had he waited for the two to finish and for Judith’s male friend to leave before soon walking in on her as she was still getting dressed. His sister making crude remarks toward him. Before eventually not even bothering to look at him at all while she adjusted her bra, it was then that Michael had revealed he not only went to hide, but had also grabbed a knife and began to plunge it into his sisters body.  Before, in a dazed, almost hypnotized state he left the house, still in his blood stained clown costume, and mask, knife in hand.

This is when his mother and father, who had been out for that evening had returned, seeing their young son standing on the sidewalk covered in the blood of their eldest daughter. Michael's soul from the moment he had seen the sexual act between his sister and her boyfriend had destroyed his innocents and allowed the Evil to take possession of him, then. With the horrific discovery of his dying sister Michael could do little more but stare in a void like state of being, unable to speak or emote, watching as the panic unfolded in front of him.

Some time later, when Judith was dead and buried, Michael had been sent to Smith's Grove Sanitarium. Where he would spent the rest of his childhood and adolescent years being subject to god knows what kind of abuse and other schemes those who worked there could fathom for him. As well as Thorns being able to further encroach themselves in controlling Michael. It was during his time there that Michael had picked up an interest in building masks as well as delved much deeper into his selective mutism. He rarely ever moved at times, especially when being forced to speak or interact with others. Sam Loomis being one of those people.

Michael had been put through many tests, still however. To find what exactly had caused the young boy to snap that night. To find what could possibly drive a six year old to murder there sister. What they had eventually all decided was Michael's problem and why the child had done this was that he was 'pure evil' and so potentially helped in creating the monster, in the end. Over these years he spent in the sanitarium Michael had never forgotten his urge to kill all of those who still lived in his family. Most importantly, Laurie, herself.

By the time he had turned twenty-one, Michael had finally been able to pull off a plan to escape, and did so. Soon he had made his way back to his old family home. Once there he began researching where to find his sister. While this had been going on, perhaps knowingly, to Michael, Dr. Loomis was hunting him down. The doctor clearly knowing what Michael had planned to do, some how and trying to stop Michael before they could. This would eventually lead to Michael murdering several people whom Laurie had known and to his first interaction with his sister since they were children. As well as Michael's first interaction with Tommy, the young boy that his sister was baby sitting at the time of his first attempt on her life.

Michael would also be defeated for a short while when he fell out of a window of random home, to the ground below. Where Loomis tried checking on him, before finding Michael had disappeared into the night like a fucking Lovecraftian Nightmare.  It wouldn't be too much later when Michael and Laurie would again run into each other at the hospital where Laurie was taken to, after Michael learned about her location from the news. There the two would go at each others throats once more before once again Laurie momentarily stops Michael by setting him on fire.

This second interaction would leave Michael burned and left in a coma, for about ten years, which would then lead to him losing Laurie for many years to follow. It is, once he wakes from his coma, at this moment in time that he finds out that Laurie is apparently dead, but has a daughter, Jamie, who the hospital staff were talking about which had ended in Michael waking up. Some more murder then happens and one thing leads to another before Jamie and Michael actually finally meet. Then more murder happens and Jamie is forever changed and traumatized by the interactions with her uncle. Which leads to her, in a seemingly possessed by Michael state of being, killing her adoptive mother.

Jamie would then be sent away to a hospital herself where she would continue to have visions of Michael's doings. Whatever he is doing, which isn't much of anything of importance other than killing after taking yet another very long nap after Jamie defeated him the first time. Michael and Jamie eventually, on some level, connect with one another. Not exactly bonding, bit connect, psychically.  Eventually more murder, but Jamie does stumble upon her uncle once more, where she takes his hand in hers, and Michael even perhaps shows Jamie some of his Human Side.

But these moments don't last forever, you know. Because Michael has to kill everyone in his family, yeah?! So he gets right back on that and tries killing Jamie and anyone who gets in his way, again. Because why the fuck wouldn't he, you know, murder is like being high, to him.  So Michael kills all the police that get in his way as he's going to get Jamie, who hides in a coffin in the attic of the Myer's house...that's...not fucking creepy. This perhaps reveals that that family was not your typical 'average' family, that they were pretending to be. That something much more deep seeded and dark had been going on in the Myer's family.

However,  this also does not last long as while Jamie distracts Michael with trying to appease to Michael's Human side, Loomis comes back into the picture and shoots Michael with tranquilizers and then beating him unconscious.  Michael is then detained at the police station, where not long after, a strange man in black appears and murders every single police officer in the place. Then the man takes both Michael and Jamie.

Some time has passed before we are able to find out that Michael and Jamie are still alive, for the time being. Michael has some how a child, a boy, with Jamie while at the Cult of Thorn facility, perhaps due to incest, or maybe insemination. All of this forced upon both of them, and not just Jamie, let me make that perfectly clear. Anyway, so Jamie has had her son and soon escapes. Michael is sent to take track her down and quickly does. Where he then impales Jamie on some farming equipment, finally killing her. But as she is dying she manages to tell Michael, who is trying to take their baby, that he can't have the baby.

Quickly revealing that Jamie no longer was in possession of the infant before finally dying.  Some more time then passes and a new family moves into the old Myer's home, where Tommy Doyle has been keeping an eye on the place and now looks like a perverted freak next door. With Danny Strode now also seeming to hear voices just as Michael had when he was a child. Tommy has now grown up to be obsessed with Michael and one night while out being...weird, I guess. He stumbled upon the recently abandoned Baby of Jamie and Michael. Because he's a wizard, and Jamie's cry for help over a radio, which he so happened to hear, left him some bread crumbs.

Not long after however Michael returns to his family home and murdered his family members that had now been living there, as he was searching for the baby. For some reason only leaving Danny and his mother Kira alive. Tommy eventually adopts them, too. While also going off about his theories that Michael is more than likely cursed by some runic symbol called "Thorn", which is revealed to be...*Gasp, shock!* A...A CULT! It is soon figured out that another doctor, Dr. Terence Wynn, a friend of Dr. Loomis, is in the cult. Where he gathers his posse and starts kidnapping Danny and Kira while drugging Tommy and Loomis, because it's not like they are dangerous or anything, pff, no way.  Eventually Tommy and Loomis wake up and, go figure, track down the cult all the way back to Smith's Grove Sanitarium, don't you know. It is here that Loomis and Wynn get into an old man fight where Wynn is a bit of a bastard toward Loomis, noting that Loomis is so perceptive for having figured out unique evil in Michael's power. Then proceeds to continue to be creepy and confess to exploiting Michael and his evil. Before inviting Loomis to also join his fucking cult.

While all this dumb shit was going on, Tommy was up to no good doing his own, specific dumb shit. He saves Kara and the children, but we don't care about that. Michael shows up, now that we care about, and just absolutely ruins everyone's day by being EeEeEeviIiIil. Michael just goes on another killing spree, you know, hacking up Wynn’s staff. Because fuck those guys, amiright? Then he decided he might as well just kill Wynn to, because he has had enough old men, in this motherfucking sanitarium! While this is going down some thing was going on with Danny, but it doesn't matter. Because Danny is eventually saved.

Michael just want to get to the baby, which has been his primary focus the entire time. However Tommy puts a stop to this when he pumps Michael full of the drugs that were going to be given to Danny and then proceeds to beat the hell out of Michael with a pipe before they all eventually get the fuck out.  Loomis however decides he's going to stay and goes back into the sanitarium where it can be assured that Michael has revived, pumped full of genetically engineered what ever in the fuck, he kills Loomis, who is left screaming until his death.

But wait! Loomis is still alive, and keeps trying to find the now missing Michael before he actually does die of old age. Which leaves Michael to traverse the world an be free to live his life, making masks and- Wait, no...no, he's found out Laurie's alive. Michael sets out toward a school, where Laurie no works and tries to kill her and the few remaining students as well. Which he manages to do for the most part. He is, after all, a very efficient murderer by this point. ANYWAY. Everyone lives, that being John, Laurie's son and Laurie herself, maybe some other unimportant characters too. But who cares about them.

Laurie eventually has what she believes to be her final confrontation with Michael, when she comes to chopping off his head. Or seemingly so, because that's not actually what happened. What actually happened was some idiot thought it would be real 'sick' and 'savage' to play a prank on Laurie right after what had just transpired and Laurie had chopped HIS head off instead. Yeah. Mhm. I believe it. So should you. Michael gets away and does god knows what for the time being. Not killing anyone in his family, that's for damn sure. It's gross, how can he just be out there...not killing anyone in his family. Disgusting. He probably thought so to after a while.

Because eventually he finds Laurie once more in an asylum herself having seemingly lost it. But was actually preparing for the last several years on Michael's return. This family is fucked, but god damn. She's a mess. Anyway, Michael shows up at the Asylum, kills some people eventually drops Laurie off the side of the building, after the pair fight for about a minute. That's the end of Laurie, right? RIGHT!? Michael can rest easy. Or so he thought. Because he returns back to the Myers home again and decides he's going to fucking live in the sewers, yeah.

Because why wouldn't he. That's when his peace is against disturbed by morons trying to make his life and home into a fucking game show reality tv show bullshit kind of deal.  Which leads to even MORE murder, nice. Who did not see that one coming. This time he leaves to nonentities alive for some reason or another. Fire, probably. Michael does no pursue them, because they are nonentities. Once he has dealt with that bit of bullshit Michael has continued to live in the sewers under his family home. At least for a little while.

It would seem however, without the Cult of Thorn or a curse compelling him to kill members of his family, that Michael can revert back to a more 'tamed' state of being. As he had appeared to be inside of the Sanitarium originally. Regaining some sense of 'humanity', at least apparently so, in order to blend in with the rest of the world. With this revert back to a more natural state of being, mentally for the most part. Michael has stopped living in the sewers. However he has made conscious effort to move on with a seemingly normal existence for the time being and purchased the home.

Then did some renovations, which has astonished neighbors and others who are aware of what had gone on in that home in years past. All of whom are unaware that Michael Myers was living under their noses now. In clear view but no longer a wanted man, as everyone had seemed to forget what he actually looked like, and only seen the mask when they conjured Michael Myers to mind.  These days he now goes by the name of Xavier Schroeder and is once more apparently living as close to 'normal' as Michael Myers could potentially be, in the public eye, from a distance, and if you maybe squint a bit...

Future

After many years, Michael has lived his life in relative social isolation for the most part. However, one day while out he overheard a neighbor speak of Laurie Strode and then that there was a rumor that the woman had built some sort of fortress out of a home she had purchased. This rumor being confirmed true when it was mentioned that this was all on a podcast. With his sister seemingly trying to goad the still unfound Michael, who had been missing for most of the last couple of decades. Michael then quickly made his way toward his home before one of the neighbors could stop him, as they expressed that maybe he should leave until this all had blown over. Saying to Michael that if Michael Myers were still alive, he might catch wind of Laurie's taunt and return to the home and kill the other for being there. Michael ignored them and continued toward the home. When inside the darkness and evil once again began to take over filling the pupils of his once blue eyes with darkness again. After this Michael returns back to his coveralls and mask and makes his way once again toward Laurie in another bid to murder her.

Only now, it is revealed that not only was her son also alive, but also another daughter that had been kept secret up until that time, as well as a grand daughter. Whom Michael initially both tries to kill before the two escape him and make it to a safe-room at Laurie's house. More fighting commences before Laurie and her daughter manage to trick Michael and push him down into the safe-room, alone now. Where Laurie has planned to trap Michael in.  The room filling with gas and soon on fire when Laurie drops a flare into it, igniting the room. Which leaves Michael looking up at the three women who remain, as he waits, stuck in the burning room for who knows how many years to come.

(Work In Progress)

Personality:

Patient, Perceptive, Stealthy, A Quick Learner, Indomitable Will, Smart, Silent, Adaptable, Observant, Debonair,  Seraphic, Hypnotic, Stern, Unempathetic, Apathetic, Unreflective, Meretricious, Dangerous, Persistent, Psychotic, Intentional, Single Minded, Bad a Planning, Flighty, Robotic, Determined, Systematic, Obsessed,

Quirks/Savvies/Other:

Head tilt when he is confused

Good with weapons

Can pretty much use anything as a weapon

Has An Evil Sounding Laugh 

Likes to make masks

Self soothes often/fidgets

Knows the direction he’s going, always.

Never genuinely smiles

Sometimes needs naps in order to recharge

 Doesn’t like to be touched

Cursed with being a personification of malice and evil. An unstoppable force of death and despair.

Likes: N/A

Dislikes:  N/A

Fears: None

Personality Tests: INT-J/

Other: Libra,

Parent(s):

-> Father: Peter Myers

-> Mother: Edith Myers

Sibling(s)/Other Relatives: Judith Myers (older sister), Jamie Lloyd (Niece), Laurie Strode (younger sister), Jimmy Lloyd (Brother-In-Law). John Tate (Nephew), Steven Lloyd (great nephew, son). Karen (Niece), Allyson (Great Niece)

Starters

Chat’s

Para’s

Face

Stuff

Information

Asks

All

                                                                             Alternate Universes

Damon Salvatore

[nekoabiwrites]

This Day Aria

A fic I planned back when Can Lying Be Good first came out... and I’ve finally written it! I feel vaguely accomplished! I might do a companion part to use the other half of the song because that would be super cute.

As it is based off of the events of A Canterlot Wedding and specifically This Day Aria, the link to the song is right here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UzsxfO7dBlA

AU: Royal Pairing: Royality Words: 1415 Warnings: Villain!Deceit, Patton impersonation, mention of holes in anatomy based off of changeling designs from MLP. Anything else, please let me know!

Summary: The royal wedding is approaching very soon, yet something seems to be up with the prince.

---

“Thank you so much. Yes, of course. Goodbye!”

The door shut with a soft click and the friendly façade melted from the prince’s face, leaving an air of disgust as he looked down at himself. He crossed the room to look in the full length mirror, taking in his appearance.

“How utterly disgusting…” He ran a hand around his face, looking at it from all angles, “So… human.” He wrinkled his nose slightly before sighing and relaxing his posture, “I suppose it just cannot be helped if I want this to go smoothly. Thank goodness they’re all morons.”

A deep chuckle rumbled from the usually high-pitched, soft voice of the prince as it began morphing to an even more sinister tone as the entity’s body completely changed; false yellow flames fanning down along the body in order to remove the princely exterior.

“Ah… much better.” The voice was now more sinister, far eviller than before. The entity stared at his reflection with a much more pleased expression. He ran his hand down the same part of his face as he had done prior, allowing the now claw-like nails to catch on the crevices that were present. The amount of them in the small area almost gave the impression of scales when looked at in the right light and the entity just loved it when people got the shock of seeing what it truly was, not that they lasted too much longer after that.

Another chuckle rumbled through him at the thought. Then the sound of footsteps approaching down the corridor had the entity returning the human disguise back into place, the false flames shifting up his body instead this time. The knocking at the door and the voice that followed had him stilling entirely.

“I have been told to inform you that the wedding is to take place in two hours, Prince Patton. The tailors are ready to help you into your dress, if you are ready for them.”

“Tell them I am ready.”

‘So demeaning to be reduced to the title of ‘prince’…’ The entity thought to himself as the tailors entered the prince’s chambers, the inner voice sounding like his undisguised voice, ‘But it will not be long before I return to my ‘king’ status. Just a short while longer and the plan will be a complete success.’

Not too long after, he was looking at himself in the mirror as the tailors were making their final adjustments. While the entity was still disgusted by the sight of the human he was pretending to be dressed in all white like some symbol of false purity, it did also give him a smug feeling. The plan was working just right, everything was falling into place and no one was even wary of him. Well, almost no one, but it wasn’t like he was going to be able to get out of there any time soon, if ever.

The tailors finally left after ensuring that he was happy with the garment. Once the hallway was silent once more, the entity grinned menacingly at his own reflection, “This is going to be perfect. Oh so wonderfully perfect. After dreaming and planning, ever since I was young, it is finally happening.”

“The best part is that no one is the wiser. They shall treat me like him.” He curtsied sarcastically deep and with an exaggeratedly sweet expression before chuckling deeply with an evil grin, “They will all compliment me on my dress, on my flowers, on the décor. Yet not one of them knows I have tricked them all!” The entity spoke to the prince’s reflection, looking all too pleased with himself.

He regarded himself in the mirror for a moment before continuing his monologue, “The best part is that I don’t care for this dress. I don’t care for these flowers. I don’t care for any of this. Yet, this was all done to my request. All because they just wanted to keep me oh so happy.” He fluttered his eyelashes in false purity before morphing immediately back into the extremely pleased smirk, “All I care for is having this kingdom for my own.”

He spun around in the dress a couple of times, watching it flare out dramatically despite the extremely long train that coiled around his feet. Laughter bubbled up from inside of him, though it came out as more of an evil cackle than anything joyous.

“All this frivolity, all this show. Just for a supposed loving union between two people? It is absolute madness, the lengths these humans will go. Although…” The entity absent-mindedly licked his lips, “I cannot deny that the groom does love the prince with all of his heart. And this love is why I shall lie through each and every vow they ask me to repeat and agree to, especially as I care for the groom least of all. Yet I still need him to be mine and mine alone.”

Another burst of maniacal cackling poured from his mouth. He’d purposefully requested that the palace guards be stationed at the end of the corridor rather than outside his room specifically for the purpose of keeping them in the dark. The entity knew that he’d not be able to contain himself, that he would need to talk to himself about it all, that he would not be able to hold back his laughter for long. Thankfully, he was able to quell it quickly once the sound of a door opening reached his ears.

It was time.

The entity was escorted through the palace, towards the wedding venue. He attempted to keep his expression as neutral as possible, but a small hint of pure confidence and victory did slip through into his eyes. It was especially hard to keep it together once he was with the wedding party, and when entering and walking up the aisle, and during the ceremony.

Everything was going perfectly. It was finally going to happen. He was going to win. The groom was going to be his.

“Prince Patton and Roman Shields, it is my pleasure to pronounce you-”

The large doors to the room slammed open and a long shadow was cast by the figure in the doorway, “STOP!”

The entity was surprised to see the groom’s brother standing in the doorway, finger accusingly pointed in his direction, his usual makeup smudged far more than usual and his long hair a mess of knots. In a moment of frustration, the gentle prince act was dropped as the entity complained about the brother’s possessive nature. He did manage to twist it into a crying act once a couple of the guests clearly seemed to overhear him.

“Why does he have to ruin my special day?” The entity falsely cried, pretending to wipe tears from his eyes.

“Because it’s not your special day. It’s mine!”

Gasps rippled around the room as a dishevelled Prince Patton now stood in the doorway, a fire behind his eyes that no one had ever seen before.

The entity was already prepared to reveal himself, but he had to at least attempt to continue his lie, though all the guest were quickly losing faith and beginning to believe the true prince had been replaced.

“How can there be two of the prince?!” One guest cried out in confusion.

Before the entity could even try to speak, the true prince cut him off, “He is a changeling! He takes the form of someone you love and then feeds off of all the love you have for that person, gaining more power from it!”

The room was turning hostile towards him. The entity knew his time with the disguise was up.

In a bright, exaggerated burst of yellow flames, he transformed fully back to his normal self, discarding the dress for his usual dark attire. Through the back of his caped shirt, two odd pairs of wings sprouted. Somehow they were able to hold his weight, despite the holes that were pierced right through the long, thin-looking appendages. More of the holes that littered his face appeared along other exposed parts of flesh, namely his hands, before he casually pulled gloves out to cover them.

His deep laugh cut through the horrified silence before he addressed the royal before him, “How right you are, my dear prince. And, as king of all changelings, it falls upon my shoulders to find food for all of my subjects and your kingdom harbours so much. We shall feed, devouring it all before you even have the chance to stop us!”

---

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