#with an obsidian roof

[slateb1ue]

I'll just start a small building project. <- Voice of someone who's about to collect 828 stacks of obsidian without the use of the end

[confetti-critter]

It hurts that tmr isn't Friday..

[thestuffedalligator]

The goblin looked at the orc. The orc looked at the goblin. They both looked down at the crumpled shape of the Overlord, His Unholy Majesty, in his obsidian armor.

His final spasms had been mesmerizingly acrobatic. The fall down the steps leading up to his iron throne had pretzelled his body quite impressively, both arms folded behind his back and one leg bent at a jaunty angle.

The goblin looked at the orc. The orc looked at the goblin.

"Shit," said the goblin.

"Shit," said the orc.

"We're likely to get blamed for this," the goblin said. She walked over to the head of the glittering mangled heap and started pulling the helmet off.

"It's not our fault," the orc said. "It's hard to help someone choking when they wear two-hundred pounds of spiked armor at all times."

"Yeah, well," the goblin grunted. The helmet came free, and the bald head of the Overlord bounced on the stone with a hollow, coconut noise. "You know how it is in this bloody country - thieves get their heads cut off so they can't think about thieving, and all that." She fished in the Overlord's mouth with a finger and pulled out the obstructing olive on the end of her claw.

She popped it into her mouth and chewed. "What do you reckon they do for a regicide?" she said.

"We should run," the orc said. She had started bouncing her leg. "I hear that there's some places in the Alliance where they just kill you and let you stay dead. That's got to be nicer than what'll happen if we stay here."

The goblin started to nod - and then her gaze fell on the helmet.

It looked like a pineapple designed by a deranged blacksmith. It was all thorns and spikes and hard edges, as though the maker had been very determined to not let pigeons roost on it. The only bits that weren't solid iron were eyeholes. Nobody had ever seen the Overlord's face.

She held up the helmet and squinted from it to the orc. One of the thorns had been bent badly in the fall.

Nobody had ever seen the Overlord's face...

"Right," she muttered. "Right. Could work - or."

The orc had a sudden vision of the immediate future. "No," she said.

"I mean you're about his height-"

"No."

"It would just be for a-"

"Absolutely not."

"Just hear me out," the goblin said. "Outside of this room are two-thousand men and orcs and goblins who are absolutely gonzo about this man, and there's a whole country of them outside of the castle, and at any moment someone's going to walk in that door and see one dead tit in black armor and two unbelievably dead idiots next to him.

"Or." She tossed the helmet up like a basketball to the orc, who fumbled and tried to find somewhere to hold it that wasn't a knife's edge. "We chuck him out the window now, walk out the door in the armor, and ditch the armor as soon as nobody sees us."

The orc had started bouncing her leg again. "They'll know something's up the second I walk out of the room."

"No worries," said the goblin. "Leave that to me."

---

It had been a very strange year for the Empire.

Change had rolled across the land as slow and inevitable as a glacier. Roads and bridges carved the gray, blasted wildlands, and a number of social reforms had made the country a place where you could be miserable, yes, but miserable in comfort and safety, and that was an improvement.

Barely anyone got boiled alive in molten metal, and even if the disgusted sun never rose to light the Empire, at least you had a roof over your head to protect yourself from the acid rain.

"Your empire flourishes, Your Unholy Majesty," the magician said over her wine glass. She looked down from the tower's balcony over the gleaming stone battlements. Some work had been done to line the castle and surrounding city with sizzling, crackling alchemical lights at night. The whole thing glowed like something dangerously radioactive.

The suit of armor waved a languid, glittering gauntlet over to the goblin, who bowed.

"His Abominable Gloriousness Thanks You," the goblin recited. "The Prosperity Of His Empire Can Only Be Achieved Through The Prosperity Of His People."

"If I may be so bold, I am quite pleased that you had chosen to take my counsel under consideration," said the magician. "We have accomplished many things together."

Another wave. Another bow. "The Overlord, May His Presence Swallow The Sun And Stars, Thanks You As Well."

"It was quite gratifying to see you change your mind, after so many centuries of denial." The wine was swirled. "Tell me, what was it that finally gave you cause to listen to me?"

There was the slightest hesitation. The goblin's eyes flicked to the armor, then to the magician. She puffed out her chest. "Do you question the wisdom of His Austere Lugubriousness?" she asked.

The magician looked at the goblin. She looked at the armor. She tipped her head back and drank the wine too quickly.

She looked back at the armor. "I know you're the orc, you moron," she said.

The room went deathly still. An alchemical light fizzled.

The orc pulled off the helmet, sending long, untied hair down tangling, and said: "How could you possibly-"

"Because you're both idiots!" the magician said. The goblin jumped. The orc jumped with a noise like a dropped stove. "What kind of a plan was this?! If it wasn't for me, you would have been turned into fertilizer months ago."

She closed her eyes. She took a long, dramatic breath. She set the wine glass down on the balcony rail.

"How did the Overlord die?" she asked when she seemed like she had gotten a hold over herself.

"Choked on an olive," said the goblin.

"Threw his body out the window," said the orc.

"You don't have to mention the window," said the goblin.

"Right," said the orc. "Sorry."

The magician looked out over the city, hand curled thoughtfully under her nose. "Who knows about this?"

"Just us. And, uh. You. Apparently."

"And why did you accept my counsel?"

The orc blinked. "Sorry?"

"Why did you accept my counsel?" the magician repeated.

"Well," the orc said. "Well - you seemed like you had good ideas-"

"Great ideas!" the goblin said with an edge of desperation. "Don't know why the old bastard didn't listen to you!"

"Right - right," said the orc. "And when we figured we were stuck doing this - well, it just made sense, really."

The magician seemed to absorb this. She nodded. "All right," she said, striding between the two and grabbing the crystal decanter.

"Um," said the orc. "Sorry. What happens now?"

"What happens is that you two will continue to serve as Overlord," said the magician. "You will continue to take my counsel. We will continue to reform this bloody country, and gods willing, we will turn it into the crown jewel of the world by next Midwinter."

The orc looked at the goblin. The goblin looked at the orc.

"Really?" the goblin asked.

"Oh yes," said the magician. "I've worked hard to be counsel to the Overlord, and I have no reason to stop now. And besides-"

She looked the orc up and down with a deliberate slowness, poring over every microscopic detail, eyes tracing over every jagged line, and grinned like a panther.

"You look much better in the armor than he ever did," she said. Dark robes swirled like a becleavaged thundercloud, and she strode out through the high iron doors, decanter in hand.

The goblin looked at the orc. The orc looked at the goblin.

"Shit," said the goblin.

"Shit," said the orc.

[duoduotian]

i feel mentally ill i’ll just not work on things that aren’t set in stone. self care first

[livingproofoftbd]

list of awesome manhunt plays

because i always forget which plays are in which videos. figured i'd put it here if anyone else wanted it

2v1

the OG pearl clutch when sapnap dies and he gets his stuff

3v1 round one

covering the water with planks so the hunters die when they jump (MY FAVORITE) (its the first i ever watched :,D )

hunters lava trapping the end portal

3v1 rematch

he drinks the fire res as he jumps into lava and bad dies falling after him

tricks the hunters into thinking his fire res is more strength

as bad and sapnap turn back, he shoots an arrow from a mountain and hits bad from ~100 blocks away

3v1 finale

building a new nether portal to trick bad

splashing an invis pot so no one knows who anyone is

he sets up an end crystal trap in the stronghold and kills them all

bad sneaks up on him and kills him when he’s on half a heart after just killing the other two in the end

3v1 finale rematch

wearing bad’s skin

building his nether portal in a tower

dropping his sword just in time to land on a horse after being knocked from his portal with no water

3v1 grand finale

placing boats under him to cross a lava lake

dropping tnt into the end portal and putting the hunters in the void

4v1 round one

using leaves to tower up and hide in the nether cieling

snd promptly use a fishing rod to pull ant and bad up and kill them from fall damage

we all know it, we all love it. Towering up in the middle of a lake and using frostwalker boots to kill the hunters when they fall

the hunters using end crystals to heal the dragon

4v1 rematch

ant jumping down in the temple with him and setting the tnt off

he kills sapnap and ant with a tnt minecart

the hunters getting prot 4 armour

building a portal on the nether roof and trapping them there with no flint and steel, leaving them to kill themselves to escape

he digs under the end stone and hides in the middle, exploding bed after bed under the dragon as it perches

4v1 finale

ladder clutching when sapnap knocks him down off a tower on the edge of a mountain

trapping sapnap and george in cobwebs and blowing them up

hunters getting full enchanted diamond armour and building a huge castle around the nether portal that dream combats by drinking an invis pot

entity cramming george with minecarts and getting his gear

he lands an MLG on the side of an ISLAND when the dragon hits him

4v1 finale rematch

half a heart and no hunger but still chasing the hunters

the western showdown between dream and sapnap

the under-lava duel between dream and sapnap

ant killing dream with a splash potion

4v1 grand finale

scaffolding glitch

setting off fireworks and killing all the hunters in the portal room

5v1 round one

the boat clutch of all time after sapnap hits him off the tower

stealing sapnap’s enchanted diamond axe and diamond pick

stealing ant’s look and dropping tnt when the hunters dig down

the hunters revive the dragon

5v1 rematch

jumping off the mountain into a village water source

the second boat clutch of all time when he lands on a ghast

rearranging tnt to blow up under the hunters instead of under his portal

visiting the end city

5v1 finale

falling as the tree grows and breaking a leaf at the last second

covers the portal in the nether and overworld in lava

that daylight sensor pearl trick where he disappeared hundreds of blocks from the stronghold

the ender dragon glitch with the water really high above the main end island

5v1 rematch finale

enters the nether within 2 minutes

building a hole to the void to trap the hunter in

sam punching him into his own trap while invis

THE SOUNDBOARDS

the hunters covering the last crystal in obsidian

bad having god-like reflexes, placing obsidian, an end crystal, and exploding it all in like one second

5v1 grand finale

stealing sapnap’s bucket as it falls

trapping the hunters in an ocean monument

bow boosting

throwing a pearl, bone-mealing saplings, and landing on the fully grown tree

building another flying machine

sapnap stopping him by breaking a slime block and sacrificing himself

basically this whole end, dude

dropping tnt and instantly killing four of the hunters, slime clutching and bouncing down to george

fishing his pearls and surviving (perfect throwback to 2v1)

hope you find this helpful if you are like me and can never remember which video the clutch you wanna watch is in

[coffeegnomee]

The psychological analyses that can come from that conversation with Ash is insane. And then the convo after with chat. 

 ASH: “WAIT. ZAm is accepting hearts from people That Kill? That’s not very peaceful of you zam. That goes against your oath. You’re just accepting heart that has, that puts blood on your hands. I’m not even joking about this” 

ZAM: “I-, I don’t. I don’t think it does.” 

ASH: “You’re benefiting from the spoils of the death that you claim to be so against” 

Zam physically JUMPS away from the conversation at the same time. Visibly unsettled by what Ash just said, because this exact stance has come up in chat in the past weeks. 

But nonetheless he proceeds to talk very calmly and practically. 

ZAM: “If kills have already happened what am I supposed to do to stop it. I only care about myself not killing people” [parkouring over to the roof of the house] 

ASH: “You literally-” 

ZAM: “not other people. The server can do whatever the fuck it wants. I don’t care” 

PANGI” aaahhhhh”

ASH: “That’s the most. That’s the most selfish view”

Hold that line for future analysis. In the moment Zam moves past it instantly, settling in the safe arms of being misunderstood. Nobody understands PrinceZam. 

 PANGI: “He’s like switzerland, you know. Like trading with uh germany and trading like england and [france?] in the middle of a war” 

ZAM: “nobody understands. Nobody understands princezam.” 

ASH: “that doesn’t make. That makes you a rat more than anything” 

(A snitch betrays his teammates for something in return, but a rat goes behind his teammates back to save his own cowardly ass.)

ZAM: “[cobs ash/under ash and jumps into it] nobody understands princezam” 

ASH: “maybe I will eventually. Why did you try to do- what?” 

ZAM: “I learned from you! The best side to play is all sides, right? That’s what you said” 

This is the FIRST time Zam has accepted this role. He has debated and worried about accidentally playing both sides, worried how each team will react, it has been WEIGHING on his mind that he DOESN’T want to play all sides. But in the heat of the moment, in the face of being called a hypocrite, he EMBRACES it to get Ash off his back. 

From 7/18/24, 33:20 ZAM: “I really don’t like the idea of playing both sides, but like, like- I’m trying my hardest not to, I’m just kinda like, at spawn and people are confiding in me. It’s like really awkward. Like maybe I’m leaning into it a little bit, I think, just because it’s like, easy. You know? Like if you shove 100 dollars in my face like I’m probably gonna take it right? Like like [giggling], it’s just like, ugh, it’s so stupid [laughing] i don’t like this. I don't know, I’m opportunist I guess. I’m just an opportunist I guess because I'm pacifist and I don't wanna die. So. But like also I really just don’t like the idea of being someone who plays both sides, it’s so awkward” 

Interestingly enough, we weren’t even talking about playing all sides. We were talking about taking bloodied hearts. Goes to show what is really on PrinceZam’s mind. 

ASH: “I mean, yea. I mean. Uh. okay. I guess we’re both insects then damn.” 

[zam laughs as he stutters his way around] 

ASH: “whatever bruh” 

ZAM: “hypocritical as fuck” 

ASH: “I mean, I’m not claiming to be any good person, I’m just saying your whole oath and code of honor is” 

ZAM: “I’m not either. I’m trying to be a good person but, hey” 

PANGI: “You’re doing a really bad job I can tell you that, Zam” 

ZAM: “yea. [pauses and then swings around to confront pangi] coming from you is crazy” 

PANGI: “[indignant] what do you mean coming from me, what did I do wrong?” 

ZAM: “hey guys my name’s pangi, my bit for today is I’m going to go inside this guy’s house and then what’s it called, frame him for doing drugs and take him to an obsidian box and lock him up in there” 

PANGI: “It was pretty funny. I thought that was pretty funny” 

ZAM: [now notably staying in one place for the conversation] yea you thought it was funny? It was HORRIFYING for me. Fuck you [punches him a couple of times]” 

That Pangi bit was not lore just the other day, but now it is. And it was horrifying. Love it.

PANGI: “Did you not find that video funny?” 

ZAM: “I didn’t enjoy that one bit, no.” 

PANGI: “suuuure buddy. Sure” [zam starts parkouring again] 

ZAM: “I don’t think pangi’s a pacifist” 

Classic deflection! It wasn’t Pangi’s pacifism that was in question, it was Zam’s. But Pangi’s pasifism is on Zam’s mind, so he’ll dredge up everything that’s been on his mind to make Pangi look bad so Zam can win the moral high ground. Or the highest low ground. 

In my mind, he’s starting to subconsciously not believe in his stance. Someone who believes in their beliefs fully doesn’t need to stoop to calling out everyone else’s flaws. He’s uncomfortable with the topic, which is why it became a lore moment with chat after, but even so, this is an early sign of cracking I think. He feels BAD about playing all sides, but puffs up that he doesn’t. He was SO worried about it the day he watched the bros vs empire fight. And again on gossip city day, but now he brings it up as a defense.

And also about receiving bloodied hearts, we’ve had this debate to chat before and Zam acknowledged that it is an ethical dilemma:

From 7/20/24, 4:51:10 “imagine flame goes on a killing spree just so he can pay you to make more builds lol’ (citrus) dude. Is the blood on my hands then? That’s something I was wondering, what if this becomes bad. To where they’re like murdering people just for the sake of like, whats it called, paying me. ‘Yes youre evil then’ (sin) aw shit. It’s my fault. I mean I guess it depends on how bad it gets. I felt really bad when they killed jepex for me. I can’t lie, in the moment I thought it was really funny but looking back, it’s literally the same as like. Like I think me asking them to kill someone is the same as me killing them myself, it lowkey does not matter. So I’m lowkey like having another moral dilemma right there, on that one. I’m gonna stop asking people to fucking kill people for me that’s stupid, i don’t want to do that anymore”

And then he debriefs the conversation with chat: “‘you’ve only done build commissions for incredibly violent people huh’ (arch) that is something to consider huh, am I [sharp breath in] let me put on the lore music hold on. Am I. and I, I don’t think I’m the worst person to- okay. No. you know what? It doesn’t matter. Because there are worse people on this server. So I’m not that bad by comparison. It doesn’t matter. Heh. it doesn’t even matter like, like, by comparison I’m not that bad it’s fine. You know I’m doing better than I did last season So I’m okay. I’m happy with my choices I feel like. I dunno. I mean like gaining, gaining hearts is not the worst thing in the world, it’s kind of like the point of the server is it not? I dunno. Hmmm ‘i mean violent people are the ones who have the hearts’ (citrus) exactly! Yea, my only, the only people I CAN do business with is the violent people.”

“But by taking hearts from them am I not encouraging them to kill more? Yea, that’s something to consider as well, you know? Cause, but it’s like. Ugggghhh let me read through the oath again. ‘Are they killing other violent people’ ‘or innocents’ (arch) that’s true! I mean. They kill innocents when they feel like killing innocents it depends on the person i’m dealing with. I don't know.. How often does mapicc kill innocent people?”

Him having to reference the oath in order to figure out if he’s okay, if he’s “in the right”, whatever that means subjectively, he needs the reassurance that he’s okay. Because he does not feel okay.

“Yea, there’s no stopping the violence on lifesteal obviously that’s just how the server works so I, I’ve only, it’s only about like, me. You know? ‘Can’t extend beyond yourself or else it would drive you crazy’ (mer) exactly I can’t control what other people do. It’s not selfish [heavy emphasis. Meaning ashsawg’s comment] it’s just like, me controlling what I can control. You can only control, you should only worry about what you can control, and what I can control is limiting myself. Umm from all that stuff.”

Because this isn’t about true pacifism, this is about Zam stopping Zam from being the joker again. And he can’t be the joker again because it was damaging to the server (7/9/24, 5:28:18 “‘it was fun tho’ (chips) it was, but it was fun at the expense of others. It was fun… but it was damaging to the server.. It was. I dunno. I don’t think it’s who I want to be.”)

So Zam’s form of pacifism, not killing anyone himself, is precisely Not Selfish because it’s saving the server by preventing the joker form coming back. 

But everyone observes him as trying to be classically Pacifist, which means being against all violence.

And then new chatters start bringing up the Planet kill. 

“‘you got one kill’ ‘you killed planet’ okay okay okay you killed planet okay. I hate how many people are talking about that. Can i talk about how I hate how many people talk about that? Cause like, it’s absurd that people are even bringing that up. I shot at him and he took off his fucking armor, what do you mean!? It obviously was never going to kill him, are you stupid? Like why are we why do so many people talk about this? Like it’s an actual point. ‘YOU CANNOT DENY IT ZAM’ yes I fucking can! Yes I fucking can! Because I shot at him as a fucking like bit, because was obviously never to kill him, and he took off all his fucking armor. I’ve been over it! I have been over it like a million times it’s insane! I gave back the heart too like what. [opens statistics] Like it doesn’t even count. [closes statistics without scrolling down] It does not count. ‘You’re still killing’ [mocking] you're still killing. Okay actual like bot opinion. Bot take. Actual bot take is what this is. Insane. Like actually insane. The fact that people are still on this is craaaazy like actually crazy. ” 

I love talking about the Planet kill (not in chat tho) because it’s such an interesting character moment that Zam is trying to retcon as not being important or meaningful at all. It Should be meaningful, he was shooting that bow, he went up to the closet moments before. He came up with a sword moments before. Murder Was On His Mind. He didn’t mean to, but that just enriches the character more. But also, it is wildly interesting to have him, as a character, retconning it from a character perspective. Getting mad about it is so much better than being dismissive of it. Or ignoring the messages. He is bothered by it, that’s why he gets so mad. And that has potential.

And then my favorite part:

“‘PANGI HASN’T’ oohhhh that’s what this is about. That’s what this is about. That’s what this is about, it’s about pangi, and and pangi being better than me okay. That’s what this is about. It means nothing to me. Means nothing to me. I don’t care. PANGI LITERALLY- okay. Okay. okay. Okay. okay. Okay. okay. Okay. [giggle laugh] pangi is a pacifist because he wants to be. But that’s like. Dude, woogie 1 for 1 took my thing. Dude, it’s crazy how many people are pacifist why did everyone like take my thing. I mean like the whole point is proof of concept is prove that it’s possible, right, but like heh heh. It’s also lame that other people are taking my thing. [more deranged leaning giggles] ‘everybody wants to be princezam.’ (mer)”

Here comes out the truth as to why he turned on Pangi in the Ash conversation. It’s on his mind that Pangi and Woogie are also being pacifist, and that “by the definition” they are “better” than him. Better. That one word that boils Zam’s blood. Because incompetence is his trigger. He always gets cynical and mean when someone is dumb or messes up.

And he thinks Pangi is bad at being pacifist, kill count not included. He's removing the Dirtica walls, getting into conflict with his stream bits, he's looking for violence while not being overtly violent.

And then Pangi is talking about a villain comeback when he stops pacifism. And Zam, you can tell, has no faith that Pangi is good enough at pvp to pull it off. Is it because Zam’s self conscious about his own potential return to pvp and the scariness of just loosing every battle? Is it because he’s constantly defending himself against the “weak player” allegations from his chat? He projects his own insecurities on Pangi, and then gets frustrated at him because he’s copying his arc, the arc that he so confidently and happily said has never been done before. 

A lot is boiling up under the surface of PrinceZam. 

[secretsandwriting]

Hermit love confessions

Ren, Mumbo, Doc, and Tango.

Pulled this one out of the drafts for you so @etsumumoo hand it over babe

Ren

You sighed as you looked out your window. It had been clear and sunny before breakfast and almost as soon as you were done eating, the sky opened and rain poured down. Normally, you didn’t mind the rain, enjoying the excuse for a break or working on your interiors. But it had rained for two days and you desperately wanted to work on the walls to the next part of your mega base.

In the two days it had been raining, you had done all of your interiors, finished the book you had been in the middle of, and taken at least three naps. You were out of things to do and from the looks of the sky, the entire day would be filled with rain.

Your sulking was interrupted by a banging on your door. Curious as to who had come out all this way in the rain, you slid to the door and opened it to find a soaked Ren. He was grinning ear to ear and you could see his tail wagging rapidly behind him. His good mood was contagious and you found yourself grinning back at him.

“Ren! To what do I owe the pleasure?” his grin got impossibly bigger.

“Well my fair beauty, it is raining! So I have come to request a dance!” He placed a juke boy down on the ground under your roof's Overhang and slipped your favorite disk in before holding his hand out to you. Glancing behind him at the rain, you decided, why not. You could ahrays blame your blush on the chill.

"I would love a dance!" You placed your hand on his and let him pull you into the cool rain. Your free hand went into his and you found yourself giggling as he led you in an overly dramatic Waltz.

Asyou twirled around with Ren, you found yourself gazing into his eyes. It wasn't often you got to see him without his Sunglasses and every time you found yourself lost in his gorgeous eyes.

"I love you." Ren's voice broke you out of your trance as well as stopping your movement. Ren stood in front of you still holding onto your hands. You took a second to gather your Thoughts so you could actually respond and not just stare at him with your mouth hanging open.

I love you too. Ren immediately perked up even more and dragged you into a Kiss before Playing another disk and leading you around in circles to the Sound of whatever disk the two of you decided on.

your rainy days were no longer a curse. They became a day of Ruddles, dancing, and whatever else Ren came up with.

Mumbo

When Grian had told you he needed to test something that you might die in, you said No. When he offered you a reward if you did it, you said yes. you put your things in a chest and Set your Spawn in the nearby bed.

what you didn't expect was to be dropped into an obsidian Box with Mumbo. When you glance up at the hole you fell in, you were met with a smirking Scar before he was blocked with another block of Obsidian.

It was very obvious neither of you really knew what to do, So you just sat there and listened as he nervously rambled about his redstone, asking a question here or There to Keep him talking So you weren't sitting in an awkward silence. Despite the fact Mumbo was clearly unsure of his situation which of course caused him to stutter a little more than normal, you found yourself relaxing. That was until Grian broke a block and yelled in.

"Just confess already!" The block was replaced and you and Mumbo sat in Silence, avoiding looking in the others direction. Neither of you seemed to know how to move on from that.

Clearly you had made a big mistake when you told Grian about your crush on Mumbo. You figured that would be Something Grian wouldn't spill, understanding that was something to be kept private. Unless…

You glanced up at Mumbo and found him looking at you, seemingly putting together the Pieces you were. Once it clicked he snorted and started laughing, you followed shortly behind.

"You told Grian about a crush didn't you?" Mumbo asked when he caught his breath. you nodded. "So it's Safe to assume We're both locked in here due to the fact that Grian found out about our mutual crushes and dragged Scar into his planning."

"Probably. Do you want to sort this out now or work on payback first?" Mumbo scooted over to your side, his warmth was a nice welcome from the cold obsidian.

"Payback of course." Neither of you mentioned how close you Sat, or the fact your hands ended up intertwined. You both knew how this would end, but first you Wanted a little revenge.

Doc

You were basing with Doc this season which had not been the best choice in hindsight. Between him trying to break the server, creating huge redstone machines that sometimes lagged so bad you'd end up dead, and your growing crush that made you worry too much when he overworked himself, you were not having a good time.

There were some nice moments but all of those contributed to your crush so it wasn'tmaking it any easier for you.

This time, Doc was working on another huge project. You weren't sure what it was, he hadn't told you but he was overworking himself more than normal which said a lot.

So you took it upon yourself to go find him and try to convince him to rest a little bit, the phantoms spawning led you right to him. The amount of them was worrying. Wandering around the machine, you looked for him. finding him tucked away into a corner working on some wires. You made sure to make lots of noise when walking up so you hopefully wouldn't scare him.

"Not now. I need to finish this."

"Doc, it's been six days you need to rest."

"No, I need to finish this!" He snapped

"Doc, there are phantoms swarming outside. You need to take a break. I made your favorite for dinner so please at least eat."

"I'm not hungry."

"Doc y-" He cut you off.

"No! I need to get this done. When I'm done I'll rest and eat but for now i need to work. Besides, there's no reason for you to care this much!"

"I need you to stop and think for a second because there's no way you can fully believe i'm not head over heels in love with your stupid oblivious self!" You didn't mean to let that slip bit it was too late to back out now.

"You're in love with me?"

"Doc, I wouldn't be putting up with everything I do if I wasn't. Now can we please go back to the house so you can eat an actual meal and get some rest?"

Y/n: Help! I broke Doc!

Xisuma: How?

Y/n: I was trying to convince him to take a break and we argued and i ended up telling him i was in love with him and he isn't moving anymore!

Xisuma: I don't think thats something i can fix

Tango

Someone had decided it would be a good idea to bring alcohol to the party. It was not a good idea. It was a very bad idea.

Tango was drunk. Not only was he drunk but he was a clingy drunk who liked professing his love for you to anyone who would listen. You weren't sure how to take it honestly.

Your crush of three seasons was grabbing onto you and whispering just how much he loved you into your ear. Everyone else loved it and was encouraging it. Everytime you left his grasp, his ruby eyes would start filling with tears and you couldn't help but let him latch back onto you.

Once the Party ended you found your sheet in charge of taking care of I drunk blaze. Which was surprisingly easy. Tango was very happy to listen to you as long as you were very close or responded to his "I love you's" with one of your own, or if you called him a nickname.

However, no matter what you tried, he wouldn't go to his base. He only wanted to go to yours. He wouldn't even go in for a change of clothes without you right by his side. Once you had finally gotten him into pajamas, you headed to your base.

Once at your base you had to convince him to let go of you enough for you to change and go to the bathroom and then to let you go to the Kitchen to grab him some water for the morning.

"Sorry darling, I just need to go grab a glass of water for you. Why don't you warm the bed up while I grab it?" Tango was more than happy to comply with the nickname and Special task you gave him. Hopefully he would be asleep when you came back. Stress had slipped you a bottle of hangover recovery meds when it became obvious Tango would only go home with you. Tango was still awake When you made it back to your room. He had enough patience to wait While you put the recommended amount next to the glass.

You climbed into bed next to him and the second he could he curled around you. You waited, until he was comfortable to adjust. Tango was out cold before you finished.

The next morning, Tango woke up in an unfamiliar room with a Killer headache. After pulling himself VP into a sitting position and noticed the water and pills on the nightstand and chugged them down, hoping they would work fast. While he waited for them to Kick in, he laid down and hoped he didn't make a fool of himself.

He had made a fool of himself. As the medicine kicked in the memories started flooding back. Not only had he confessed but he had been clinging to you and had to be convinced into letting you go. What did you think of him now? Slowly making his way downstairs, he tried to ignore What was left of his headache and the anxiety burning in his stomach.

He found you in the Kitchen making breakfast and decided if he could do it drunk, he could do it sober. Was it a good idea? Probably not but he was going to commit to it. so he moved behind you and tucked himself around you. His arms around your waist and his head on your shoulder.

"sorry." You snorted

"Its ok. It will be a fun story to tell." Tango groaned in embarrassment and you laughed at his misery. "Does your head hurt? ll He nodded into your shoulder. "Did you take the meds?" another nod. "After breakfast you can go lay down again. I'll make sure I'm quiet."

Tango perked up when he realized you weren't sending hin home. In fact, you hadn't moved away when he came behind you.

"I love you."

"I love you too Tango. If you would please let go of me So I can grab something out of the oven I would greatly appreciate it." Tango retreated to the table and wwatched you move around the kitchen, suddenly very glad he got drunk.

[violettduchess]

A/N: This is my gift for @readerinsertfanfiction 💜 The moment I saw Cyran on your list, I was thrilled. I hope you enjoy!

A huge thank you to @ikemenlibrary for her support and friendship and for being a generous, caring host 💜

Prompt: A servant, someone who knew Cyran from before his time in Rhodolite

Cyran x AU Emma

WC: ~4k

Obsidian: the Past

She runs across the cracked, sunbaked cobblestone streets, her treasure wrapped in a cream-colored tea towel and held protectively against her chest. Her worn leather shoes make a pleasing thunking sound against the stones as she hurries past dusty shop windows and faded porches, carefully dodging people on the street.

“Langsam, Emma!” someone yells as she flies past but she doesn’t listen to their warning. She can’t slow down. She has somewhere to be.

Finally she reaches the edge of town and takes a sharp left, leaving the cobblestones behind for a ribbon of dirt road that winds its way along tired hills covered with sparse sage-green grass and dotted with scraggly yellow dandelions. Another turn onto an even smaller path, a faint thing that meanders through the knee-high growth and then, finally, the faded barn comes into view. 

She smiles, pumping her young legs harder, willing them to swallow the distance faster and faster until she reaches the peeling, splintered wooden doors and haphazardly flings one open.

“Cyran? I’m here!!”

The boy, just shy of fourteen, turns away from the wooden beam he has been faux-sparring with, lowering the dull, well-worn practice sword he is so proud of. His hair gleams like fire in the hazy sunlight that shines through the pocked roof. 

Emma hurries over, gulping down huge breaths of musty air as she grabs his thin forearm.

“C’mon. I’m dying to see how they taste.”

Cyran laughs, struggling to sheath his sword as she drags him over to the blanket thrown over the hay in a cozy corner of the barn. This is their favorite place to meet, an escape from the outside world they discovered several years ago while exploring. It is here that Emma sometimes reads to him from one of her treasured books. She’s even shared stories she’s written, romantic tales of princesses and dragons, knights and monsters. Cyran is always the hero, the knight who slays the monsters and rescues the damsel in distress. Emma will change her roles in the stories. 

Sometimes she needs rescuing. 

But sometimes, she is the dragon.

Often they sneak treats to each other, hard biscuits or smoked meat or, if they are really lucky, sweet berries brought across the border from the lush neighboring country of Rhodolite. Cyran’s neighbor is a servant for some of the merchants that make the risky trips over and when he’s lucky, she manages to tuck away a few treasures just for him.

He settles himself down on the frayed checkered blanket and pushes his bright hair away from his forehead, eagerly watching as Emma drops down next to him, laying the tea towel down. Her face is flushed from her run and from the thrill of what she’s managed to bring him.

“Ready?”

He nods, enthusiastically motioning for her to unwrap it already. He has hands that are too big for his young body, growing the way many boys do at this age, in odd fits and spurts. 

Emma leans forward, pushing up the sleeve of her too-big dress and carefully pulls back the edges of the tea towel.

The smell hits them first, the warm spice of cinnamon, the tang of nutmeg, the slight bitterness of the cloves, the unmistakable scent of ginger. It wafts up towards them, exotic and tempting. Cyran breathes in deeply and then sighs happily as he looks at her, eyes bright and admiring.

“It smells so good.”

Cyran had carefully been saving up the exotic store of spices, some of them gifts from his neighbors, others decadent purchases made at the market from his meager earnings made mucking stalls and chopping wood. He knew that Emma would be the one who would create something special with them. Young as she was, she was a talented cook and baker, able to make the most fantastic treats out of the simplest ingredients. And now that she had been given such a treasure trove to work with, she had spun pure magic.

The spiced biscuits are dappled dark brown and gold. When she hands him one, it is with a reverence that echos a priest giving communion or a child receiving a shiny new toy at Christmas.

Their gazes meet and she nods.

“Together.”

He returns the nod, staring into the warm depths of her soft brown eyes.

“Together.”

They bite into the cookies at the same time. Emma breaks into a proud smile as Cyran closes his eyes, savoring the medley of flavor and even better, the knowledge that she made them just for him.

“It’s good, isn’t it?" she asks, grinning. She sees the look on his face, the way he is practically melting with enjoyment.

He lifts his shoulder in a casual shrug, feigning indifference.

“I guess……”

“What?!”

He takes another bite, leaning back on one hand. “I mean, they’re ok. But you know, Hilde’s biscuits are also really good–OOF.”

She’s tackled him, throwing herself at him with all the force of a frenzied feline, her nimble fingers scratching at his sides. Cyran breaks into laughter, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and tries to squirm away from her.

“Ok ok Brown Eyes, enough!”

Emma lets him go, sitting back on her heels with a glowing, triumphant smile.

“Never say that about Hilde’s cookies again.”

He pushes himself up, heart pounding furiously in his chest. Only some of it is from laughing. He tears his gaze away from the unsettling beauty of her eyes, traveling up to her hair.

“You’re a mess. You got straw in your hair and your braid is a disaster.”

Emma turns and scoots until she is sitting in front of him. “Since it’s your fault….you fix it.”

Cyran heaves a sigh he doesn’t mean and then settles himself into a comfortable position, reaching forward and with a tenderness and care far beyond most boys his age, begins slowly picking the straw from her messy plait.

Emma’s eyes drift closed as she revels in the attention he’s giving her, the gentle way he untangles her braid and then very slowly begins brushing his fingers through her soft, chestnut-colored hair.

It feels comforting and safe.

It feels thrilling.

It feels like the early evening has come to a standstill and they have all the time in the world.

But their time together is like a rose slowly losing its petals.

A petal falls as he tells her, wide-eyed and shaken, that his neighbor has been killed in her own home, throat opened in the dead of night and left smiling its ghastly red smile until she was discovered hours later. Emma rubs his back, not knowing what else to do. This is not the first death in their village as of late. And it will not be the last.

A petal falls as they lay, side by side, on the blanket in the hay, staring up at the patches of starry sky visible through the holes in the roof. “My parents are scared,” she whispers. He turns his head to stare at her profile and knows it isn’t just her parents who are frightened. “I’ll protect you,” he whispers, voice fierce with youth’s naïve promise. Her gaze remains on the silver stars but she reaches out, taking his hand and squeezes it.

A petal falls as she comes to their favorite spot, face pale as bone, to tell him that her family is leaving. Her father has contacted distant relatives that live far to the north, as far from Rhodolite and the dangers it poses as one can get. Cyran feels like his young heart may break right there in his chest and he will be forced to live the rest of his life with its pieces rattling around inside of him. Though filled with dismay, Emma’s eyes are as beautiful as ever. They shine with tears, rivaling any star they have ever spent time gazing at.

A petal falls as she rushes through the dark, on the night before her family is to leave, her throat burning with feelings she can’t quite name, waves too strong to try and understand for fear they will sweep her away. She bursts through the barn doors and finds him already there, his hair dark as garnet, damp with sweat. He has spent the entire day doing heavy labor, removing heavy wooden beams, hauling ancient and broken equipment, sweeping the dusty, straw-strewn floor. Several lanterns placed around the interior bathe the space in warm, yellow light. The barn is as clean and inviting as he can make it. He wanted to give her one more memory, something beautiful, that she can take with her on her journey away from here. Away from him.

Emma is frozen in place, soaking in all he has done, before finally stopping on the young man at the center of it. He’s breathing hard, his chest rising and falling unevenly. Already his shoulders carry the hint of what manhood will bring him: strength and breadth. Arms that with training will turn hard and sculpted, legs that will lengthen until he is taller than most. He is the faint beginning of what he will become. Emma wonders wildly if she will ever get the chance to see the finished masterpiece.

“Emma,” he says, his voice raw and rough, deeper than she has ever heard it.

She sets down the bundle she is holding, the one she carried so close on the way here, leaving it on top of a weathered wooden barrel.

“Cyran,” she answers, her muscles tense, like a fawn when it hears a crunching in the underbrush.

He starts forward, one hesitant step and that is enough. She flies towards him, throwing her thin arms around his neck and buries her face in his worn linen shirt, clutching him to her. There is power in her small frame, something fierce and bright, a hurricane in crystal. Cyran holds her close, his eyes closing as he breathes in her familiar scent. He’s been teased his whole life because of his last name, but she is the one who reminds him of a rose, who always smells so sweet.

The anticipation of loss that has them clinging to each other slowly ebbs and something else, something that has been burning low and quiet in every laugh, every touch, every glance begins to emerge. She is suddenly aware of the press of her chest against his, of how much taller he is, the earthy smell of his skin. She leans back to look at him and sees the same awareness mirrored in his dark eyes.

Outside a rooster crows, loud and discordant.

Cyran turns his head toward the sound and Emma, sparked by the frantic knowledge that she must leave, grabs his chin, pulling him back to her and rises onto her toes, pressing her lips to his.

It is a sunbeam bursting through gray clouds. A spark breathing life into a pile of dried leaves. It is hope and promise and wonder.

And heartbreak.

With a stifled cry, she steps away, turns and flees the barn, not wanting to see the look on his face as she leaves, not wanting that to be her last memory of him.

Cyran watches with a thundering heart as the door swings shut. Flooded with helplessness and misery, he notices the bundle she left behind. Tenderly he lifts it, undoing the sky-colored ribbon. It’s her favorite handkerchief, white with pale blue forget-me-nots painstakingly embroidered along the edges, and nestled inside are several of her spiced biscuits. His favorites.

Rhodolite: The Present

Rhodolite is so much MORE than she expected. The streets are wider and cleaner and lined with greenery, more trees and flowering bushes and grass than in the entire garden of the palace in Obsidian. There are more people than she expected too, many standing under awnings and lampposts, peeking through windows and around doorways, watchful eyes in beautiful faces following the royal procession as it makes its way towards the palace. 

When she had been told by the Head Chef that they would be accompanying Prince Gilbert and his entourage to Rhodolite, Emma had felt a familiar ringing through the cockles of her heart. Rhodolite is where Cyran was rumored to have ended up. Whispers from the south had traveled her way, over the many years since they parted. He had joined the army when he was of age. He had left Obsidian for the verdure of Rhodolite. He was employed by one of the Princes there. Crumbs of information she had managed to gather, hoarding them tightly like precious drops of mana. 

He may not even be here, she reminds herself as her tired gray mare plods along down the street. She and the other servants are at the end of the procession and most of the people have turned away, not interested in anything but the dangerous Prince Gilbert with his sharp smile and blood-red gaze. 

Still, Emma finds herself scanning the crowds as they pass, looking for any head of red hair. She spots a few but they are never him.

As the overwhelming elegant palace suddenly rises towards the heavens before her, she draws in a sharp breath. 

We’re here…….

…….Is he?

The palace looms closer, a breathtaking monument of pale beauty.

And if so….how in the wide world will she ever find him?

Cyran runs a hand through his thick mass of russet hair as his long strides make quick work of the pathway towards the training hall. It’s late evening and the young, freshly-minted knights are at the end of their training and he needs to make sure everything went well without him there. He knows Lucian is more than capable of leading them through their drills but Cyran has a responsibility to make sure. They are all under his charge.

Entering the hall, he sees several of the knights laughing in a corner. Some are sitting and catching their breath, others are pushing the heavy sandbags they sometimes train with back into their storage room. What he sees reassures him. They look tired and sore, yet satisfied, faces bright with the feeling of accomplishment a tough training session will leave behind.

He’s about to go look for Lucian, expecting a full report when he notices several of the knights standing by the wooden table at the far end of the training circle, the one usually covered with straps for shields and rope and other odds and ends. They’re smiling, far too widely to be discussing anything so mundane as weaponry. Several are chewing. He approaches the table, greeted by his men with smiles and respectful nods. Immediately he notices the tin: it’s round and black, covered with decorative golden swirls. 

“What’s this?” He glances towards the first knight at his left, a tall lad with sandy blond hair.

“They were brought here by an Obsidian servant. She said they were a present for us.”

Cyran frowns, a skeptical look on his face as he reaches inside the tin for one of the golden brown cookies.

“And you didn’t think to–” He was going to ask if they thought accepting gifts from strangers was a good idea when the scent hits him, cutting through the sweat and musk of tired men.

The warm spice of cinnamon, the tang of nutmeg, the slight bitterness of cloves, the unmistakable scent of ginger.

He goes still, the breath knocked from his lungs.

Could it be…..

Something in his face hushes the men around him. They watch, curious as Cyran lifts the cookie and takes a bite. 

The man who sees everything, ever watchful, closes his eyes as he chews and the knights are transfixed by the absolute stillness that has overtaken their leader.

And then those eyes open and something in them has begun to burn, bright and alive.

The other half of the cookie falls to the dusty ground as he turns on his heel and, practically jogging, exits the training area, leaving behind the half-eaten biscuit and a slew of surprised faces.

The rose gardens are somehow even more beautiful in the twilight of evening. The red petals seem to have darkened, shedding their bright rose-red for a sultry scarlet. Shadows emerge from the trimmed hedges, stretching across the winding stone pathways, giving a visitor like Emma glimpses of hidden benches and secret dirt paths leading into clandestine corners of the gardens.

She has taken several of these more narrow, less-trodden paths, not at all afraid of getting lost. Her heart is a bird, flitting between dark branches, full of a nervous, tightly-wound energy she can’t quite explain. 

As the sky darkens to a deep navy blue and the first stars open their eyes, Emma pauses in front of a gray stone fountain. Two swans, nuzzling their beaks together, bodies curved towards one another as a blossoming flower rises above them, water spraying outward in celebration. She tilts her head, the romantic in her sighing at the way the two swans perfectly mirror one another, two halves of a whole, two souls in perfect harmony. So enchanted is she by the fountain that she doesn’t hear the footfall on the path, doesn’t notice the man who has stopped several meters away from where she is standing, the sight of her freezing him in his tracks.

“Emma.”

She jumps at the deep voice, her eyes wide and dark as she turns towards the sound. The owner of said voice is standing, half in shadow, at the place where the small path to the fountain begins, beneath a shadowy arch of crimson roses. She is so startled, she doesn’t even register that he has said her name.

“Oh….s'il te plaît, excuse-moi,” she says quickly, doing her best to remember the phrases of the common language spoken in Rhodolite. “J'espère que ça va…” She trails off, trying to remember how to say she hopes she is allowed to be here but the man takes another step closer, leaving the blanket of shadows and stepping into the fading light.

Even the dusky hue of evening cannot hide the red of his hair.

A gasp as soft as the flutter of a bird’s wing escapes her. The young boy she knew juxtaposed against this tall, broad man before her sends her heart into a tailspin. Her hand flies to her mouth as she takes him in. She sees the same bright light of recognition and admiration and overwhelming emotion plain as day on his beautiful face.

“Cyran?” The word is a whisper, a breathless repetition of the name she has kept in her prayers for decades.

His eyes never leave her, almost as if he has the power to hold her there with his gaze, to keep her from vanishing into the realm of his dreams where she has lived for so long. Slowly, he reaches up and loosens the laces at the top of his tunic. His hand slides inside and when it emerges, he is holding a small square of cloth. As he slowly opens it, her heart falters.

It’s white, with pale blue forget-me-nots embroidered around the edges.

He holds it out to her, his chest rising and falling with every deep breath he takes. That handkerchief has lived next to his heart, in an inner pocket, one he has sewn into every shirt he has ever owned since the day he watched her leave.

“I think…..this belongs to you, Brown Eyes.”

She chokes back a sob, unable to contain the thunderstorm of emotion coursing through her and runs to him, falling into his arms as naturally as a willow bends to the wind, tears falling freely down her cheeks. Cyran wraps his arms around her, sheltering her, holding her the way he has imagined a thousand times. His throat burns with all the words he has ached to say, all those sleepless nights spent remembering the lilt of her smile, the music of her laughter, the bittersweet taste of her kiss.

Emma squeezes her eyes closed, breathing in the scent of him, at once so familiar and yet so strange. Her arms wind around his waist as she presses herself against him, drinking in the sensation of his body on hers. 

This is Cyran….her Cyran…..her….

A thought pierces her heart as she suddenly steps away from him, eyes wide, still so beautiful as they glimmer with the remnants of her tears.

“Oh…I…I didn’t mean…..you could be married. I shouldn’t have-”

His laughter is coarse, rough with emotion, a roll of rushing water as it careens over the lip of a cliff.

“As if I could ever love anyone else.”

Love…..

As if summoned by the very word, the moon itself parts the soft gray clouds, flooding the small section of the garden with silvery light. The tinkling of the fountain fills the momentary silence. 

Cyran’s cheeks suddenly flush, a hot mixture of embarrassment and panic overriding the elation of the previous moment.

“I…..I don’t mean to presume of course that you feel the same. It has been a long time and…..” He trails off, wincing. Fluster is such an uncharacteristic state of being for Cyran. “Ah, shit. I’m sorry. I–” 

His words are cut off as Emma launches herself back into his arms, hugging him fiercely.

“Please, don’t apologize.” She tilts her head up to look at him, still in awe of how she sees the young man he was and the handsome man he has become in his beautiful eyes, in his exquisite face. “It has always been you.”

Cyran drags air into his lungs, hardly able to believe he isn’t dreaming. His rough fingers capture her chin, his thumb running over the sensitive skin just under her lower lip. 

Slowly, he leans down as she stretches upwards, eager and nearly trembling with emotion. 

He kisses her, his hand still cupping her face. Gently his mouth moves over hers as he tells her a wordless story of longing, of a bruised heart that learned to somehow keep beating. 

He kisses her, a strong arm pulling her closer, his lips and tongue weaving the tale of a young soldier who never forgot the girl with the tender heart and radiant spirit. The soldier who dreamed of her face during his darkest nights and longed for her laughter on days of sunshine.

She meets him, kiss for kiss, stroke for stroke, sliding her palms along his broad shoulders, clutching him as she answers his tale, confessing without words how he has never left her heart. How his smile was her light in times of worry and despair. How seeing him again has been her northern star from the moment of parting.

Only the moon knows how long they stand there, wrapped in each other’s arms, lost in each other’s yearning.

When they finally part, Cyran rests his forehead against hers, still keeping her tightly in his embrace. He may never let go again.

“You’re….in the employ of Prince Gilbert. I am here.” He frowns ever so slightly as he brushes several loose strands of hair away from Emma’s charmingly flushed cheek. “This could get complicated.”

Their gazes meet and she nods.

“Yes…..but we’ll figure it out.”

And suddenly he is carried back in time to an evening when her eyes shone just as brightly, just as excitedly, a young girl with something to give a young boy, a homemade cookie, an offering of love.

“Together.” 

Her voice echoes across the years, that word wrapping itself around his battered heart, a balm, a blessing.

He returns the nod, staring into the warm depths of her soft brown eyes, tenderly stroking the silk of her hair, and answers her now as he did back then. 

“Together.”

Tagging: @xbalayage @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @aria-chikage @redheadkittys @tele86 @dear-mrs-otome @olivermorningstar @writingwhimsey @mxrmaid-poet @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @nightfoxqueen @myonlyjknight @ikesimpleton @namine-somebodies-nobody @cellophanediamond @whatever-fanfics @justpeachyteastea @chirp-a-chirp @got7igot7family @kookie-my-little-sunshine @mastering-procrastinating @portrait-ninja @queen-dahlia @themysticalbeing @nightghoul381 @whitelittlebunny @chi-the-idiot @bubblexly @wordycheeseblob

[kekaki-cupcakes]

Hiiii! I loved ur Hermes kid!

Could I ask for a male son of Dionysus x either Leo or nico?

Sorry if I got ya wrong and don’t feel pressured or anything!

Have a lovely day!

When there isn't a lot of info in an ask I kinda have to make the reader a personality so that it isn't too bland too read so sorry to y'all that aren't like this <3

Redecoration---Nico di Angelo x Son of Dionysus

»»————-　★　————-««

Nico had been glaring at the roof of skulls for a solid ten minutes, sort of hoping the hatred in his eyes would just poof them out of existence, when someone finally showed up. 

Apparently after an incident in the Aphrodite cabin, people weren’t allowed to just grab a bucket of paint and some new furniture to fuck around and find out, which was why Nico had been sent someone to help him fix the mess that was the Hades cabin.

Apart from the hundred skulls hot glue gunned to the rood, the beds were wooden coffins, the lamps were ancient looking chandeliers, and all of the walls were a dark ugly gray, like there was a serious mold problem. Now that he thought about it, the color might actually be a mold problem. 

“Never fear, goth! For I am here!” 

Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. Nico took a deep breath and turned around, obsidian eyes already narrowed with dislike as he took in the taller boy trotting over. He was holding a crate in his arms, filled with color swatches and chunks of fabrics, magazines sticking out of the top. 

“Excuse me?”

“You’re the one who needs redecorating, right?” The boy asked, already letting himself into the dim cabin that smelt of rich dark chocolate for some reason. “Yeah… no offense but we have to fix this, even if you're the wrong person.” 

Nico felt a sudden need to defend the atrocious carpet and bat shaped door knocker from this boy, who was wearing a maroon shirt picturing a glass of wine. “I was eight.” 

“No shame here, everyone makes bad decisions.”

There didn’t seem to be any point arguing with this boy, who had already dumped the box of supplies on one of the coffin bed lids, and was staring around at the dark cabin, hands on his hips. 

Nico just followed him inside, shoving his hands into the slightly ripped pockets of his aviator jacket. He peered into the cardboard box, which was promptly tipped out onto the ground. He watched with a frown as the son of Mr D sat on the carpet and began rifling through the empty notebooks and cut up magazines. “What are you doing?”

“Uh, scrapbooking? We can’t just start painting the walls yellow yet, you have to plan this stuff out, goth.” He said, as if it was obvious. Then he smirked. “You don’t like arts and crafts?”

Nico’s frown deepened, but he couldn’t let this mildly infuriating boy with surprisingly cool bracelets upstage him. “I love arts and crafts.”

“Whatever you say,” he hummed, and pulled out a leather bound book containing a few stickers and a strip of torn paper where a page had been pulled out. “Are you just gonna stand there in the corner and be grumpy?... That wasn’t sarcasm, you can if you want, I was just checking.”

Nico wasn’t an asshole, of course he was going to help. Still, he had to glare at the boy for that comment. Then he sat down and opened one of the magazines, which was featuring a life sized Barbie Dream House bed frame, fluffy pillows included. He flicked the page over with a grimace.

“So, what kinda vibe are we going for?”

“What?”

“I’m assuming you're sick of Dracula,” he said, waving his arms at the general doom and gloom around them. “So what aesthetic are we replacing it with?”

Nico didn’t want to admit he hadn’t planned this far into the venture, he’d really just been hoping he could repaint the walls, or maybe burn the whole thing down and start over. “I don’t… I don’t know.”

“Okay, well… I’m assuming you wanna keep it edgy, but seriously? A roof of skulls? You’re not a caveman. Maybe we should go with an Addams family style.” He shivered. “With less spiderwebs and disembodied hands. “ 

Ah, another gap in his modern education. “What’s an Addams family?” 

All Nico got in return was a gaping mouth and wide eyes. “How do you not- okay, I’m making you watch the entire timeline later, but for now we need to pick a color scheme.” 

Nico opened his mouth.

“Not black.”

Nico closed his mouth.

“Obviously there’ll be lots of black, but you need another color to fit with it, something dark and scary but colorful.” He pulled out a binder of color swatches, and flipped it open, skimming the pages of baby blues and lavenders. “Maybe dark green, or...”

“Red.” Nico said, peering over at the pages of ruby and scarlet. He pointed to the dark one, which had a little title below, ‘Blood red’. It was a little on brand, but it was better than ‘Crimson Tide’. 

“Oooh, nice. If we keep the walls black, and pull up the black carpet, there’ll be floorboards underneath.” He started to ramble, ripping a color swatch out of the binder and gluing it into the leather bound book. He glanced around at the musty cabin. 

“We can get a red rug for the middle of the cabin, and definitely new beds, but if we get Drew to refurbish the chandeliers they’ll look great. Oh, and the coffin bed frames could be a bookshelf if we get the mattress out and ask Nyssa to put some shelves in. Do you read? Because otherwise it’s sort of pointless. But so are the skulls on the roof, so…”

“You’re good at this.” 

It took Nico a moment to realize what he’d just blurted, and when he did the warmth was already in his cheeks. He’d only been a little caught up in watching the son of Dionysus’s eyes sparkle as he talked, pointing to different parts of the cabin, and somehow ruined it. “I mean, you just sound like you’ve, you know, done this a lot.”

The glimmer in their eye didn’t fade, they only grinned harder. “I have. A lot. It’s fun!”

“I suppose so,” Nico said, his lips twitching, and opened another magazine. He skipped a page on clawfoot bathtubs [There was already a white one with gold trim in the bathroom]. There was a large heart shaped mirror, He ignored that too, and found a simple bedframe, painted black. He held it out gingerly. “What about this one?”

“Yes! Good job.” He said, snipping it out of the magazine quickly, and sticking it next to a picture of a glass chandelier. “If you’ve got a simple bed, we could find a zebra print blanket, they always look good with black and red, as long as you don’t have, like, leopard print.”

“I thought you’d like leopard print?”

“And I thought you’d like skulls on your roof and coffin shaped beds,” he teased, with a smug little smile. Nico rolled his eyes, and picked out a strip of dark red fabric, passing it over.

He shook some glitter from his hands, there seemed to be piles of it in the box. “It’s a little over the top, but it’s not as bad as Jason’s cabin. It’s just rock. Everywhere. And a giant statue of his father.”

“Maybe he can be my next client,” he hummed, wiping glue from his fingers onto the molding carpet beneath them. A few shards of rounded glass were taped to the pages of the scrapbook, shining in the light of the dusty stained chandeliers. 

Nico wanted to object. He didn’t know why, but he didn’t want the boy in front of him with glitter on his cheekbones and scissors in his hands to be cutting out pictures and teasing someone else. Instead he looked away, feeling something in his chest surge, something like fear. Fear of what, he didn’t know, but he cleared his throat and moved on.

“Don’t you have a sister too?”

The fear surged back forwards and Nico whipped around, his tone sharp. “What?”

“The roman one, I swear I saw her the other day, when Reyna visited to plan something or other.” he said casually, not seeing the pale tinge to Nico’s face. “With the overalls and the bulldog?”

“That’s Frank,” Nico said, his shoulder sinking with relief. 

“No, I’m pretty sure it was Hazel, she had those light up sketchers, with the little wheels on the bottom.” He said, somehow with a moon shaped sticker on his nose as he stuck little cut out paper skulls around the four page collage. 

“Frank’s the bulldog, he can turn into animals.” Nico had a strange urge to reach out and press the sticker on his nose, so instead he held his hands tightly in his lap. 

“Well, is there something Hazel’d like in the cabin when she visits? Does she read?” 

Nico sighed, and reached back for the magazine he discarded. He shook it open, cut outs of fluffy teddies falling into his lap. He found the page with the heart shaped bathroom mirror and ripped it out carefully. He could take a few hearts in his cabin if Hazel would like them. “This one.”

“Oh, that one's cute, Nyssa could totally make it.”

“I can ask Leo, he owes me a favor.”

“Oh yeah?”

“I haven't killed him yet.” 

                                  »»————-　★　————-««

Nico pressed down the front of his shirt. It was a black Camp Halfblood shirt, which he’d gotten from Piper after the Aphrodite cabin had started making shirts in other colors. Apparently there were only so many outfits you could wear with orange. 

Black goes with everything though, so it wasn’t a problem for him. 

He made his bed [closed the lid of the coffin] and dragged the last of the furniture not nailed to the ground out onto the little deck all of the cabins had. His decking only had a few pairs of shoes and a pot of dead roses he’d never bothered to keep alive. Maybe he’d have another go. 

Drew had taken the chandeliers already, to polish them and whatnot, so he only had to wait for his assigned son of Dionysus to show up, and they could start hunting for zebra print blankets and ripping skulls off the ceiling. What fun. 

When he still hadn’t shown up, Nico finished pulling all of the previously made bedding from the coffins and dumping it to the side so that Leo could turn it to a bookshelf [He could read, he just had dyslexia thank you very much], and then set off to the Dionysus cabin. It was easy to find, the only male god on the female side, with trelice’s of ivy decorating the whitewashed walls and a grumpy looking leopard snoozing on the purple swinging chair out the front of the small cabin.

He didn’t really want to knock, but he was sure someone would report him for standing around too menacingly if he just waited. He was saved from indecision when the door opened, revealing a tall sandy haired boy.

“You’re the goth, aren’t you?” Pollux sniffed, his nose red. “We can’t help today, but Butch is free, he can do some heavy lifting, and I’m sure Drew’ll criticize your style if you ask nicely enough.” 

“Why, what’s wrong?”

“I mean,” Pollux started, rubbing his eyes, and Nico only then realized he was still wearing his pajamas. They had an elongated cartoon owl sticking out of a doorway on it. “Skulls on the ceiling is a bit much, and everyone think you’re a vamp-”

“I meant with you guys, not my style,” Nico interrupted, his eyes narrowed.”

“Someone, decided to go visit Lou Ellen even though we all know she has a cold, and now I have it-” Pollux was cut off once again, his mockingly loud voice reaching the people inside. 

“I’m sorry I was concerned for my friend, she wanted soup!”

“She always wants soup!” Pollulx yelled back, and Nico moved past the older child of Dionysus, slipping off his shoes and letting himself into the cabin. 

There was nasally muttering behind him and the door slid shut. Nico peered around, and saw a bundle of fluffy blankets on a couch, only a sneezing head poking out the top. “Why did you get sick?”

“I mean it wasn’t really on purpose,” he mumbled back, wiping his nose with a tissue and sinking back into his cocoon. “I can’t help today, but-”

“I don’t care,” Nico started, and plopped down on the white couch, avoiding a deep red stain that could be alcohol or blood. He couldn’t tell. He also didn’t know how to say he’d rather sleep in the coffin again then have to spend the day with someone else. 

He sniffed, falling sideways a little on the couch and squinting at the square tv, which was showing some old cartoon about cavemen. “Mkay, well you should probably go if you don’t wanna get sick.”

Nico thought for a moment, trying not to focus on how much he wanted to scoop up the bundle of blankets in his arms far too skinny for that sort of stuff. “Why don’t we watch ‘an Adam family’?

He got watery wide eyes in return and a toothy grin, “wait really?”

“No. If I was making a joke it’d be funnier than that.”

“Okay, let’s watch it,” he said, hopping off the couch and moving to a box of DVDs with a lot of energy for someone so sick. “And it’s the Addams family, goth. You have to learn the basics of this culture if you’re gonna have coffin bookshelves.”

He fiddled around with the tv and then a grainy black and white intro came on, tinny music over the top. Nico watched as he danced to the theme tune in his blanket burrito, all the way back to the couch, where he landed, coughing and winded. Nico raised an eyebrow. “I could’ve done that, you’re sick.”

“Yeah yeah whatever,” he mumbled, tucking the fluffy socks on his feet up onto the white couch and wiggling with excitement. Nico watched him for a moment, and then turned back to the TV, feeling his lips twitch into a grin.

Duh duh duh duh, click click. Duh duh duh duh, click click.

Their creepy and they're kooky-

                                      »»————-　★　————-««

“Neeks, this mirror is so cute!”

“You’re welcome,” Nico muttered, rubbing his nose and rolling over, pulling the zebra print doona cover further over his head. 

He heard Hazel’s wheelie shoes click along the floorboards and she gilded out of the bathroom. When he peered out, her hair was in bunchies and she was pulling a purple hoodie over her head. “It’s so much nicer in here now, but how did you get sick redecorating?”

“Uhm..There was a lot of dust. I might be allergic?” 

The door slammed open, the clear chandelier hanging from the roof shaking as Nyssa trudged in, her work boots leaving mud on the fluffy blood red rug. She was holding the glitter covered scrapbook in her gloved hands. 

“So, I know I’m supposed to make everything in this, but what am I supposed to do with the polaroid of you kissing Mr D ‘s kid?”

                       »»————-　★　————-««

[bits-and-babs]

✰ 𝐊𝐎𝐖𝐓𝐎𝐖 — 𝐒𝐈𝐌𝐎𝐍 ‘𝐆𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐓’ 𝐑𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐘

↳ summary: prompt: “on your knees” — A ‘basics’ training course enforced on Task Force 141 after a failed mission causes Simon Riley to lose his cool.

↳ pairing: Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x f!Reader (Delta)

↳ [1k] content: mentions of injury and violence, oral (m receiving), exhibitionism, rough oral, hair pulling (so inevitably mentions of hair, length not specified), Dacryphilia, swallowing. Ghost is a big massive slut and so am I.

ghost masterlist [coming soon] I| main masterlist |I join taglist

Attempting to get a prolific and deadly team of elite soldiers to engage in a ‘basic self-defence’ training course must have been the most perilous and mortal task Laswell had undertaken in her twenty-year career. You have no doubt that she had already prepped for the uproar it would cause amongst Task Force 414; ‘you’re actin’ like we’re amateurs, Laswell,’ and ‘It’s not as though we’ve stopped missiles or anything.’

The grumbles of the men behind you indicate that they’d been unsuccessful in convincing Laswell that the training program was gratuitous, all looking as though Captain Price dragged them by their ears. 

“Ghost, Delta. You’re up first,” he grumbles, his lack of enthusiasm almost comical. Despite the complaints, you couldn’t exactly condemn Laswell for her enforcement. Alejandro’s ribs had cracked wide open when thrown off the roof of a building, caught off guard by a narco he hadn’t seen obscured by the shadows. Ribs L3 to L8 had snapped, L5 managing to pierce through the soft flesh of the Colonel’s lung and rendering him utterly defenceless as the mission descended into chaos.

It goes without saying that Laswell had dressed the unit down to your socks when you returned, Ghost hauling the wheezing Alejandro over his shoulders and into the rendezvous vehicle. 

The insulting level of competence that the demonstration requires notwithstanding, Simon steps forward into the makeshift ring, the virtually impossible size of his soles barely making a sound as he walks across the floor. Under Price’s watchful gaze, you’re hot on Ghost’s heels. 

It’s a simple task. Simon just has to dispatch you. 

Ominously fixed on your face, the skull mask’s obsidian eyes do little to obscure the amber of Simon’s irises in the daylight. He’s gazing fixedly at you, readying himself and widening his stance for the demonstration. The prop pistol in his hand is near comical given the brutality those giant hands had enacted; though, you can’t help but think that someone as savagely efficient as Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley would still, somehow, find a way to annihilate you with the plastic munitions. 

“On your knees!” Ghost barks out, his booming, gritty voice startling you despite your anticipation. You barely have time to react to the onslaught of motion, your temporary enemy pressing the barrel of his makeshift firearm into your temple with a bruising force. 

Per Price’s instructions, you sink slowly to your knees, hands raised and palms flat to show your lack of armament. The barrel of the plastic G18 lets up against the pulpy skin of your temple, an aching sensation settling into the flesh it had compressed. When you lift your eyes to Ghost, however, you feel as though he’s pistol-whipped you across the face. 

Lieutenant Riley’s honey eyes ooze with arousal, something dangerous flitting through the black pools of his pupils. Blown wide, they bore down at you, betraying his stoic composure.

Battering against your ribcage, your heart rate picks up under his stare. Blood rushes to your face, heating it as you gaze up at your captor through your lashes. 

You hear Ghost’s shaky exhale from his nose rattle against the plastic of his mask. 

                                        ✰

Dragging his fingers through your hair, Ghost’s gloves fingerprints massage your scalp as you kneel perfectly still, his hot, ridiculously large cock balanced on the flat of your tongue. His chest heaves quietly, winding strands of your hair around his digits before curling them upwards into a tight fist. 

“Deep breath, love,” he rumbles before pushing his hips forward. He clasps your chin with his free hand, keeping your mouth wide open for him as he drags the length of his throbbing cock across your tongue and down your throat. 

It’s impossible not to— you gag around him, eyes watering slightly as the blunt head of his cock notches at your throat walls. His nostrils flare, golden eyes beaming in the fluorescent lighting of the hallway.

You barely get a chance to inhale as he’d ordered, using his grip on your hair to yank your head forward onto his dick. You moan loudly, warning a tight squeeze of your strands that cause your hair follicles to strain under the pressure— a warning. 

Ghost’s breathing falters slightly as he sets a brutal, punishing rhythm. However, it doesn’t take you long to establish a breathing pattern of your own against his rapid strokes, inhaling every time he slips out of the confines of your fluttering throat. 

“Fuckk~” he groans, eyes settled on you like a cross-hair as you make an effort to hollow your cheekbones around his ridiculous girth, eyelashes wet with tears. “You belong on your knees. Looking at me like th—shit — like that in front of the whole unit.”

You’d like to ask him what he means, but he rocks forwards again with a significant snap of his hips that bumps the back of your throat in a bruising collision. Retches threaten to spill from your lips, but his width fills your throat, and Ghost relishes in the constriction around his cock with a growl. 

“Yes,” he urges, teeth clenched behind the midnight black balaclava, “Yes, just like that, Christ!”

Ignoring all urges from your body to expel his intrusion in your throat, you swallow around him. It shakes a loud groan from his lungs, the lecherous sound ricocheting off the walls like he’d just shot a pistol. 

“You naughty fuckin’ girl,” he chastises you, punishing you by amping up the impossible pace of his rocking hips until tears begin to spill down your cheeks. It only appears to spur him further, a loud, rumbling groan drenching his words, “They’re gonna fuckin’ hear us—“

Moaning in agreement, you nod your head. It’s only slight; you can’t manage much more than a subtle tip forward of your chin. The vibrations seem to rock down his length to his balls because they pull up tight suddenly, and he’s wheezing out a haggard “Delta!’”

He spurts down your throat, coats the insides of your cheek, dribbles down your chin and drips to the floor. There’s so much of him, and you swallow down as much as you can as he leans back against the wall, winded as though an assailant had just punched him in the gut. 

Basics lesson number one: Ghost likes you on your knees. 

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[signed-sapphire]

Okayyyy rewatched Wish

Here are my notes

Valentino wasn’t as annoying as people say. Sure, he did nothing for the plot and could’ve been removed entirely, but he didn’t make near as many butt jokes as people say he did

The lead-ins for all the songs were great. Certain media (Hazbin, for example) just jump into the songs

Magnifico??? Didn’t touch the pages??? So why would he be corrupted? Why does Amaya know of obsidian oil? Don’t you just skim the pages to release the evil?

Dahlia was amazing

“At the very least break the hold it has on him” Amaya? Didn’t you found this kingdom with thin? Wouldn’t you know?

Also Amaya was very sidelined. Where’s her backstory?

Asha’s magic wand mishaps were… corny at best

Why did they make Dario high all the time? He’s not stupid. I feel like they made him try to be like Fred from Big Hero 6 but failed

“Nine zillyboo, twenty alphabet!” Val, buddy. No.

DAHLIA. MATE. TRUE LOVE’S KISS CAN BRUNG HIM BACK I swear, it feels like the directors were switched

The spider-carriage thing. I feel like that could’ve been a Disney reference instead

Gabo was still my favorite out of the teens. Bazeema was sweet too

Also. Halzeema moments were actually in canon.

Sabino did not act 100 at all.

Crushing wishes did nothing to people except make them sad for .2 seconds

Asha’s drawing, her magic wand, none of that was important to the actual plot

I feel like the horses could’ve been Disney references too

Why did the roof open? That was never explained

Mag’s hair needed to be messier. Evil Magnifico? Crazy hair

How did he hear them from all the way down there

Mag’s really out there beating up a minor

The curse rope green things were not scary at all

Was Simon just in the forest the entire time?

The Magnifico getting sucked inside his staff… I feel that could’ve been a play to Dr. Facilier somehow

The stars raining down were beautiful

Was Star’s nose tap a reference to something?

The people’s talking… idk how I felt about that

WE 👏 SHOULD’VE 👏 SEEN 👏 SAKINA’S 👏 WISH

Another half-assed apology. First Namaari, now you. At least Simon’s was an actual apology. Wait. More of it goes on.

Ok his apology isn’t too bad

How did the staff get all the way down there?

Changed my opinion, Amaya deserved to tell Mag off

Did Mag’s curse break once he was in the mirror? Why did he act sad all of a sudden?

I’ve heard Asha’s movements weren’t finalized until later, but her movements seem pretty fluent

Clumsy and energetic, sure, but besides from the mouth drooping part, she wasn’t that quirky

Which. Could be a bad thing. She didn’t really have much of a personality

I like the Peter Pan building a flying machine idea

Zootopia ref

DARIO. SHUT UP

Why does everyone suddenly understand Star

But off-topic they were so cute

“It” I guess

Why refer to Star as an it

“They” was too woke for the Disney execs? Why, you had a one-second offhand comment about a water cousin who’s nonbinary!

That Cinderella-reference thing… wasn’t slow enough to be a dress transformation. So I’m fine with her not having a different dress. I mean obviously I would’ve loved it but idk

SHOW DON’T TELL, DISNEY

STOP TELLING

“I understand you well enough” I DON’T! HOW ARE THEY TELLING YOU

Some of Valentino’s jokes were funny. Sue me

I liked the Tinkerbell and Mikey Mouse reference at the end

The storybook was a nice callback

The credits should’ve been moving. Also CHOOSE BAYMAX TO REPRESENT BIG HERO 6. WHY HAVE VILLAINS LIKE MALEFICENT THERE

Overall. Not as bad as people are making it out to be. But definitely not worthy to be Disney’s 100

I’d say… 7/10. The backgrounds did look watercolor, but the shading seemed off in places. Especially Sakina. There was major improvement to be done, but with the hell the execs were giving (and the proven creativity of the concept art) I feel this movie is getting too much hate. Critiques and criticism are fine. But don’t blame the writers for getting rid of Starboy. Yes, it could’ve been better. But it’s Disney. And the creators tried their best to pour their love into a movie that they didn’t have a full say in.

[lennox0arts]

Icarus laughed as he fell

Credits to fiona for the original poem!

Here is what they don’t tell you:

Icarus knew he was in too deep. They’d said it out loud, leaning against the cave entrance. 

“I’m in too deep now.”

The words left their lips in a shaky whisper that they knew no one would ever hear. They felt so helplessly, utterly alone as they sobbed against the cold rock. The word their friend had once called them circled through their mind.

Failure.

They knew he was right. They’d failed at being a good brother, a good friend, and they’d even failed at being themself.

They knew their back pressed against the same stone wall that had been splattered with the blood of their best friend by the blade of their father. Within the walls of this cavern, the fighting between Centross and their Dad replayed in their head. The purple scythe of the violet reaper turning their father mortal, and sealing their best friend's death wish. The golden sword through his chest. His smile as he faded into the stars, leaving nothing behind but the scythe, the now mortal god, and the son the god had almost killed. 

Icarus laughed as he fell.

They felt their body wrack with cries mixed with confused, hysteric laughter. They felt disconnected from the winged person who stood from the altar staggering towards the fallen god. 

They heard themself screaming, 

“You killed him! You killed David!” Their father simply nodded. Almost as if to suggest it had to be done. As if their best friend had to be killed. Their mind flashed to the memories they’d tried so hard to bury.

Threw his head back and

yelled into the winds,

They were in the obsidian bunker, reaching through the gap of the trap that had opened barely enough for them to see.

“David?!” They smiled madly, their matted hair crusted with crimson. A drop of blood traced it’s way down their cheek bone. 

   “David let me out!” They demanded, their voice was rough and scratchy from hours of yelling. The man looked down at them with cold purple eyes,  smiling at the trapped one like a hunter smiles at an animal caught in their snare.

“Y’know, Sherb,” The cloaked man smirked, “I don’t think I will.”

They felt their heart plop into their stomach as they tasted their lunch on their tongue as it forced its way up their throat.  “David! Let me out!” 

“Sherbert. Here’s what you don’t realize. Once a failure, always a failure.”

“Wha-” Icarus  was cut off by the darkening of the world around them. They felt the pain of landing before they felt the explosion of pain in their head.

arms spread wide,

teeth bared to the world.

And then they were back in the endstone reset, on the destroyed roof of Will’s estate. Their hands shook, rain pelting their face, running down the deep purple inset lines of corruption before dripping off their chin. They flung open their arms and screamed at the heavens,

“Isn’t this enough? I killed her! I did what you wanted!” They were hyperventilating now, their chest pressing uncomfortably against the bow slung around their shoulder. The bow they’d just used to kill their best friend for a goddess that hadn’t spoken to them, or shown that she knew he existed. 

(There is a bitter triumph

in crashing when you should be

soaring.)

They were standing on a trail of “wack.” As they began to take off, the base of their feathers turned into shards of gold that jabbed into their back and shoulder blades, piercing their skin as the feathers and muscles of their wings crystallized into a mess of amethyst and gold. In a moment of silence that most likely only lasted a few seconds, Icarus realized they were on the ground. Mere milliseconds after this thought, the metal that was now their wings shattered into sharp shards, slicing into their skin, logging into their back, digging into the ground.

One word through the pain.

Quixis.

The wax scorched his skin,

ran blazing trails down his back,

his thighs, his ankles, his feet.

They were standing before the lectern at Haley's funeral, watching the explosion of the tree speed towards them. They heard the loud boom and the rattling of their bones. The fire clawed towards them, dragging itself on the ground like a monster lunging towards its prey. The fire nipped at their two-toned jacket, ashes burning their eyes. It caught them up in flames before the world went blank and they heard a page being torn. 

Feathers floated like prayers

past his fingers,

close enough to snatch back.

Snippets of other worlds flew past them, and they caught only a few glimpses. Them trapped in a concrete box trying to save a girl named Charlotte. Them running from a horse sized chicken. Them in front of a screen, talking to words on a box. 

Death breathed burning kisses

against his shoulders,

where the wings joined the harness.

Then they were inside the cave. Watching the fighting once more from their place at the altar. Their chest aching as the skin stretched and rearranged in a glitching mess, each unstable breath more painful than the last. Centross and Fable pushing each other around the cave, each one landing punch after punch. Them, not knowing who to defend.  Seeing their friend fade into the void. Doing nothing to help him.

Yelling.

Sobbing.

Laughter.

Betrayal.

Then, Fable walking towards them, framed by the sunset. 

“I can bring him back.”

The sun painted everything

in shades of gold.

They were back outside the cave. Where they knew they actually were. Curled up into themself. He could get him back. He just needed more power. He was going to kill the primordials and rid the earth of death, or burn the world to shambles if doing so failed. And Icarus, his caged little bird, was going to stand muted at his side in the ashes of a fire they could have put out.

After all,

(There is a certain beauty

in setting the world on fire

and watching from the centre

of the flames.)

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

POLLUTED MARROW & HOLLOW BONES (VIII)

|| COV MASTERLIST || NEXT: CHAPTER IX ||

PAIRING: Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick x F!Reader.

WORDCOUNT: 6.4k

WARNINGS: Angst, arguments, high-tension scenarios, talks of death, strained familial relationships, anxiety symptoms including lightheadedness, vomiting, etc.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

“L-let’s not be rash, here,” you chuckle awkwardly, still staring down from the top of the roof into Gaz’s glaring eyes, the amber in them boiling and rolling with fire. The vans all open their obsidian black doors, multiple armed men spilling out to case the area—but all the Sergeant does is set his jaw. 

“Get down,” it’s the only thing said. A low rumble and tilt of accent. Dead. 

The hair on the back of your neck stands up, and for a moment you’re so tense you forget the fact that you’re looking into Kyle’s eyes without so much as flinching. You stare a moment longer, one hand on the edge of the concrete, steadily tightening its hold as the other cradles your father’s things. 

“Eh…” Your eyes dart away, blood on the bottom of your face dried and itchy. You’d never heard him speak like that before. 

Before you can think to protest, you’re slipping onto the latter with a burning face and a skip in your heart. This was worse than having to smack a man with a vent grate—like being taken to your death. 

When you land on solid ground, a hand latches onto the neck of your jacket and begins forcefully moving you to one of the vans. Your free hand snaps to the clenched fist, grasping onto his wrist like a whiny teenager and releasing a sound of alarm.

“Hey!” Your feet try to dig their heels in, but the void of the car door is coming up quickly. “Gaz, let me go!”

There’s no response. The form beside you is so firm and his hand so unrelenting you wonder if you’ll be in even deeper trouble this time than when you stole your mother’s credit card in middle school. Kyle’s athletic build surges with anger—a clench to his teeth so hard his jaw bones can be seen while the corners of his eyes. 

Any snappy response or insult stales on your lips as you see his other hand tightly curled in on itself, the tiny growl that builds in him at your struggling. Throat bobbing, you let the man push you forward to the car and hop in without another word. 

Oh, I’m screwed. You thin your lips and cringe at the loud slam of the door, trying to keep calm in the enclosed space as the darkness sets in. Some of the soldiers enter the Museum, probably doing damage control. 

Bringing your items to your chest, you take a steadying breath and rub under your sore nose; bits of red flaking off like dirt on the wind. Your head pounds with uncertainties. 

Did you really think you could pull this off? Body hunching in, the driver glances back at you, his eyes narrowed with annoyance and a frown on his lips. Your face and the tips of your ears feel like they’re being placed over hot coals. 

You clear your throat, staring at the portion of skin right under his orbs. “Problem?” The driver scoffs and returns his gaze to the front as the passenger side door opens with a pop. 

“Get us back.” Kyle orders, voice clipped and final. 

Engine starting, the man that had tracked you down clicks his seatbelt on and closes the door with a stiff arm. Alone in the back, you do the same after a slight beat of hesitation; a second of something like panic hitting you in the chest. 

It was stupid to ask why he would be acting like this, but you still wondered if you had really met Kyle’s breaking point. The aggressive re-situating of his ball cap seemed like a good hint—the rod-straight spine and tapping fingers on the door-arm.

He was in full gear. 

But…this was what you wanted, right? A breaking point?

Your mouth opens and then slowly closes, breath caught in your throat and not knowing what to say. Why did you feel like you’d just done something irreversible?

Gaze darting to the floor, you glare at the mats as the vehicle jerks forward, turning to bring you back to the mansion surrounded by metal like an abyss and bullet-proof glass. 

“I…found some stuff, y’know,” you puff out, not liking the strangling silence about two minutes in. The USB in your pocket sits heavy.

Again, no one answers. The Sergeant’s eyes don’t even glance at you from the mirror. Frustration grows like a virus. 

“I wouldn’t have done this if you’d just let me help, Gaz.” You try to get him to speak, suddenly nervous and building in volume…or was that desperation? “I mean, really, it’s my dad!”

Nothing. 

Face stained with shame and lips peeled into a sneer, your eyes crinkle with a slight burning sensation trapped behind the skin. You sit with shaky fingers the entire ride, your mouth strangling down the loud exclamations as to why this wasn’t your fault so you don’t bark like a dog. 

You had to, didn’t Gaz understand that? 

Whatever was in your father’s belongings would tell you what you needed to know—break this entire thing open. And if the rest of the Sergeant’s friends overseas could track down the two that started this, all of it could be over. 

You could be left alone again, finish your classes, and…and…

Brows slowly slide in. 

What then? As the car pulls up through your gate, you find a horrifying realization that you have no idea. 

Unclipping your seatbelt, you go to try and open the door with a frown, only to find it’s unwilling to release you. Lightly pushing on the material again, your eyes slowly widen. 

No way.

Kyle had child-locked you. 

Gaping, you have to wait for Gaz to get out in a long moment of letting this new reality settle into your blood. He does so after pure silence, seeming as if he might say something, but the Brit just ends up sighing loudly and shaking his head. Gaz gets out and grasps the handle to your door, pulling it out and standing back—all without a mumble. 

Like you want to prove to yourself that this doesn’t make your chest feel weird, you shuffle out and scoff at him. But anyone can see the guilty expression on your face.

Striding up to the front door, you push at it with your shoulder, the night air cold and encompassing before the relatively warmer air of your house hits your face. The plate you’d left out for the cat hours earlier is left behind on the step, empty.

Kyle follows close after, hands hanging off his combat vest. In the foyer is when you snap. 

“Are you going to speak up or keep acting like a child? Look at the stuff I got, Garrick!” You hold the items in display as you can hear the car out front leave in a grind of gravel. “This could be the answer to if my father really—”

The laptop and the journal are all swiped from your grasp and he’s pushing past you before you can continue. Shocked, even petrified for a moment, your mouth flaps like a fish. 

Realization hits you like a truck.

“Fucker!” That was a new one. 

Twisting on your heel, you stalk quickly after the male as he stomps, hands clenched into themselves and the skin of your knuckles thin. “Give those back! Garrick—don’t you ignore me, I don’t deserve this!” 

It’s like he snaps at that, whipping around and pointing a finger right into your face. You balk back, surprise and alarm alighting your features.

“Deserve?!” Your eyes blink rapidly, lips parted. You stare widely into his cheek scar as his lips turn into an attacking jibe. “Bloody fuckin’ hell, what you deserve is to be locked into a fucking jail cell! Least then I’d be able to keep track of you, eh? What kind of bastard do you have to be to think that was a good idea?!” 

“Oh, I’m sorry, is it your family that’s,” you splay your hands, the house echoing with the sounds of verbal battle. The glass finally shatters. “Being goddamn hunted, Sergeant? Your father that got his head fucking imploded?”

You didn’t want to admit how much this argument was making you feel uneasy, but you want your father’s things back. They belong to you, and now they’re stuck in this jerk’s gloved hands like a doll. Those things were valuable; they could fix this.

“If it was me, I wouldn’t be running off like a bloody fool! I’d be listening to the people that are here to keep me alive!” You growl and shake your head. “How thick-headed are you?!”

Gaz isn’t done, his finger moving back and forth as the skin of his cheek tightens, lips dancing to speak rapidly like a fire was under his feet. 

“Your father is dead.” Blood drains from your body, expression immediately blanking. “He’s gone and he wasn’t someone to be proud of. Whoever he was with you was a facade for his family and the public. If it wasn’t an end by Row, it would have been by someone else, yeah, you understand that?” Tears infect the sides of your wide gaze, and you’re suddenly sucked into Gaz’s eyes as you had been the first day you’d both met. Amber and flashing gold—enraged emotion and raw bluntness that you’d had yet to experience in this capacity. What had happened to his sarcasm? His stern and laughable annoyance? 

“Hell,” he keeps going, moving his finger to point to the side. “Look at the carnage he’s caused just by being dead—innocent civilians and a fucking daughter who fights for an honor that doesn’t exist! You’re mental, Love, fucking mental!” 

Kyle pants, staring into your face and your tiny pupils; your shaking body. He grits his teeth and peels back, angrily twitching his nose. 

“If you would listen to me, this all would have already been over with, can you get that through your skull? I’ve tried to be nice about this, truly, but I’m done. No more leaving the mansion; no more late-night stunts that leave me callin’ up my Mates only to find you’ve gone and snuck out. No more damn,” he holds up the laptop and journal, “involvement from you. You’re done. I’m done.”

The house gradually goes back to silence, but it’s no longer a deep, ancient feeling. It’s like walking on glass, blood pooling along the soles of feet and sticking through flesh.

You stare and can’t find it in yourself to breathe anymore.

Amber darts to your bloody nose and Gaz bares his teeth, face bright with dismissal. He pushes past the concern at the crimson flecks. He’s done trying to earn your favor, so he blankly spits out, “Clean yourself up. I’m finished with being your bloody punching bag,” and turns down the hall. 

“I fucking hate you,” the words spill out in a strangled gasp, a wheeze on your tongue. Gaz pauses, his back taunt and straight. His chin partially peeks over his shoulder.

“Good.” The worlds feel like lead. “It can go both ways, Love.”

When he disappears, you stand in the darkness and feel the first dribbles of tears wet your lashes—making them stick to one another as you stutter on air. 

Your brain can’t make sense of it. 

Empty-handed, your body is so heavy the first few steps in the direction of your room feel like you’re dragging a statue of stone behind you; the rope tied to your fingers and toes. But when the bile starts to fizzle in your throat, you pick up the pace; darting through your opened bedroom door and beelining to your bathroom. 

Just in time, your face finds the toilet, vomit coming out in sputtering coughs as your sobs exit moments later, stuck between the acid in your throat and your stubbornness. 

You hated crying—hated vomiting—but lately, it was like those were the only things you could do; your body didn’t listen to your pleas or begging, only did what it wanted. On that front, you believe that your brain and matter were equally matched. 

Gasping and feeling saliva drip off your lips, you raggedly cough up what little you had in your stomach until you can sit back against the wall and blankly stare ahead. With varying success you try and take down deep breaths, shivering something awful as the chill gets to you.

But suddenly the silence of the mansion was a prison. 

The water pipes, the small creaking—the click of your small clock out in your room. 

Click-clock, click-clock, click-clock.

Your mind told you that you shouldn't feel bad. Shouldn’t be wearing that thousand-yard stare as you tase vomit on your tongue and in your throat; the burn of that shame and guilt. You had nothing to be guilty of—nothing. 

It was your father, not Gaz’s. He’d do the very same thing. 

Right?

You grasp at your scalp and lean forward, slotting your head in between your knees. Everything spins and twirls, there’s a violent need to satiate the thirst in your throat, but you can’t move. Can’t breathe. Can’t think. 

“...I’ve tried to be nice about this, truly, but I’m done. No more leaving the mansion; no more late-night stunts that leave me callin’ up my Mates only to find you’ve gone and snuck out. No more damn,” he holds up the laptop and journal, “involvement from you. You’re done. I’m done.”

Gaz’s hands on your palm and the way your very injured hand stings now in memory; those stitches popped and bandages bloody—the crimson on your nose. 

How he held you in the kitchen and leaned you back against the island. Spoke so softly and casually, as if you hadn’t nearly passed out on him.

He’d apologized not hours before you’d gone and snuck out. 

Your heart tightens.

He’d apologized. 

Your fingers dig into your flesh, biting hard as you suck down sobs and tiny whimpers; tears staining your clothes in fast droplets. 

“If it wasn’t an end by Row, it would have been by someone else…Look at the carnage he’s caused just by being dead…a fucking daughter who fights for an honor that doesn’t bloody exist!”

You curl into a tiny ball of horror.

“I’m finished with being your bloody punching bag.”

—

Kyle moved his things to the room directly in front of yours in the middle of the night, when you’d passed out from your panic on the bathroom floor. He’d grasped all of his belongings with clenched hands, bags contouring under the force.

At every instance, he cursed your name and everything you’d put him through. 

“Bloody, unbelievable,” he growls, shoving clothes into his duffel bag before zipping it up and wrenching it over his shoulder. 

It was rare to find the Brit this mad, so often level-headed.

“Give her every chance in the books, and what does she do?” He flicks the lights of his old room off and quickly walks down the hallway. “Fucking plays me for a fool! Jesus. Brilliant, just brilliant.” 

There was no way to describe how his heart had jerked out of his chest when he’d come to try and speak to you hours earlier; when he’d found the room empty after knocking for minutes—trying to be considerate to your privacy. 

The open window, the damn curtain rack. 

It was insulting.

Gaz stalks in a bitter and steam-emitting silence to the room across from yours, not bothering to check on the cracked open door from your own. You’d had your fun, you’d probably just forgotten to close the door fully as you made fun of him behind his back. 

Kyle frowns and sets his things down on the white, sheeted-covered bed that would be his. Tiny, and not even long enough to let his legs stay on it fully.

He tries not to remind himself about how afraid you’d looked as he’d laid into you. Halfway through his barking match of emotion, he’d thought maybe it was time to stop—to ease off a bit and reel it back in, but then it had become necessary. 

If you didn’t listen to him when he was calm, the fact was that you wouldn’t listen to him at all. Best to get it all off his chest while he could.

He’d already sent in a reassignment request to Laswell not an hour prior. 

Taking out his things, his fingers brush your stolen laptop and journal. Christ, there was so much paperwork to go through after what you’d done—damage reports and write-ups on his record for losing track of his VIP; the crimes you’d stacked like awards that needed to be scrubbed. 

This wasn’t only a protection Op, this was his job. 

And you were taking a hammer to his perfect track rep. 

Pulling out the two items, Gaz huffs and shakes his head, running his free hand over his chin. 

“Two things and it couldn’t have waited a few more days? What is this girl about?” They’re placed down on the bed and not given another glance. 

He’d have to go through them later. 

Kyle goes and splays both of his hands over his face, pressing his palms into his eyes before taking a deep breath to fill his lungs with oxygen. An attempt to calm down.

You’ll not get anything done acting like this.

The resounding truth was that he was tired. You’d tested him to the point of snapping—how was that even possible? You were a bloody Uni student with a big mouth and a stubborn streak, not even a drug lord could do what you did. 

You’d gotten him to yell at you and on the other end, he’d gotten you to look at him. Yes, look, with your own volition, but that fact left a sour taste in his mouth where it should have felt like a triumph after the terrible first in the park. 

You’d stared into his eyes with utter shock and numb fear—as if he’d pull a gun on you. 

A civilian. His charge.

You had been terrified, even if you’d tried to use entitlement to sneak around it. You’d been shaking. With eyes dead still.

“God, you twat,” Gaz grunts. Had he really called you mental? “Bloody hell, you’re in for it.” 

You’d be livid tomorrow when it catches up to you. A damn near homemade bomb wrapped in metal and filled with nails; Gaz’s name written on the top in red ink.

As he kept his door open to stare at yours in the middle of the night, the Sergeant prepared himself, still angry and dreading the future.

If only it could be that simple. 

In the morning, you wouldn’t even look at him. 

Wearing a large hoodie and pajama bottoms, you had already downed three cups of coffee by 9 o’clock, your body stiff and the air around your head a cloud of indiscernible separation. But it wasn’t like Gaz had tried to speak to you, either.

Both of you were forced to be in the same room, as the Sergeant wouldn’t let you alone save for the bathroom. You couldn’t be trusted. 

It was mental torture.

Jaw clenching, the man watched you work on your personal laptop, doing classwork while your USB stuck out of the port—he blinked away, writing up his own reports on the incident last night. 

The air was so thick you could be lost in it like a forest full of mist. It simmered; burned—then cooled to a degree of freezing before starting back up again. No words, no acknowledgements. 

Brown drifts back to your blank face as your fingers stop over your laptop’s keys, a small tremor, and then get back to it. Gaz bites his lip and closes his eyes harshly, shaking his head once.

He had to stop feeling guilty for the truth. You needed to hear what he said, no matter how blunt. It was the truth, after all. 

But the truth didn’t stop his heart from hurting when you reverted to a state of waking nothingness with little desire to eat or move beyond the shuffle of your body.

Gaz sighs and tells himself it’s not his problem anymore—in a little bit he’d be gone if Laswell approved him for transfer. Back with One-Four-One. Working with people who trust him and his judgment. 

It was for the best.

You stare at the ‘enter password’ screen on your laptop with a chill on your neck, blind to all else as you wrack your brain for answers.

The USB from your father’s office was password protected. Ten tries before it got locked out. You’d gone through five already. 

Staring hard, Gaz keeps distracting you.

He was sitting in the living room with you, on the opposite couch as well as on the opposite end—as far as he could be with still being near. Being in this state and feeling the tension in the air made you lightheaded with anxiety. 

It’s as if every urge to speak or breathe near him dissipates; your face a perpetual furnace, blood on fire. 

Focus, you have to tell yourself, but it only makes it worse. Eyes dig into the screen as the two words blend into one another, taunting. 

You can hear his breath, the scratch of his pen as it travels over paper—if the circumstances had been different, it would have been the picture of quiet companionship. 

A pity you both were the way you are. 

The shame was urging you to apologize, to rectify what you’d done; pride was taking that shame by the throat. But you were faced with the reality that you couldn’t go back to living alone like you had before, because this silence was enough to make you go insane. 

You missed his voice, and you’d only been without it for a short while. Kyle’s smirk and his cheeky quips. You both hated it and longed for something to grapple to.

It was true, you admitted, hands over the keys, you’d grown used to him. It was disgusting. 

About to chance another possible password—your parent’s anniversary halfway typed in—the front door rings. 

Immediately, everything that had seemingly already been still, halts. 

Freezing, you stare at the laptop and let the echo spread across the mansion, the high ding of the rarely used object. Your eyes slowly rise to stare at the living room opening, blinking, and for a moment any thought of Kyle and the argument; the hatred at your stubbornness and pride, utterly ceases to exist.

With a twitch of your fingers, you close your laptop in what seems like hours, the tiny sound it makes when it lays flat making your ear perk. 

Gaz’s head is already swiveled, body wound up. He sends a quick glance your way before standing and reaching for the X12 in his waistband. Your eyes catch the glint of his watch and you look away with a frown, lids narrowed with hesitation. 

Tell him you’re sorry. You know you are. 

Standing to follow, Kyle sends a hard look your way. Your feet stall.

Both of you seem surprised by that.

The Sergeant’s eyes widened for a second, hand on his weapon loosening and pulse up-ticking. So much expressed with absolutely no words to be muttered aloud. You take a deep breath and lick your lips, not able to speak over a raspy grunt of, “Kyle…I-I—”

The doorbell rings again, longer this time.

You snap your mouth shut.

Kyle looks you up and down, but his feet only hesitate a moment longer. He turns his head away quickly and carefully leaves the living room.

Running a hand over your neck, you close your eyes and contort your face into an image of confused pain, an inner hatred at…everything. You’d messed up. Badly. 

And you were afraid of your own fear. Afraid of your sudden unease at Gaz’s absence and his angry silence. Afraid because, deep down, you knew his outburst last night was nothing but the truth.

Sighing, you sit back down and lean into the cushions with a growing headache. You wanted more coffee, your stomach rolled with hunger, and you were cold. 

You hated being like this. 

“...Sweetheart?” your head whips up to a familiar face in the grand double doorway, breath getting taken in with a big inhale. 

A woman dressed in a nice shirt and dress pants stands with a hefty designer purse over her shoulder, face open and soft, blinking through the wetness at the corners which you stare at in pause. 

Gaz comes in behind her with another man, tall and blond with a mustache—your mother’s guard, because that was who the woman was after all...your mother. Home. The Sergeant looks over at you and places his gun back with a small sigh.

You clear your throat, standing before you shuffle your feet.

“Hey, Ma,” you glance to the side, itching at your arm. “How’ve you—”

You’re slammed into a tight hug and you flinch violently into it, sharp noise escaping your lungs and Kyle takes a quick step forward in alarm. The blond guard sends him a look of confusion, but the Brit stares at you and feels his lips thin. 

“Oh, my God!” Your mom exclaims in utter relief, sagging to you and placing a hand firmly on the back of your head. “I was so worried, I-I saw the news about the shooting but I wasn’t able to get in contact with you.” 

Your body is moved back and forth and you awkwardly place your hand on the small of her back. You stare at the far wall like a stuffed animal. Your mother was never a hugger, but maybe Gaz’s expression in the kitchen had been true. People change.

Three years.

“Christ, you have no idea how much I wanted to call you. Are you alright, talk to me.” The meat of your arms is taken and you’re maneuvered back so your matriarch—and last remaining family member—can look you in the eyes. 

You quickly move your head to the side. 

“I’m fine, Mom,” licking your lips, you shrug. “Glad you’re back…How was overseas?”

She sighs, looking at you in concern, and brushes past your question.

“You look sick,” your chin is taken and moved to the side, and another hand is taken and placed on your head. “And you’re running hot—when’s the last time you slept?”

Hot? You’ve never felt more cold. 

“Mom,” taking a small step back, you whisper out a meaningful utterance. 

“Okay, okay,” she shakes her head. “I’m sorry, I know, I’m a worrier...But, how have things held up? I feel like we haven’t been able to speak in lifetimes.”

We haven’t. Who’s fault was that?

Gaz tilts his head at the interaction, seeing your uncomfortable stiffness and your mother’s open and obvious love. This wasn’t how you described her at all, but then again, your mum’s actions weren’t the same either.

“How’s it been?” Alex asks, his arms crossed as the two women speak in low tones a few feet away. Your body is seen shifting and hands flexing. “Heard some stuff, everything goin’ smooth over here?”

“Wouldn’t call it smooth, Mate,” Kyle utters. “Recon you had it better than I have.”

“Ah,” the CIA Officer shrugs. “Gonna be honest, the Old Lady’s pretty easy—most I had to do was ask for her tea with extra sugar while on the plane.”

He sends over a twitch of his lips, a raised eyebrow. But the expression shifts to serious moments later.

“Word is the boys overseas haven't got any leads, they’re stuck in the dirt with this.” Kyle grits his teeth.

“Nothing?” 

“Nada.”

“Fuckin’ hell. That’s bollocks—how well are those two hidden?” Alex moves his fingers from their hold on his biceps, moving them up in a show of ‘no clue.’

He draws out his words with a huff. “It’s going to push out this timeline even farther than it already is, is what I’m tryin’ to say.”

“There any good news?” Gaz watches you as your feet realign, hands going to hide inside your sweatshirt pocket. A bobbing to your throat makes his shoulders turn in.

What is your problem? the Sergeant hums to himself. It's just her mum—Christ. Ease off it. Alex’s eyes narrow in question when he notices the hatted man’s attention is half on you and half on the conversation. 

“...Not any worthwhile.” 

“They’re expecting us to just wait? We can’t stay in a single bloody location forever, it makes a bigger target.” A brown gaze doesn’t stray from you as he says this. 

“Not much we can do, Garrick. VIPs take priority.”

Kyle shakes his head in disapproval. “For now, we might have something here—some new intel. Have to look into it.”

Alex perks, his arms falling to his sides. “How’d you come by that?” 

“Long story.” Gaz sighs deeply and the blond chuckles, giving a half-shrug. 

“Fair enough.” Alex nods to you and Kyle tenses. “It have to do with her?”

“...Longer story.” That gets a few grunted laughs, and the Sergeant smirks lightly, feeling a bit better to have someone he knows to talk to.

Across the way, you explain everything the best you can to your mother in small sentences and stuttering words. Her hands don’t leave you; studying you deeply at every mico-expression. 

“Well,” she takes a deep breath. “I think I’ll make us some tea, hm? Start cleaning up the estate when I get settled. I understand it’s a lot of work, but let’s at least open the curtains.”

She laughs and it fills you with dead. Clean up? She didn’t really expect to mess with everything right? Your mother kisses your cheek. 

“I’ll be right back—be sure to introduce yourself to Alex. And do try to be respectful.” Her fingers pinch your skin and you thin your lips. “Smile, Dear. No foul language. A-and let’s try to get some sleep tonight, okay? School can wait.” 

“Right. Yeah, I know.” She nods and smiles brightly, before telling you how happy she is to see you again. Your mother walks out and slips past Alex and Gaz. 

Two sets of eyes level on your form.

You waste no time snatching up your laptop and quickly walking to the separate set of doors, ignoring the confused looks before entering the hallway and breathing heavily.

This should be a good thing—having your mother back. Hell, you should be relieved she’s still alive after everything that went down. 

So why did it feel like everything was going to change? Three years and you’d had it under control, your routine, the fitful nights, you’d managed—not well, but you had. Now all of that was gone; stripped away like some meaningless cloth. 

It wasn’t meaningless to you.

The house was the way it was—like you in many senses. You lived with the covered furniture, and the curtains over with windows with a glance and nothing more. That was your normal. 

She’s going to change everything. She’s just come back and she’s going to wreck it.

It wasn’t fair to her to be like this, but it wasn’t fair to you to have disappeared when you needed a mom more than anyone. 

“Oh, God,” you cover your mouth with your hand and try to push away the footsteps that follow behind you, the nearly vacant press of shoes. 

Of course, he wouldn’t even allow you to have five minutes to gather yourself.

Gaz doesn’t utter a sound as he follows at your heels, staring into the back of your head. You briefly wonder where the ‘Alex’ fellow went, but find you don’t even care. Your mother was here after all. She’d take care of it.

She’d take care of everything. 

You glare painfully at the hardwood ahead of you and hold your laptop tighter, wishing you had your father’s journal—something that belonged to him. But Gaz had already stashed it away, probably locked it up from you. 

And you can’t find it in yourself to be angry, which makes you annoyed. 

That annoyance stays, just as the guard at your side does, even one day later. You don’t speak anymore, you don’t quip and dig; he doesn’t respond or smirk—no jokes taken in stride where yours are blunt and his whitty. 

Everything changes overnight. 

Gaz had seen your body completely turn to stone on the stares when you’d come down and glanced at the furniture open to the air, no sheets or coverings. Things were dusted and set on display; even taken from storage and laid out in expensive finery. He’d darted his vision down at you and tightened his lips, again saying to himself that it won’t be his problem for much longer. 

Yet, when he’d clocked your very-much real panic at the sight of the open curtains, he’d nearly put a hand on your shoulder and squeezed, having to restrain himself. 

You didn’t take it well. 

“Honey!” Your mother calls down from the foyer, holding her phone in her hand. “Lovely, just who I was looking for. Do you think we should change the colors from navy to green, or to violet?” 

You stare in horror, hands clenched into fists near the banister. 

“I-” your voice stutters. “Why are you changing the navy?”

“Well…it’s a bit dated, don’t you think?” Gaz’s face pulls. “Let’s, I don’t know, mix it up a little!” She laughs, flicking some dust from the coffee table near the old fireplace. “We’re back together—it’s time to move on.”

And still, to his shock, you say nothing, the fight sucked out of you. You bite your tongue and hold it all in as he spares you wide brown eyes. A sound of confusion bounces from Kyle’s throat. 

If it were anyone else you’d be down their ear by now—barking about the history and the memories.

For a moment he’s left as you slowly start back down the steps, back straight and neck tense, blinking at your spine. 

He almost speaks to you. 

Almost, but not quite.

As you seem to sink into a hole of mute acceptance you begin to close up even more—what little you’d opened up to Gaz was shuttering closed with a great shaky slam. 

“Hey,” Alex is leaning against the wall as a loyal hound would, keeping an eye on the ground floor. When he sees you he stands up straighter. “We weren’t properly introduced—Alex Keller, I’m glad to hear you’re—”

You stride past and grasp at the single straw to your name—the USB. You’d still had no luck with it yet. Only two tries left. It was weighing on your soul more than your mother’s insistence on eating meals at the family table. 

“...alright…” 

Alex passes a look to Gaz and the Sergeant only shakes his head over his shoulder and quickly moves. 

The blond is left with lightly parted lips and quickly blinking eyes—hand barely outstretched in failed greeting.

You end up in the library, hurriedly messing with the books under your name and piling them on the table out of instinct. Call you possessive, but no way was your mother touching anything that directly belonged to you. 

You own the estate now, you remind yourself, just tell her to stop. 

You only grab books faster—especially the ones that your father read. Maybe there was something of importance there; he liked to highlight and annotate important sections and quoted things often. 

A sequence of numbers or a code? A phrase? Who knew at this point, but you needed to do something. Keep you occupied. 

Keep you from thinking about the silent man who watches you from the side of his eye near the door. 

The silent treatment—you weren’t new to it. 

Just didn’t expect it from a soldier in his mid to late twenties. 

Huffing, you drop more books onto the table and tidy them, brushing off dust in your form of cleaning with a slap of your hand. When you’re done, the large objects are piled high in front of you and relatively dusted. 

Breathing stiffly, you try to push back the weight on your lungs before brushing off the heat on your cheeks as Gaz watches, head tilted and face tight.

If he’s anything as stubborn as you, he’ll be keeping this up for—

“What’s the question, then?” 

You immediately wind up like a jack-in-the-box, eyes daring to connect with Kyle’s. Twitching, you settle instead on his scar; studying the darkness. It’s a minute before you respond, and when you do, it’s nearly silent. 

Brows moved with apprehension.

“Kyle?” You ask, sticking your hands into your pockets. You’d left your coin back in your room. A frown mixes with a grimace.

It’s hard to admit how his voice made your heart lurch. 

Gaz clears his throat, feet shifting, but his voice is still hard and monotone. “Your question. You cleaned the books off.”

“I help you clean, and when I say we take a break, I have to answer one question of your choice.” 

Your bargain. A bit skewed, yeah, but apparently it counted.

“...I don’t have one,” you admit lowly, not a hostile thorn heard. Vision sliding, you look down at your objects. Apologize. Grunting, you grasp a few of the books, moving forward with them in your arms. 

Kyle lets you slide past, moving his shoulder until you’re not about to bump into it. In the bright light of the open curtains, he stares after and closes his eyes; breathing in through heavy lungs. 

Re-assignment couldn’t come soon enough. If not for his sanity, then for yours. 

Kyle fiddles with his watch and fixes his cap once before continuing after you, a very large hole of something in his chest that can’t be filled.

By how he wishes for your sarcastic comments and your fiery spite right about now, staring with growing worry at your hunched shoulders, he dreads what that something could be.

Tonight he’d take a look at your father’s laptop and journal—too busy yesterday with paperwork and reports; getting through red tape and trying to get into contact with Price.

He hadn’t told you, but there had been a break-in at the museum the same night you had snuck out. Same section. Same box bearing your father’s name ripped open and thrown to the ground. Five minutes after his team had cleared it. 

Five minutes after you’d left with the items in your dust-coated hands and bloody nose. Your wide, fake-innocent, eyes over the corner of that roof.

Someone was playing games.

And they were getting closer.

TAGS:

@fatunn, @mh073099, @littlegaypng, @untitled69555, @babybooday, @caffeine-anxiety-and-randomfacts, @underrated-youngster, @jupiterredolent, @idocarealot, @karnellius, @latteisaqueen, @petrat97, @jade-jax, @roosterr, @escapefromrealitysm, @renaich, @kysa32, @human-turtle, @aurora-basin, @terumisworld, @violet-phantoms, @xxfeelmylovexx, @neelehksttr, @nezukos-number1fan, @20forty9, @mdjenjen, @marrianena, @angeldaisyy, @alhaizen, @homicidal-slvt, @emerald-valkyrie, @raissadoesthingslmao, @misfne, @hollyhopesworld, @wasteland-babe, @330bpm-whiplash, @anna-banana27, @justherebecausesafarisucks, @sunnynomoar, @doggydale, @thecrispypotatochip, @74478328, @blueoorchid, @das-conk-creet-baybee, @dragonfruit1985, @chestnutsandcurls, @vamqyr3, @lavalleon, @nebula67, @urfavsunkissedleo

[mcyt-builds-contest]

Pandora’s Vault propaganda:

Unlike most of the other builds, the power of Pandora doesn’t just lie mainly in its aesthetics or engineering (though they no doubt contribute, especially the redstone).

What makes Pandora’s Vault such a menace (and wife material) is the story that plays out in it, one that kept the very CCs involved so enraptured that they continued to roleplay in it off-camera.

It entraps Hope, just like its namesake, be it the hope of restoration or protection or escape. It entraps the characters, who return to it even after its mechanisms have been partially destroyed, unable to truly escape the prison looming over their minds and the grooves they carved out for themselves in the unyielding obsidian.

It asks us questions like “How desperate do you have to be to willingly put yourself in this situation?” “What’s more important, freedom or security?” “If you do bad things for good reasons, are you still a good person?” “Are principles more important than material harm?” “Why do we seek power over each other?”

It forces us to confront our own prejudices about outcasts and criminals. It deftly undercuts the authority of law, exposing the fixation on punishment and self-gain and lack of accountability or discernment: they’ll go after you too, just because they don’t like you. It shows us how oppressive structures hurt the enforcers just as they hurt the enforced-on, stripping away identity until the only thing left is a hollow shell withering without prey.

TL;DR -Slaps roof- This Vault can fit so many themes in it.

.

[factorialsotherfandoms]

Philza's PoV of the fic where he goes to Cellbit for Help after an Ender Kidnapping. I was going to add another scene where they got some medicine in him, but... It felt good to end it in the same place, and it's already a few hundred words longer. So just know that Mike will drop around a dose or two of meds in like 20 minutes (Mike, not Pac, because Pac is both making more and would get distracted by mistake) and have a couple of days worth ready in a few hours. It will help. Though, Philza is probably staying on Cellbit's sofa until someone braves carrying him to a bed, and he's staying at Cellbit's for a good while. Cellbit struggles with more people in his house but would also rather keep Philza where he can check on him, after everything. And, well, it's going to take him a /while/ to recover, and he's not going to be willing to warp for longer still.

AO3 here

TW: sickness, dissociation, major trauma, major injuries, panic attacks, brain fuckery, all that

Philza is cold. His soul is cold, and his body is cold, and the air of the winter night is freezing all around him. He doesn’t… He doesn’t quite remember how he got here - his feet hurt, and he’s freezing, and he remembers…

A falling birdcage.

A broken door.

A voice screaming in fury as he ran and ran and ran and-

And he should keep running.

He cannot hear the voice any more, but here is… Different. The sky is dark but not black - not black, and with eyes now tainted he can see the deep blue surrounding the stars for what it is, and not what it was. Those stars, like pinpricks, and soft clouds…

The moon is bright.

He can be seen.

With the sudden realisation, he ducks into the cover of a tree. A tree which he… He knows these trees are familiar, but his mind is made of weeping obsidian and his body is trembling enough as it is.

He cannot afford to sob, he knows he cannot afford to sob, even as the trees leer and the shadows lean down and something is coming someone is coming he needs to run run run hide never stop running and get away away away!!!

But he can’t, he knows he can’t - with every further step he feels himself grow weaker, darkness not from the peaceful overworld night clawing into his eyes.

The trees are red, the trees are red, and…

And he catches a though, a thought that sounds like safety.

On broken feet he runs, the trail of blood hidden by the rotting leaves on the floor. A hunter could easily pick it up, but the /thing/ that chases Philza cares not for it’s prey. Hidden tracks or not, HE always, always comes.

And there, above the treeline - a pointed red tower-roof, pointing at the moon. The walls are black, it’s sisters reach up with it, and for the first time in a long time Philza feels…

He feels anything other than anger, pain or despair.

He runs, as best he can, stumbling and tripping and scraping his hands and his knees each time abused feet give way. He can feel how they bleed, how the wounds tear with every step, but he can’t call for help - he has no way to call anyone, to warn anyone, or even to get away.

The tower is not home, and he doesn’t remember why, but Philza knows that the tower means safety.

And so, desperate, frozen, scared, he scrambles on.

---

The tower leads to a building, and the building is entered by a door. The door is on a bridge, though, and Philza… He has to climb the side.

HIs feet slip on the blood they leave, the blackstone work too smooth. He feels himself scrape the skin from his toes, but what is a little more pain, a little more blood? His mind is clouded and scared and all he can think of is HIM finding him, and the potential safety of the castle.

By the time he makes it onto the bridge, Philza can barely stand. It’s easy to ignore the pain, when pain is all he knows for sure, but it’s hard hard hard to keep his limbs in place. Breathing is hard and blood pools around him and Philza-

Philza doesn’t remember many things right now, but he knows he made a promise, and he knows he refuses to die.

On his hands and knees he drags himself to the door; with everything left in him he pulls himself up, leaning his weight against the wall. His hands barely respond as he reaches up, pulling the cord to let the master of his place know of his presence.

How Philza knows that’s what to do, he is not sure. Perhaps it is simply ingrained?

Either way he doesn’t think he can do anything else - can move anything else. There’s a noise and Philza glances over his shoulder, terror bubbling in his throat but having nowhere to go. It’s not HIM, though, it’s not HIM. It was from inside the castle, inside and Philza…

A man opens the door.

Philza knows him, but with void-touched eyes it’s hard to understand.

He doesn’t have a name, but he has a face.

He remembers… Bloodshed, and fury, a murder with a knife, an obsessive hunter of flesh.

He remembers… Puzzles and late nights and photographs and kindness and trust-faith-hope.

He looks at this man and he knows - this is a man who could kill me, but he is not going to; this is a man who wants the best for the islanders (who?), and that is also me; this is a man who will do anything to protect people, even when it tears him apart again.

“Philza?” the trustworthy murderer asks, when he gathers himself. “We missed you; where’ve you been?”

And Philza… Philza cannot answer.

So he gathers his strength, and raises his head, and meets the man’s eyes. Slowly, slowly, he shakes his head, trying to let him know that will never work.

The act of moving his head upsets his already precarious balance. Philza stumbles. His feet send a burst of agony. He sways to the other side, and fails to catch himself again.

He hears a soft word - cursing - but an arm reaches out, and takes his arm.

Touch.

Fear.

The last time he was touched, the last time Philza was touched…

But it is concern that touches him, not hate.

Philza all but throws himself along the touch, knowing he cannot possibly stay under his own weight much longer.

He is caught, and held up, and it’s hard to breathe and harder to think and pain agonising pain shoots through his legs, but… But this place is a place that means safety, and it is going to be okay.

“Do you have a warpstone?” he is asked. “We should probably get you to the infirmary.”

Warpstone?

Philza thinks of purple, and being dissolved, and being thrown through the void in a little hop-skip-jump and that is where HE is and he does not want to go back - not for this, not ever, not ever again.

He tears out of the touch, does his best to find his feet. He’ll manage, he can manage, just don’t make him, don’t make him - /please!/

The wall touches Philza’s back; there is nowhere to run, and the tension remains in him.

“Okay,” the man breathes out. “Okay. My drawing room then. I have the first aid kit Mike made for Richas somewhere.”

Drawing room is… Inside the castle, and inside means no being thrown to the void. The man offers Philza a hand, and Philza takes it, stumbling his way against him again.

There’s no way to save his feet, not from the walking once again. So he zones out the pain, permitting it to get lost in the haze. Here isn’t safe, not from HIM, but it is… Philza looks on these walls, and know he has never come here often, but he knows they belong to someone he trusts.

With his mind like this… All he can pray for us that the man before him - in cotton pyjamas and still with a wicked knife on his belt - is as trustworthy as his scatteredness believes him to be. Philza… he’s pretty sure he knows how Void-Sickness works, he’s pretty sure it makes you forget, makes you see things, but he doesn’t think it changes your opinions.

Please, please, let it not change his opinions. Please let this man and this castle be as trustworthy as his heart believes them to be.

It does seem that way, at least for now; Philza can barely see anymore as the man takes his arm, and pulls it over his shoulders. Philza does his best to walk, but his legs are like burning ice. He remembers pain, he remembers his feet being cut open, large slices to prevent him running, a slice across each ankle to try sever his tendons.

It failed.

Philza is a lot of things, and he cannot remember most of them, but he is very sure that he is very good at running.

Or was, not any more. His feet drag both on stone then on carpet, skin catching and tearing and hurting as it does. He wants to scream, instead tries to whimper, and finds is voice barely makes a noise at all.

He slips his face into the man helping him’s neck and begs himself to remember, to remember, just to remember…

By the time he is sat down on a long sofa, Philza still does not remember. There is no regard for the filth and the blood he smears across the black fabric, and little for the way he collapses into the soft. Time skips a few beats, and then his hands are wrapped around a glass of water.

Philza stares at it, thinks of thread in his mouth, and the impossibility of what he is being asked to do.

He did not realise how much his hands were hurting, until the cruel-kind man bent them into another shape.

There’s words that Philza does not understand, and then the man is gone, and alone… Alone it is so much harder to keep out the ache. There’s nobody before him, the room is unfamiliar, he can’t see behind him-

With as much care as tortured limbs can manage, Philza puts the glass down.

He’s panicking - he’s safe now, it’s going to be okay. 

He’s not safe. Even if he were sane he’d know he’s not safe; HE is looking for him, HE will find him, HE-

Philza pulls his hands away from the glass, can feel the shaking pick up, can feel his breath catch as he does. The trustworthy murderer is gone, has left him alone, and Philza is so, so very scared.

His eyes glance about as he shifts and he turns, peering through distorted eyes at every corner he can. Shadows seem to grow, to stretch and morph - familiar, thin, deadly hands reaching out, reaching for him, seeking to steal him, to take him back, to bind him once again in pain and steel, a wild bird left to languish in a cage as a prized possession until it languishes away.

And then you stuff its corpse.

Philza’s eyes catch on the bookshelf in the corner. It’s near a hole in the wall - bad - but it’s high, and it’s hidden, and from there he can see everything.

He doesn’t think of anything except thin hands and purple laughter and the agony of pain as he abandons the soft-and-warm for the high-and-safe.

His feet slip as he scrambles up the shelves, barely noticing even as he twists his ankle in his panic. There’s no thoughts, his empty except for the desperation to get up higher and higher and as high as he can. Behind him his wings shudder, desperately trying to lift him but too exhausted to manage. Foot after foot he pulls himself up, until he too is in the dark.

But this dark is not cold like the hands.

This dark is warm and safe, even if it burns his cold, cold skin.

He peers out of the shadows, watching and watching. The shadows still oozes and twist and reach in a way shadows shouldn’t. Despite the trail of blood they fail to reach them and Philza… he is not sure if they are real or not.

Not until a figure steps in. Philza’s brain panics as the man walks through a shadow. There is no ill effect, but the fear of someone loves walking into the shadowy claws-

“Philza?”

And it’s not the man’s voice Philza hears, not in his panic. The voice echoes and looms and teases, something ancient and powerful and /terrifying/. He looks and looks and looks and where is an escape?!

There is something else said but Philza does not see it; he only has eyes for the hole in the wall, the hole through which somehow no more cold comes. He ignores the words to throw himself from the bookshelf - towards the hole. His wings slow his fall, but he cannot fly - why can’t he fly?! What did HE do?! - so he /throws/ himself towards the hole.

The voice is behind him, now, but he cannot look. Please, dear Rose, please-

The hole is not a hole.

Philza slams into something hard but invisible. In his panic, in his pain, in his sickness he doesn’t understand. He doesn’t understand anything as a hand touches his shoulder.

Philza tries to scream and only chokes, even that muffled and quiet with his voice box strained and his lips sealed shut.

The hand on his shoulder is tugging him away.

Philza gives up, and he goes.

Of course he cannot rn, of course he cannot run… HE would never let him run, not for anything other than a game of cat and mouse. 

And HE is too powerful for mistakes.

Even as he’s walked back to the sofa, Philza keeps glancing to the hole - to the alluring promise of freedom, and one he will never get to see again.

His eggs, his chicks, his children - he’s never going to see them again.

But the voice that asks “better?” is too gentle when it speaks, too gentle to be HIM. Too exhausted, too - HE would never let HIMself sound so weak.

And so… Philza is brave even as he trembles, and looks up, and traces from brown eyes to a tissue in the man’s hand.

Philza… Is not quite sure what to do with it.

He stares for long seconds before he feels warmth drip from his nose to his lip and…

Oh…

He takes the tissue, and holds it beneath his nose. The smile the man gives him as he kneels is pained, relieved, true.

Philza tries to smile back, only to taste blood on his teeth.

The man is as gentle as the cushions are soft as he takes one of Philza’s feet, but there is no way to not hurt him. It hurts, but Philza can see the bad being taken from his feet and tossed aside and so…

It was going to hurt anyway. No matter what happens here, Philza hurts.

Might as well let a friend take it away.

The two remain in silence as Philza’s exhausted friend takes away the bad. His eyes remain fixed on Philza’s foot, and Philza’s on a strip of white hair.

He wants to touch it.

He is too tired, now, with the peace of someone his heart trusts, to even move his fingers to try.

Vulnerable and weak he slumps in the cushions, cradled by black velvet. He’s still so cold, but he can feel warmth from the nearby fire, and even with the spikes of pain it’s easy to let himself melt away.

It should be scary, how easy it is to fade away despite the pain.

It isn’t, though. It’s just…

He shouldn’t be here, letting himself drift, letting someone take care of him - he needs to run and run and run and never stop, less HE catches him and destroys him.

Destroys everyone and everything he loves.

But he is.

And then, all of a sudden, wet and cold and stinging.

Philza startles, and yelps - or something close to it, and looks down.

His foot is… In a bucket?

And Cellbit (oh, so that’s the man’s name, where did he find that?) looks… apologetic?

Philza slumps back into the cushions, doing his best to indicate that the man should continue on. He tries very hard to pay a little more attention now, not wanting the surprise again.

It is hard, though; ever he pays attention to nothing, or he pays attention to warping shadows and clawing void and the dark film over his vision, all things that are not really things at all.

And then the other foot goes into the water, and Philza thinks that is it, except that Cellbit does not stop there. Instead he moves to other wounds, cleaning and stitching and bandaging, frowning at the purple smeared across Philza’s skin.

Frowning more as he rests a hand on his chest, and Philza struggles to move it with his breaths.

But that’s fine - Philza’s dizzy, but he’s sick, so it’s fine. He just allows Cellbit to work until -

Until something tears in his hand, and the sudden jolt of pain has Philza /scream/.

The sound barely works, but he can taste the blood-blood-blood where his lips strained too hard against the thread. He wants to - needs to - spit it out, but he can’t- he can’t! All he can do is swallow, swallow and shudder and pray the pain goes away.

It’s then that Cellbit freezes, and looks to him with terrified eyes.

“Philza?” Cellbit asks - whispers. “Philza, can you open your mouth for me?”

And Philza wants to cry as he shakes his head.

“You can’t, or you won’t?”

That’s not… How does he answer…?

Philza focuses on Cellbit’s face, tries to drain himself of terror, and holds up a single finger.

Option one.

And Cellbit nods, he nods and he waits, and he breathes more than he asks “can I touch your lips?”

Philza… Does not know how he wants that question answered.

He does not know a lot of things.

But he waits, and he watches, and does not flinch as a warm hand presses to frozen lips, slowly parting them.

“I…” And Philza barely remembers Cellbit beyond knowing he is a man with a lot of love, and a lot of anger, and who kills more easily than he saves no matter how desperately he wants to do the second. But… But he does know that Cellbit does not /hesitate/.

The hands pull away, as though Philza’s frozen face burnt him, “I don’t think I can help without hurting you.”

That’s the worry?

Philza gestures with his hands, focused on Cellbit’s eyes where the darkness of The End cannot reach; ‘am I not already in pain?’ he tries to ask, tries to communicate, tries to beg.

Cellbit is scared, he is terrified, and Philza… Philza should go, if he is causing that sort of reaction in his friends.

“I’m going to get you some pyjamas,” Cellbit says. “Will you be alright?”

Cellbit is fleeing.

Philza… he got lost in the comfort, has stayed too long. He is bandaged now, yes? He should keep on running, should flee this place until HE comes for Cellbit too.

He cannot let HIM have Cellbit. Not one of his friends, and not any of them.

Cellbit goes, and Philza…

His feet still hurt, but Philza knows how to run in even the worst of circumstances. He waits for the door to close and stumbles to his feet. Every movement is like agony, like treacle, but he has to go, has to leave, has to run - no matter what happens, he cannot let HIM touch his trusted friend.

This place is a place of safety, but not for him.

The pain pulls him back into a haze, stumbling his way through the black castle. He’s not sure… Not sure where to go.

The bridge is there.

He does not think he can climb down, but… The fall from the break to the water will not kill him, right?

And even if it does, is that not better than HIM finding him again?

The shadows goad him onwards, twisting deep purple at their seams. Philza ignores them, using the lip at the edge of the bridge to guide his steps.

He is almost, almost there when a hand grabs his arm and Philza-

Philza has been grabbed before; he twists and he fights and uses every last morsel left in his body to scream. HE will not take him, HE will not have him, HE will not put him back in the cage!!!

He screams and he snarls and he forces his jaw to open to do so. He doesn’t care for the blood in his mouth, how it bubbles between the threads and drips onto his lips. He doesn’t care how his wounds strain, how everything hurts and stabs and stings - if HE takes him it will not matter, if HE has him it is the end anyway and he would rather DIE that let HIM have him again!!!

So he fights, and he scream, and he uses every bit of adrenaline as he tries to save himself! He will not fall here, he will not go back, you cannot make him go back!

“Stop that! You’re making it worse!”

And just like that all of Philza’s energy vanishes, leaving him a statue in the night on a ruined bridge.

That… That is not the voice of HIM, but the voice of a friend

“Just…” there’s a sob in his friends voice and Philza wants - needs - to comfort it. “Come back inside? Please?”

But if Philza does that…

He wants to cup Cellbit’s cheeks, to tell him, to explain, but his hands are mostly bandage and his lips are sealed and his throat is dry.

So he shakes his head.

“Philza.”

Philza does not want to be the cause of the pain spreading across Cellbit’s face, of the shadows creeping in. But a friend in pain is a living friend, and if Philza stays he’ll be a dead one, and Philza-

“Why are you running?”

Philza stops for a second, not having even realised he had started running again.

But he does… Owe Cellbit an explanation.

But how…

He doesn’t have time, but still he gestures to his eyes - where he knows the Taint must have taken root, if only for all the times HE complimented them of late. He gestures to the shadows, creeping closer and leering, and-

And this is too long, he looks, to check, and he can see nothing but darkness behind him. The oily film is too thick to see into that darkness.

“You’re being chased?”

Exactly! Philza nods, once and again, driving home the point. He gestures to the darkness, tries to show Cellbit the danger, before he turns and stumbles further on.

A couple of steps - not enough to find a fast pace, not injured as he is - but then…

There is a rose, in the darkness, a small rose bush at the side of the road.

Has it always been there, or did Rose…?

Cellbit is cautious as he approaches the bush, but he still picks a flower and hands it to Philza. Philza stares at it, not sure… Not sure…

“Missa mentioned they’re… protection charms for you?”

Missa…?

Missa!

His eyes snap to Cellbit - begging, begging, begging. Is Missa safe? Is Missa okay? Chayanne and Tallulah? Their eggs were asleep when HE invaded the sanctuary, but Missa wasn’t, Missa had been right there and oh fuck if HE took Missa as well-

“He’s safe!” Cellbit scrambles to promise. “Foolish is hosting a sleepover for the eggs tonight - he took Chayanne and Tallulah.”

Safe?

His family are safe?

HE did not touch his people? Only him.

“He showed me the rose garden, though the flowers are dead,” Philza is not surprised by Cellbit’s words, though he winds the rose between his fingers. “And the… hole? Portal? Void-patch?”

What does Cellbit…

Oh.

HE must have ripped out part of this world, too…

Philza… is not sure what it counts as. He wriggles his hand, and decides Void is the closest - like before he raises fingers to indicate the option.

“It was very small, very precise. Clearly whatever took you only wants you - it hasn’t taken anyone else, either; even if you stay in my house, it’s unlikely it will take me.”

Philza…

HE would take Missa first, surely? Not Cellbit?

And he did not take Missa.

And in his fingers is a rose…

“So, please, come back inside?”

Philza looks back to the rose, and wonders what it means - if it means anything at all.

And then he looks up, and Cellbit is offering him a hand.

And Philza is tired, and he is weak, and the pain is a constant throb against his skull even as his mind drifts from place to place and sees things which only might or might not be there.

And so he breaks.

He takes the hand, and tucks himself close to Cellbit’s side, and prays he has not just damned them both.

---

Soon enough they are inside. Philza is back on the black velvet sofa, and Cellbit is once more knelt before him. This time he does not only wash his feet, but dries and bandages them too. Philza clings to the rose then, and also when he is helped to stand.

Staying there is agonising, now that he has given in. It’s all he can do to cling to a chance and not cry as Cellbit helps him out of one set of clothes, and a long, black, silk nightshirt. It comes down to Philza’s knees, or close enough, and hangs awkwardly on his shoulders.

By the time he is allowed to sit, Philza’s lungs are desperate and his vision narrowed to a pinprick.

He all but collapses into the sofa, curling around the flower and remembering how to breathe.

Cellbit gives him a moment, just checking on his other wounds. Philza finds his breath - it is so much harder, without his mouth - and tries to relax himself once again.

“They’re probably asleep,” Cellbit starts, once Philza is relaxed. “But do you want me to text Missa? So he can bring Chayanne and Tallulah in the morning?”

Philza wants his family.

Philza wants his family to be /safe/.

He… cannot answer that.

“I can put some wards down,” Cellbit offers. “And ask them to come with Roier? He’ll look after them.”

Wards will do nothing, not even Rose’s sanctuary could.

But… there’s a rose in his fingers, and he wants his family. He needs…

Hesitant, he nods - he isn’t sure, but Cellbit…

He can trust Cellbit. He knows he loves his family, and that he can trust Cellbit, and he’s not quite sure who Roier is but if Cellbit says he will protect them then Philza chooses to believe that he can.

Philza cannot work out if Cellbit types quickly or slowly. He is handed the communicator to check the message, but does not really care - his own is long gone, and he has one chance, one hope of…

His fingers are ruined, but he still has to warn Missa. Make sure… Make sure he knows.

‘Did HE hurt you?’ Philza types. ‘Be safe - HE still wants me.’

It takes minutes to type it; Philza wants to say more, but his hands barely function and there’s one more thing he needs to say.

Not to Missa, but to Cellbit.

He isn’t sure… There’s so many things, and his hands are failing, so…

He chooses the most important one, the thing he’s watched Cellbit /hesitate/ over.

‘Cut it’.

Philza refuses to think on how long it takes to type, or how much it hurts, or the blood now once again seeping into the bandages over his finger pads.

“Cut what?” Cellbit asks.

There is no way he doesn’t know - Philza does his best to ignore the shadows and to glare instead.

“I don’t… Think I can do this.”

And Philza does not care if Cellbit does not /think/ he can, because Philza /knows/ that Cellbit can. Philza grabs the hand with the knife that has killed so many people, and tries to pull it from his grasp.

If Cellbit will not help him, then he will take the knife and carve the stitches out himself!

“Fine!” Cellbit looks terrified as he yells. “God, I’ll try. But just enough to drink something, okay? I don’t trust myself.”

‘I trust you’ Philza wants to shout, wants to scream to the heavens. The rivers run red with blood Cellbit has spilt and yet Philza knows his friend, and he trusts him - he trusts him so much.

He wants to scream it, to declare it, to be able to speak!

But… But Cellbit looks so pale, so pale the shadows cannot touch his face, and Philza…

He cannot do that to him.

So he will accept enough to drink, and he will prove to Cellbit that everything will be okay.

Cellbit pulls out a smaller knife, and bends down to a level. He slips it between Philza’s lips. It hurts where the blade presses into the threads, bending them and forcing his gum along too. They do break, though - the threads break with the knife, and it’s not his whole mouth, but Philza can at least pull air through it again.

And then Cellbit pulls away, not looking reassured but terrified. Philza has no idea why - a tissue is pressed to his lip, probably for where some skin tore against a thread.

“Hold this, just let me get you a straw.”

Philza does as he is told, keeping the tissue in place as his eyes trail after Cellbit.

Where did he go?

Why did he leave so fast?

…

He’s gone for a long time.

Philza drifts, and he closes his eyes, and when he opens them again another rose lays across his lap.

Rose?

Is she… trying to ask forgiveness? To say he’s safe? To comfort him?

He is not sure, but he picks it up anyway. He takes the two roses and starts trying to twist them together. It is awkward at the best of times, and worse with injured hands, but… He’s getting there.

It’s good enough that they will not separate even if he puts them down when Cellbit returns and  - oh - warm soup! That will be what took so long! Soup, and warm, and with the possibility of eating - even just drinking - right there, Philza’s body slams back into his mind. Everything hurts, his stomach is twisted, his lips are cracked and bleeding and his eyes are so so dry.

And he is cold, but the soup is steaming, and he /needs/!

But it is the water that is given first. Philza behaves, and drinks it, and as he drinks it finds his body demanding more and more and faster and faster until the glass is gone. Still it screams for more, desperate, desperate, dehydrated and starving-

Cellbit offers him the tray - juice or soup.

Both are liquid.

Soup is warm.

He tries to grab the soup.

But Cellbit puts the tray down, then picks it up himself - he tests it before putting a straw in the soup, and sitting down on the sofa beside Philza. Carefully and between them he drinks what he can - his body isn’t sure if it wants to throw up or demand he eat more, and the point where nausea starts to win he refuses to keep going.

He wants more, he wants more, he craves it and is desperate for the sustenance and the warmth.

But his stomach hurts already, and he knows he cannot afford to loose anything else.

Cellbit puts it back on the try and stands.

“Sleep here,” he says. “I’ll go grab some blankets.”

This time when he leaves, Philza does not run. Instead he flops into soft velvet, letting it cradle abused skin. The darkness wins, but it wins somewhere safe, and with a rose in Philza’s hand. He stirs a little when he is moved - a pillow for his head, five or six blankets wrapped around freezing skin - but only enough to recognise Cellbit, and to know that he is for a moment safe.

---

Philza is woken by loud swearing. Swearing is, however, something that HE neither does nor permits, and so it’s a comfort, really. He curls back towards sleep, finally almost warm and the pain intense but at least consistent so long as he does not move. It’s bright now, the shadows smaller, and he does not want to exist. He just… wants to drift a while longer, to not have to surface to a world which hurts and he is a threat to those he loves.

But he cannot doze forever, or even very long at all. He watches a man kiss Cellbit, and the two finally notice him.

“Morning,” Cellbit says.

“Hey Philza,” the other man greets. “Cellbo says you got something stuck in your mouth?”

Philza’s aware enough to recognise a sex joke - he finds his hand, and protects the rose, and flips the man off. Cellbit might like him, but he woke Philza up, and woke him up to kissing.

“Is it okay if Roier takes the stitches out?” Cellbit asks - gentle, soft, worried.

The man is Roier, Cellbit is being gentle, and something is not right in the world.

Philza /looks/ at him. Why the gentle? Cellbit is not gentle, he is hard corners and sharp edges, splintered and torn and so, so loved.

But Philza still nods, as he’s pretty sure he’s supposed to know who Roier is, and Cellbit would mercilessly slaughter anyone who hurt him. Cellbit trusts this Roier, and Philza trusts Cellbit, so… He will give Roier a chance.

Roier uses tiny embroidery scissors, not a knife, to cut away at the threads inside Philza’s mouth. As each one is cut through Philza’s face feels a little more free. He talks as he works, full of gossip and names that Philza isn’t sure he knows how to remember right now, but his heart knows are important to him all the same.

The hands by his face, though… He doesn’t like that.

He affixes his eyes on the hole-that-is-not-a-hole, and reminds himself to breathe.

The threads are cut, but still there. Cellbit helps Philza with a glass of water, before stage two begins.

It hurts a lot more, pulling out the threads. In places they have almost fused with his lips, scabs having grown into them, and skin cells following. No matter how careful he is there is no way for Roier to remove it without agony - between each they apply antiseptic and wait for the wound to stop bleeding, but it only makes it take so, so much longer. At some point Cellbit leaves, leaves Philza alone with this not-a-stranger named Roier, and that’s when Philza starts to cry.

Roier slips into silence as he finishes, and once he is done he helps Philza drink.

“Do you remember who I am?” Roier asks, quietly, when the glass is drained.

Philza… He hesitates, before shaking his head.

Roier looks in pain, “I’m Cellbit’s husband - Roier. You were the photographer at our wedding.”

He was?

There’s a cloud in Philza’s mind, one he cannot escape. He knows the memories are still there, just… In a cage.

Sunlight and real air will burn it away with time - there’s potions that can help, too. It’ll just take time, but it’s upsetting, it’s frustrating - if he was not already crying, Philza thinks he would begin all over again.

“Mind if I have a look at your other injuries?” Roier asks, trying to keep up a smile. “Not that I don’t trust Cellbit, but it was three in the morning and the bandages need changed.”

Philza… opens his mouth, and finds his lips… They don’t move like he accepts.

Roier waits for him, almost frozen still.

“... Cellbit trusts you?” Philza asks, quiet, every word painful in its own right.

It also pulls open some of the stitch-wounds - he’s handed a few pads of gauze. One he sicks in his mouth, pushing the bleeding spots against it.

Roier’s head tilts to the side, but he nods, “pretty sure! He certainly loves me.”

Philza nods.

He uncurls his feet, offering them to Roier.

As Roier works he talks; Philza does not listen, but he lets himself drift into the words. A little less panicked and a little more awake, it is harder to ignore the pain in the daylight. He flinches and yelps and tries to curl up, but each time they pause he permits Roier to continue.

Cellbit trusts him, so Philza chooses to too.

Once he is done, Roier throws the old bandages into the fire, then comes and sits on the other end of the sofa. His sword is out - ready to grab if needs be, but he seems relaxed.

“How are you doing?” asks Roier, as though it isn’t obvious.

Philza gestures to himself; is that not obvious.

“I mean…” Roier gestures at his head.

Philza shrugs, and pulls the gauze from his mouth, and tries to work out what to say.

“It’s hard to remember,” Philza says, voice weak, and cracking. “It’s there, it’s just… bits of memory shut down, in the End. I don’t… HE is in the shadows. He is everywhere and I don’t- HE wants me back. I don’t want to go back.”

“Nobody will take you anywhere you don’t want to go,” Roier replies. “Cellbit let you in; you’re safe here.”

Philza does not know how to explain it, so he doesn’t. Roier might be a friend, or he might not be, but speaking makes his mouth bleed and he doesn’t even know where to start. He looks like he wants to ask more, and to press - he opens his mouth to, but then backs away.

Roier closes it, and opens it again. “It was the older eggs birthday yesterday,” he says instead of whatever question he wanted. “Leo wanted a sleepover party, so we had one. Chayanne was making food, and Radio Egg were supposed to show off but then Dapper stole Richas’ flute and…”

Philza half-listens to the story, half checks on the room. He doesn’t quite remember all of the children’s appearances, but he does know that those names belong to the eggs. One story ends and another begins and Philza… is pretty sure that he is forgetting something.

Still with the blankets its warm enough, but never comfortable - Philza lets Roier talk, and looks around.

Around about Roier talking about the latest updates on Tubbo and Bad’s prank war, Cellbit comes back.

He has food but, more importantly, he isn’t alone.

Philza has no idea who to watch - his children or his husband, and which child? And Fit is there too, but Fit is less important, next to his husband and his eggs.

Chayanne and Tallulah move faster and together, so Philza watches them. Between blinks he sees corruption leaking from their cracks; every time he closes and reopens his eyes, it is gone. They run over and stand by him, staring up at him.

“Hello,” he manages to say, and he offers each a hand.

Tallulah grabs one, Chayanne latches onto the other.

And Missa, Missa - he comes and sits between Philza and Roier. Philza places his head on his husband’s shoulder, stealing some of his strength too.

In return, he receives an arm behind him, in a subtle attempt at a hug.

Fit and Cellbit sit on stools across from them. Fit has a rose tucked into a pocket - when he looks, Missa and both of the eggs are wearing one, too.

Nobody speaks for long moments, Philza soaking in his family and letting them chase away the shadows a little more.

“Was it him.”

It’s Fit who breaks the silence, with a question that is not a question.

Philza does not want to leave Missa’s shoulder, does not want to face the world.

But he must.

So he picks up his head a little, and he nods.

“Well, fuck,” and isn’t that true. “I’m gonna guess you need stuff for void sickness? Anything else I should ask Pac e Mike for?”

And of course Fit would ask them, but also… Philza drops a little in relief, because his lungs are struggling from more than just panic, and the pain, and while he can see well enough he knows it is corrupted.

Not to mention the… Things, in the corners.

In the shadows.

“Antibiotics for preventing infection in wounds dirty for too long?” and, yes, Roier’s suggestion there is probably sensible. Philza would not be sure, but there was a lot of mud in his feet, and he knows the thread in his mouth was not clean. “And painkillers.”

… His mind is already compromised. Philza knows he needs them, knows he needs them badly, but… But he doesn’t want…

Chayanne pulls away and for a moment Philza panics, only to see his beloved son pulling dish after dish out, handing them to Missa or Philza, or scattering them over the floor. There is too much food - far too much - just smelling it feels slightly sickening, for all Philza’s heart softens as his boy trying to look after him.

It’s Missa who makes the decision, picking up a watery looking bowl.

And Philza… trusts neither his hands nor his mouth right now, so he fumbles for a straw. Between himself and Missa they manage not to spill it, Chayanne and Tallulah eating now they have seen their injured father start, and Missa only taking something once Philza is done.

Missa’s breakfast is a sandwich, and he eats it with Philza curled into his hip.

They’re safe, Philza’s family is safe, and with bright light the shadows stay further away. Philza finds Cellbit’s eyes, tests his lips - mouths a thank you.

For the help, for the food, for his family.

And Philza… He would rather ignore it, he would rather avoid it, but everyone in this room is involved now - they should at least get to know what they’re dealing with.

For all he cannot stomach the thought of HIM, and for all he keeps drifting away again.

“I…” he starts, then tries again. “You want to know?”

“Yes,” Cellbit answers, and Philza’s details are blurry but he never expected anything else to come from those lips.

Philza looks up to Missa, and then to Fit - they both know the basics, know something of it, he looks in their eyes and gives them permission to explain.

Each nods in understanding.

Philza burrows deeper into both his blankets and Missa’s sides, and pretends and pretends the world is not happening.

“Fit,” Missa says, hand moving to cover Philza’s own side. “Can you? I am not sure all of how to say it in English.”

Philza does not see Fit nod, not with his eyes mostly closed.

He can imagine it, though, with the sigh of also not wanting to do this.

“What do you know of the Ender King?” Fit asks.

And Philza’s mind /screams/, it screams and it screams and it’s hard to tell what is real and not. The darkness in his vision shifts, and Missa’s hand squeezes tightly his hip - try and ground, try and ground.

Philza picks up the end of Fit’s words, and he- He remembers what is being spoken of, of the time Pac came to a vision too.

“It was Rose,” he says, quiet, clinging with his voice to reality.

He hears signs from his children, but he’s too- his eyes are not just resting now, but screwed tight against the invasion. He clings to the roses and to Missa, and breathes through his mouth as both panic and damaged lungs steal his breath.

The hand on his hip moves to rubbing his back, concerned.

Missa is speaking, and Philza does not listen but he does cling. He clings to how Missa sounds sad, and to-

To Rose.

They speak of Rose.

She’s safe. If he speaks of her, maybe she will banish the dark.

He will not interrupt Missa, though, not like he would Fit - he waits for Missa to trail off before he finds his words again.

“She’s my,” and he coughs, because air is hard and his throat hurts and it has been so long since he even tried to speak, and so long he has been screaming with the noise trapped inside. “Spawn goddess. Where I come from.”

Fit agrees, but then starts talking and-

And Philza cannot hear about HIM. So he shuts off his ears and thinks very loudly of anything else - names he can remember, places he’s seen, everything he loves about Chayanne, Tallulah, Wilbur, Missa. Every trivia, every factoid, anything - anything - not to hear that name again.

“And then he found you,” Cellbit’s voice cuts in a way that neither Fit nor Missa’s did, demanding attention.

Philza… could not remember if he wanted to.

“My memory is,” he gestures to himself, trying not to admit to everything. “I don’t remember, but…”

Tallulah places down a sign and it reads ‘are you really back?’

Philza softens. Chayanne looks nervous, too - having let go of them, he reaches for his children again.

They come close this time, and he rests a rose-entwinned hand on each of their heads.

“I promised, didn’t I?”

Because he did.

“Does he have weaknesses?” Roier asks, moving the conversation on. “Everything has weaknesses!”

Philza wishes that were true, wishes he did not have to face this - because he has never told that to Missa or to Fit, and so he /has/ to answer.

His answer is a laugh, and he can hear the mania in it just as it catches in his lungs - not enough, not enough - and he chokes on nothing instead.

Regaining is breath takes too much, too much - by the time he does he is exhausted, his body trembling even as Missa takes on his entire weight.

“The Ender King is fucking dead, mate,” he says, because what else can he say?” “Water burnt him, but now he has no body… He’s weaker, he can’t steal entire cities anymore, but he lost his weaknesses too.”

And maybe that’s all the more terrifying.

[beecryptic]

Pomme: Is everything good? :( Tallulah: Kind of... BBH: Kind of? Is there anything that you want to talk about? Tallulah: There has been quite some time in which my papa is being haunted by something, or someone, and he always said to not worry and he will be ok. However, we started to realise a few weeks from now he started to leave us and just not care as before. BBH: What do you mean, that like he would walk away for a little bit? Well, I could tell you my mother [Richas] leaves periodically. So, maybe something like that? Tallulah: He would walk away or if we were exploring just...leave. And he started to get like obsessed with material stuff, very... greedy. Pomme: Yeah it doesn't sound like him tbh :( BBH: So, let me see if I understand this. I didn't know Philza, so you saying he was getting greedy and he would leave you, his kids, just around? Tallulah: *nods* eventually a lot of crying obsidian started to show. up around the house. BBH: Do you have an example? *Tallulah shows him a block of crying obsidian in the roof* How long has this been showing up for, Tallulah, the crying obsidian? Pomme: Is it still there or did you remove it? Tallulah: He just told us to not worry and just break it. BBH: So he wasn't concerned about it? Are you sure should be? Tallulah: Around 2-3 weeks? Not sure. At least that we can see it. I think for him longer. BBH: So, he told you not to worry about it? And you can't find Chayanne, does Chayanne ever stay with anyone else? Pomme: Did Chay left to try to find a cure or smth..? Or was he upset? Tallulah: On Monday he [Phil] came back with his back and shoulders infected. BBH: Oh no. He's sick? Did he tell you anything about it? If someone's not sharing any info that's worrying, that's a worrying sign. Tallulah: He started to be very aggressive and possessive with a backpack. BBH: Wait, what was in the backpack? Tallulah: He got from "the feds" and it has a lot of good loot he got from Exploring "for his family" Pomme: Wait a minute, aggressive towards who? You both?? Tallulah: Yes, he started to yell at me and hit me at some point. BBH: WHAT?! That's crazy! Pomme: WHAT????? Something is definitely wrong.